by Henry Perez
GRIM DISCOVERY
Chapa forced the door open as wide as it would go. An instant later, the sun reached inside the structure again, just enough to reveal a pair of legs sprawled across the dirty concrete floor.
The victim was sitting up, but in an unnatural way, folded not at the waist, but higher up, around his rib cage. Chapa rushed inside. He squatted next to the body, grabbed the man’s stiff shoulders and gently shook him.
The man’s head swung from side to side like a broken toy.
Then Chapa saw the blood, caked on the white starched collar, coloring his shirt. Chapa recoiled when he spotted the gash across the victim’s neck, so long and wide it looked like a grisly smile.
The blood appeared slick, which meant it was still fresh. Though Chapa figured the man’s heart had stopped pumping it ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago, tops. It was an educated guess, based on years of reading coroners’ reports and attending more autopsies than he wanted to remember.
The dead man could just as easily have been killed ten minutes after Chapa spoke with him, or ten minutes ago. And that’s when Chapa felt a cold chill surge through his body and into his mind.
The killer might still be in here.
MOURN THE LIVING
HENRY PEREZ
PINNACLE BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
For Cheri, who has been there through the good times
and the not so.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Baltimore, Maryland, 2005
The victim had died with money in his wallet, a loaded .22 in his jacket, and a strip of condoms in his right front pants pocket. One way or another, he’d been headed for a big night.
There had been a struggle, though not much of one. The kill had been as quick as it was decisive. A swift and determined swipe of blade across the sandy-colored skin of his neck, severing the head of the cobra tattoo that led from his chest up to his chin. A prime piece of prison ink, ruined.
The body was found alongside a nameless, moss-covered pond in McClain Park, stretched out between a cluster of trees and a large rust-bitten waste can. An early morning jogger, still working on breaking that day’s first sweat, mistook the mound of humanity for some homeless guy passed out by the water—a rare sight in this part of town. Then he saw the blood, and started sweating.
Baltimore had become known for its violent crime in recent years. Turf wars and careless tourists routinely led to dead gangbangers who hadn’t seen it coming and battered out-of-towners who never imagined it could happen to them.
But this one was different. This corpse didn’t belong here, not in this quiet residential part of town where every house was equipped with a security system because the homeowner could afford the tab.
That was one reason the cops had arrived so quickly, even before the onlookers, though they too were there now. Two dozen or more spread out unevenly behind the police barrier. Housewives on their way back from dropping their kids off at school, men and women dressed for business, some already late for work, joined by the usual array of folks who appear to have nowhere else to be.
All of them observing the lead detectives examine the body and its immediate surroundings, while a forensics team methodically set up to do its thing. A mass of curious people all watching the same thing, and generating a barely audible buzz, as though conversing any louder might wake the dead.
But not everyone is there for the same reason. One man in particular is more invested in this scene than the others. He hasn’t slept, he never does before or after a killing. But no one would know from looking at him.
He is of average height, average weight, and his face is as common and forgettable as dust. The way he’s dressed, this man could be mistaken for the guy in the third cubicle down the hall in any office. White shirt, blue tie, department store windbreaker, twenty-dollar haircut. Just another middle manager who hates what he does and counts the years to retirement.
Except this man is no middle manager, and he enjoys what he does. It’s the thing that keeps him going. Someone in the crowd sees that the victim’s neck has been cut from ear to ear, and whispers to no one in particular, “This makes seven—no, eight.”
Staring back at a plainclothes cop who is scanning the crowd, the man thinks, This makes nine.
As his eyes made their second pass across the crowd, Detective Conyers realized how after a while all crowds look the same. Eighteen years on the force, the last seven as a homicide detective, had made it difficult for him to separate the faces that always seemed to be part of these scenes.
He imagined how Roman gladiators in the Coliseum might have regarded ancient spectators in the same way. Blank faces gazing at a scene that offers them only violence, death, and nothing of real value. Vain attempts to sneak a look at something they don’t truly want to see.
The odor of death blended with the delicate scent of a newborn day in a way that was both perverse and familiar to Conyers. He wondered if any of the onlookers noticed it, if it made them want
to turn away or just get on with their lives. Conyers doubted it.
No one stood out from the rest of the crowd. Though he’d been trained to look for anyone with a motive beyond morbid curiosity, he had never succeeded in picking out a potential suspect. Not even once, not even close. After another pass revealed nothing new or useful, Conyers gave up and glanced over at Murphy, his partner, who was dictating the details into a tape recorder as though he was ordering the usual at the corner diner.
“The vic is Hispanic. According to his I.D., he just turned twenty-four, and he definitely won’t see the quarter-century mark. His name was Orlando Corpas.”
Conyers interrupted, “He went by, ‘Orlo.’ I knew him when I was working a beat.”
Murphy nodded, then went back to recording his observations.
“Orlando,” he started, then looked up at Conyers, “a.k.a. ‘Orlo’ Corpas is now Corpas the Corpse on account of the ten-inch-long, quarter-inch-wide groove that someone opened in his neck. There are no signs of robbery.”
That triggered a memory for Conyers. Turning his attention away from his partner’s routine breakdown of the particulars, he began surveying the scene like someone playing that kids’ search game where valuable objects are hidden within a crowded picture. Conyers knew exactly what he was looking for, but not where to find it.
He walked around the large trash can and examined it carefully, not too concerned about getting some of the grime on his street-worn brown leather coat. He glanced back at his partner, who looked up from the body, saw what Conyers was doing, and shook his head then went back to recording his findings.
Conyers next searched the paved biking and running trail. He walked thirty feet away from the body, no need to go any farther if the previous crime scenes were any indication.
Conyers knew he resembled a shabby bloodhound as he glanced down and from side to side with each measured step.
He heard one onlooker ask another, “What do you think he’s looking for? A weapon? Blood splatters? Fibers?”
But Conyers wasn’t searching for anything like that, the sort of evidence that too often cracks fictional TV cases wide open. He walked back toward the body, then continued down the path in the opposite direction. Again, he covered the area a few feet at a time. Again, he came up empty.
He looked back at the crime scene and saw that Murphy had finished and was now talking to Bulling, the lead forensics officer. The small grove of recently planted poplar trees stood about midway between Conyers and the body. His black leather shoes sank a little into the moist ground as he walked toward the trees, and he felt the chill on the soles of his feet.
Though spring had started to arrive on the eastern seaboard, it had thus far produced only a smattering of leaves on the trees. They provided a splash of color, which seemed out of place at that moment, under these circumstances. But there weren’t enough of them to obscure much of the bark.
Conyers examined each tree from its base up to the low-hanging branches, but found nothing that shouldn’t have been there. Maybe this killing was different from the others. He would check out the shoreline, but already knew that would be a waste of time. He had walked it searching for evidence when they first arrived.
Then, as he turned back to where Murphy and Bulling were still talking, Conyers noticed a lighter piece of bark along the bottom of a thick branch. He’d been so focused on the tree trunks that he’d missed this before.
Conyers squatted under the branch and looked up. There it was. If it had eyes, they would’ve been staring down at him.
“Bulling, come here right now.”
Behind him, Conyers heard the large man moving in his direction, but he did not turn away from the branch.
“Yes, Detective?” Bulling asked, winded.
“We’re going to need a photo of that.”
Bulling carefully squatted and saw what Conyers was pointing at. A stick figure, comprised of an empty circular head, a torso, two short arms, and two legs had been carefully carved into the wood.
“Probably done by some kid, or a smartass with a pocket knife,” Bulling said.
Conyers shook his head.
“I don’t think so. In fact, I want you to cut this branch off at its base and take it back to the lab. I have a feeling you’re going to find traces of the vic’s blood in the grooves of that carving.”
Murphy walked up as Bulling wandered off to find a camera, some tools, and an assistant to do the difficult work.
“Check this out,” Conyers said, and Murphy bent down to get a look under the branch.
“A stick figure, big deal.”
“Yeah, like the one we found two weeks ago, painted on a bench near that pimp’s body. And remember last month’s—”
Murphy cut him off.
“Con, you know what I see? I see a dead piece of shit over there by the water. I see a useless slab of meat that might’ve killed a kid in a drive-by a few days from now, or would’ve taken a shot at you, me, or one of our guys at some point down the line.”
Conyers listened. He understood what Murphy was getting at, even shared many of his partner’s views. But still…
“Listen, Murph, there’s something going on here, something bigger than some bullshit turf war, and it has to end.”
The man blends into the crowd that has been watching the two detectives. He understands what is happening, and knows what will happen next. The police commissioner, maybe even the mayor, will hold a press conference to reassure the public. They’ll claim that two rival gangs are responsible for the recent deaths.
But something else will be going on behind the scenes. The cop in the brown leather coat is going to kick up some dust. His partner will have to go along. There will be an investigation—quiet, but thorough. In time, they will connect the killings. And maybe they won’t stop there. They might start digging further back, expanding their scope.
That would be bad. And the thought of that possibility gives the man a bone-deep chill, makes his muscles tighten so much he worries someone will notice.
The man has been through this before. Three years earlier in Pittsburgh, and in Cleveland before, and in St. Louis before that. These people, like the ones in those other crime-infested places, fail to appreciate what he can do for their community. What he has been doing for them and their kids.
As far as the man is concerned, Orlo Corpas had sensed his own purpose and destiny. Orlo had helped the man, leading him to other area scum, helping him gain access to some of the worst this town had ever coughed up. Orlo had been paid for his services, and now he had paid for his crimes.
Maybe the man needs to teach Detective Conyers a few things about the value of appreciation. He’ll do that, and then leave Baltimore. Walk away from a successful business, and never look back.
The man will find a new place to live—again. Change his name and appearance—again.
Things will be different next time. He’ll find a town where the people appreciate his unique ability to eliminate the pimps, gangbangers, and junkies. The human trash that has polluted every place he’s ever lived. And he’s lived in a lot of different places, and been known by a lot of different names.
He has already chosen his next destination. A week ago the man saw a face staring back at him from pages of a trade magazine. A real success story, the guy in the photo. The self-made type. One of the Chicago area’s bright new stars.
The man in the crowd knows otherwise.
He pulls the photo out of his wallet. The uneven edges of the thin paper are frayed and slightly curled. Taking his eyes off the crime scene, the man examines the black-and-white photo, just like he did earlier that morning, and the night before as he waited for Orlo to show up.
The smiling face looks up at him. Mocks him. The name is different, the hair too, but the man knows that face.
The man slips the photo back into his wallet as a feeling of absolute purpose rolls over him.
Yes, there’s more work to do. Important work. Som
ething he’s been building up to for thirty years.
Chapter 2
Oakton, Illinois, present day
The next newspaper story bearing Jim Chakowski’s byline would be the biggest of his long and successful career. All Chakowski had to do now was live long enough to write it.
Chakowski knew he could not let his guard down, not for an instant. Right now his life depended on his ability to stay cool, focused, and aware. He was good on two of those three—his cool had checked out a few days ago.
Navigating through the crowded downtown street festival, Chakowski did his best to avoid eye contact, while still remaining fully in touch with his surroundings. A thousand or more people had gathered along three city blocks to listen to the REO Speedwagon cover band, drink beer, and just hang out.
Though Chakowski had grown up in Oakton—one of Chicago’s largest suburbs—worked here his entire adult life, made the place his own, it all felt foreign to him now on an otherwise pleasant October evening. He’d spent more than two decades writing Oakton’s story, chronicling the lives of its people—the powerful and the not so. But now he felt like a virus the city was determined to purge.
Like a familiar stranger, he sensed the edgy glances and heard the whispers, real or imagined, as he weaved past people who were too tuned in to the music, or engaged in their own conversations to know what was going on. The size and density of the crowd was preventing Chakowski from doing what he desperately wanted to do—run to his car, lock the doors, and drive away as fast as he could.
The sound of drumbeats and electric chords bounced off Oakton’s century-old downtown buildings along Clinton Avenue and conspired with smoke from grills to make Chakowski’s head pound and his stomach churn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, but this was no time for small concerns.
He glanced back after every few steps. Was that guy, the one in the St. Louis Cardinals cap, following him? What about that other one, over by the beer stand? Did Chakowski recognize him?
Once most of the crowd was behind him, Chakowski started walking faster, almost running, cutting down a side street, then another. The music and crowd noises fading away into the night, he rushed to his five-year-old metallic green Elantra, scanning the dark street from one end to the other before getting in.