Frozen Stiff

by Patrick Logan

  Fuck it, she thought. Who cares if Martinez told Jasper about what happened last night?

  Chase recalled what she had instructed the New York public to do when there was a murderer on the loose targeting women.

  Be a bitch—no one gets taken advantage of if they act like a bitch. There are easier targets out there than a woman with attitude.

  She would not succumb to the idea, the trope, that she had to be the damsel in distress, the nice, doting girl.

  And Chase definitely wouldn’t be embarrassed for sleeping with Martinez. What did it say about society when a man could be proud of his sexual exploits, while the only expectation for the woman was that she should be reserved and bashful. Why was it assumed that the man had won her, implying that she had somehow lost in the exchange?

  As much as she regretted the decision—for Brad, not for the act itself—she had had a good time. And she wasn’t going to be ashamed of it.

  Fuck it.

  “What’ve you found?” she asked as she strode forward, chin held high. “Break-in?”

  Jasper squinted at her, but only for a moment, and then his voice took on a professional tone.

  “Looks that way,” he gestured to the door that she had just passed through. “Glass is broken, the register’s been smashed. What I think, though, is that this is what they were after.”

  Jasper pulled a pen from his pocket and used it to lift a clear plastic bag roughly the size of a change purse. It was mostly empty, but even from where she stood, Chase could see a small amount of white powder clinging to one of the interior corners. There was also a design of sorts on the front of the plastic, but it had been sliced through, obscuring the image.

  Chase nodded and tried to piece together the scene.

  Desperate junkies come by after the shawarma house closed, beg Oren for his dope, maybe ask him for some on credit. Oren refuses, and the junkie or junkies smash the window and gain entrance. They overtake the man and his wife, grab the dope, and flee.

  …and then the junkie forces the Oren and Julie into a boat, take them to the channel, chop off their hands, and throw them in.

  She shook her head.

  The narrative didn’t work at all.

  “We should get CSU in here—”

  “Any blood on the scene?” Chase interrupted Jasper.

  The man pressed his lips together tightly.

  “No. Not that I can see.”

  Martinez took the plastic from Jasper’s pen and put it into an evidence bag.

  “What do you think happened here, Chase?” he asked.

  Chase looked around again.

  Her eyes eventually fell on the smashed pane of glass. It was hard to tell, but judging by the size of the jagged pieces that still hung to the frame, it looked as if the point of impact was at about eye-level for her, about eighteen-inches above the lock.

  She took several steps forward, and observed the cash register next. It was, as Jasper had informed her, lying on the floor. The drawer was open and empty, and the corner was dented.

  “Chase?” Martinez asked, an eyebrow raised.

  Chase ignored him and continued to observe her surroundings. To the right were two vertical spits that still held a couple of pounds of either chicken or beef, but the element behind them had been turned off. The vegetables in the tray tucked safely behind the sneeze guard still looked fresh.

  Chase lifted her eyes past Jasper and Agent Martinez, to a door that hung ajar. Although she couldn’t get the best view of what was inside, its presence was enough for things to start to fall into place.

  “I think this was staged,” she said simply. “I think it was staged to look like a robbery, but none of it makes sense.”

  Jasper rose to his feet.

  “Hold on, now. Oren Vishniov and his partner Julie Cooper are known dealers, and when junkies—”

  Chase shook her head.

  “No junkie did this.”

  Jasper’s frown became a scowl.

  “This is bullshit, Martinez. This chick comes in here—”

  Martinez hushed him and held up a finger.

  “Let her finish.”

  “Bullshit, Martinez. You guys were called into help, and now—”

  “Let her finish,” Martinez repeated with more authority this time.

  Jasper’s mouth snapped shut, and Chase eyed both men suspiciously.

  What the hell is going on here? Aren’t we all supposed to be on the same side? Aren’t we supposed to be collaborating, not fighting with each other? What the—

  “Go on, Chase,” Martinez said, his tone softening, “tell us what you think.”

  Chase cleared her throat.

  “Like I said, I think this was staged. The door… look where it was smashed—it’s too high. Anyone who wants to break into this place would smash the glass right near the lock, not in the middle of the pane. And the empty bag of dope? What junkie in their right mind would leave that here, in the middle of the room?”

  Chase’s heart skipped a beat, and she fought images of her past, of trying to heat the spoon, to melt the heroin, all the while her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely hold it.

  “A junkie would take that bag, flip it inside out, and lick the plastic if they have to, just to get every last morsel of powder.”

  Chase stepped forward.

  “Oren and his wife or partner or whatever were known drug dealers, right?”

  Jasper didn’t respond, but Martinez nodded. She stepped by the men and made her way to the door at the back of the room. A passing glance and her suspicions were confirmed; although it had initially been designed as a store room, it had been re-purposed for more illicit activities.

  “This room here… the door’s reinforced. Whatever Oren was, he was prepared. You’re telling me that not only did Oren not make it to the safe room, but his wife didn’t either? Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if you found weapons in there… it’d be the first place they’d go if someone broke in.”

  “Oren was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a violent man,” Jasper said.

  Chase shrugged.

  “Still… someone in his business would have some sort of protection. But instead of running into the safe room, they came out here, in the open, when a junkie allegedly smashed the window. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well then, Professor X, what did happen here?” Jasper asked.

  Chase paused, and for the first time since starting her dissertation, she looked down.

  But only for a moment; she raised her eyes and leveled them at Martinez.

  “Like I said, I think this was staged. And I also think our killer is the same one as in Alaska.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “Yeah, nice theory, but I like mine better,” Jasper remarked with a scowl.

  Chase’s eyes narrowed.

  “And what’s that?”

  “What’s what?” Jasper snapped.

  “Your theory—what do you think happened here?”

  Jasper turned to Martinez for support, but the man simply shrugged, silent encouragement to go ahead and offer his own opinion. To top off the strangeness, it appeared to Chase that Martinez was smirking, that he might actually be enjoying this.

  Chase wasn’t in the mood; she still felt lightheaded, and the nausea was starting to return.

  What are we doing here, anyway? If Martinez thinks that this is just a run of a mill junkie-fueled murder, why is the FBI here? Another ‘favor’?

  “What I think? What does it matter what I think when we have the truth-seer here? And what the hell happened in Alaska? Martinez, I thought you told me that everything got wrapped up?”

  The smile slid off Martinez’s face.

  “It is.”

  Detective Jasper threw his hands up and he whipped around to face Chase again.

  “Fine, you want to know what I think? I think that one of Oren’s customers came by a few nights ago needing a fix. One of his regulars who doesn’t raise an alarm, but when
Oren asks him to pay for his goddamn shawarma and baggie of heroin, the man refuses. Or maybe he pretends like he’s going to pay, but instead smashes the window. Then he comes in here—maybe with a couple of his junkie buddies in tow—and they grab Oren and Julie and tie them up. They take what drugs they have, then drag the two of them out to the channel all hopped up on God knows what. They demand more drugs and Oren either refuses, or, being the small-time prick that he was, he simply doesn’t have any more. They chop off his and his girlfriend’s hands and toss them overboard.” Jasper wiped his hands together, a strange gesture given the context. “Seen it before, and I’ll see it again. I’ve got my men out there right now, shaking down some of Oren’s regulars. I guarantee they find something on one of them, or, better yet, I’ll bet one of them cracks.”

  Jasper finished with an air of smugness, but while the theory was garbage, Chase found herself agreeing with the last part of his statement.

  They would find something on one of the junkies, but that didn’t mean that they committed the crime. It was only a feeling in the pit of her stomach, a little flutter beside the knot that was there from not believing that the charming bartender Brent Pine had killed Yolanda and Francine, but she couldn’t ignore it.

  Not anymore.

  Chase scrunched her nose and then blurted, “That’s not what you think happened, Jasper… that’s what you want to have happened. There’s a big difference.”

  Jasper gawked.

  “You know what? I don’t need this fucking lecture from a greenhorn broad.”

  Martinez opened his mouth, but Jasper continued before the man could get a word in edgewise.

  “No, screw this, Martinez. I didn’t ask for you guys to come here, and I definitely don’t need your fucking conspiracy serial killer theories messing up my investigation.”

  “Tim—”

  “No, seriously, Chris, this is it. I’m not raising a serial killer flag because a couple of drug dealers were murdered. Shit, this is almost a daily occurrence in my jurisdiction.”

  Now it was Martinez’s turn to raise his hands.

  “Alright, alright, just calm down, Jasper. I’m sorry we couldn’t be of any help here. And I’m sure you’re right about what happened. Chase sometimes just… well, just gets carried away.”

  Jasper grunted and was about to add something else, when the radio on his shoulder crackled.

  “Detective Jasper?”

  Jasper turned his back to Chase, who was still reeling over the way that Martinez had thrown her under the bus, and clicked the talk button.

  “Yeah?” he snapped.

  “It’s Lieutenant Danvers.”

  “What do you want, Danvers? I’m kind of busy here.”

  “Well, we found one of Oren’s junkies on Washburn St., and you’re not going to believe this, but he’s actually wearing Oren’s watch.”

  Jasper spun around, a sinister leer on his lips.

  “What do you mean his watch? How do you know it’s Oren’s watch?”

  “Well, because it’s inscribed with O. Vishniov on the back. I don’t think there are too many—”

  “Danvers, you still at Washburn St.?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got the junkie in the back of the car.”

  “Okay, sit tight. I’m only about fifteen minutes from there. I don’t want anyone to speak to him until I arrive, got it?”

  “10-4”

  Jasper’s hand fell away from the radio.

  “What’d I say?” he remarked with a grin.

  It was Chase who wanted to say something. No, not say—scream. She wanted to scream that there was something going on here, that this wasn’t right, but a feeling in her gut told her that chiming in now would do more harm than good.

  Chase bit her tongue to prevent from speaking.

  “Looks like this is going to wrap up nicely, like I fucking said it would,” Jasper continued, his words so dripping with condescension that Chase was surprised he wasn’t drooling. “I’ll get CSU in here to comb the scene, but looks like everything is falling into place. It was nice to see you, Chris.”

  He stepped forward and shook Agent Martinez’s hand quickly, and then walked by Chase. She had to step out of the way to avoid being bumped.

  When he was gone, Chase turned to Martinez.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  Martinez sighed.

  “I told you before, in Alaska; this job is as much about people management as it is solving crimes. These guys… the older guard, they don’t like agents coming in and trying to run the show.”

  Martinez moved toward her, and together they started toward the door.

  “It just requires a little tact, is all. You have to ease them away from their theories toward what you think is more accurate. It’s kind of like a Chinese finger trap: if you pull too hard, it only makes things worse.”

  “But—” this is nuts, Chase wanted to say.

  Martinez cut her off.

  “But… that’s just the way things go, Chase. You’ll learn. Like I said, I’ve been at this a long time.”

  Chase looked at him then, trying to gauge if he, like Detective Jasper and Chief Downs before him, was patronizing her.

  After a moment of consideration, she decided that he wasn’t.

  Just a poor choice of words, perhaps.

  “But… a junkie? Really?” Chase said at last. “You can’t really believe that… a junkie chopping off hands and tossing bodies into the canal.”

  Martinez shrugged, and then zipped his jacket to the top as they stepped outside.

  “Maybe… probably not. But we can’t rule out that one of Oren’s competitors did this to him—who knows, maybe he was late on moving money back up the chain? The point is, we caught the guy in Anchorage, and whatever the reason why Oren and Julie were hacked up, there’s no serial killer on the loose here. You need to let it go, Chase. Not everything comes together like a perfect jigsaw puzzle.”

  The finality in Martinez’s tone made it clear that the conversation was closed, and despite having more to say, Chase got that feeling again; the feeling that it was best to keep her mouth shut.

  “What now?” she settled on.

  Martinez looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

  “Now? Now I go back to the hotel and get some rest. Didn’t sleep much last night.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Chase collapsed onto her bed and closed her eyes. Then she kicked off her shoes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

  The feeling of light-headedness was mostly gone, and although she still had the sweet taste of beer on her tongue, any other remnants of a hangover had receded into the background. Unlike Martinez, however, Chase wasn’t tired. Quite the contrary, actually.

  She was wired. Wired because none of what had happened made sense. Not her time in Alaska, not Jasper’s explosion in Oren’s shawarma shop, nothing.

  In fact, nothing really made sense since the morning when she had received Martinez’s call.

  For instance, who did they report to? Who was their superior? What happens with her opinions on Oren and Julie’s murders?

  Both Jasper and Martinez had told her to leave it alone, and the fact that the FBI wasn’t here on official business meant that she… what? Couldn’t file a report? Couldn’t write down her thoughts or opinions? What the fuck did it all mean?

  Before meeting Agent Stitts, she had thought that the FBI was one of the more structured, regimented branches of the government. Stitts had changed that, what with his personal approach to her and the crimes he studied, his reliance on things like gut instinct that weren’t part of the normal police vernacular let alone practice.

  What’s your gut telling you, Chase? Millions of years of evolution have generated safeguard measures for ensuring that you recognize the signs, even if your mind is preoccupied. You’ve got more neurons in your gut than a dog has in his brain, and we all know how they can smell fear. So trust it, Chase. Do yourself a favor and trust your gut fe
eling, your instincts.

  The words in her head came in Stitts’s voice, and it was so startling that Chase had to open her eyes to make sure that he wasn’t actually in the room with her.

  He wasn’t.

  Chase reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. For the first time since she had been awoken by Martinez’s call, she hoped that Brad hadn’t called her.

  Because this time she wouldn’t know what to say to him, if she could lie if put to the question.

  If she could tell him again that she was alright, that it wasn’t like in Seattle, that she wasn’t so engrossed in her work that she could keep her head straight and above water.

  But he hadn’t called, so Chase dialed Stitts’s number instead.

  “You’ve reached the mailbox of Jeremy Stitts. If this is an emergency, please call the FBI directly. Otherwise, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  A robotic voice followed, informing her of what she already knew: that Stitts’s mailbox was full.

  Chase shook her head and tossed the phone on the bed beside her.

  Use your gut, Stitts’s voice echoed in her head. What’s it telling you, Chase?

  Her gut was telling her that she was hungry, that it was nearly noon and she had yet to eat today. But it was also telling her that the murders in Alaska and here in Boston were connected, regardless of what Martinez and the others said.

  How, why, when, what… these questions still eluded her, but it was a start, at least.

  “Fuck it,” Chase said out loud. Without Agent Stitts, and no idea who else to contact, she had no choice but to confront Martinez again, no matter how uncomfortable it was going to be.

  With a groan, Chase rose off the bed, slid her cell phone into her pocket, and started toward the door. Remembering what had happened the night prior, however, Chase made a detour before heading to the door.

  In order to avoid giving the wrong impression or, God forbid, a repeat, Chase put her red parka back on and zipped it up tight.

  With a deep breath, she pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway. She counted six steps from her door to Martinez’s. Her knuckles rapped loudly off the wood.