by Ian Worrall
Melissa stands up from her table after finishing her drink and heads for the washroom. One advantage to being a guy, you can pee into a cup. What a girl must go through.
When she exits the washroom, and starts to make her way back to her table, she sees Marcus carrying the naked stripper up the stairs to his office followed by the two bodyguards. The stripper is wrapped around him like a slinky as they are making out. Melissa performs her moving surveillance to make sure no one else is watching her as she follows them. But the other patrons were all dancing to the music, generally ignoring others, hoping not to spend the night alone.
She hears the office door closing and sees the two security guys standing outside the door made of metal and glass. The office also has large windows to view down into the crowd. This makes it easy for her to see the office, a mistake Gary and Marcus made when they built everything. They should have just installed a lot of security cameras.
The desk in the office sits right in front of an emergency exit, one smart move in case of a police raid. There are two large filing cabinets on the right wall opposite the windows that overlook the bar, a private liquor cabinet – good for poisoning – and a large wall safe.
As she gets closer, she sees Marcus open the safe and take out a small mirror and a baggie of white powder. She sees him chop up four lines, two for him and two for the girl. Crack the safe and I can give him a really good surprise the next time he wants some nose candy.
When she gets within five feet of the door, the security staff on the right stops her.
“Hey there, little lady. The boss is having a private party.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she bats her eyes. “I was just looking for the little ladies’ room.”
“It ain’t here, bitch. Go back down the stairs.”
“OK.” She moves to pull something out of her purse when the guard grabs it away from her. “I was just trying to drop off a resume.”
“Not hiring.”
“Not even for cleaners?”
“Speedy Clean is our cleaning company.”
Morons, clean the place yourself. Low-grade gangsters make it so easy for the cops to insert agents into your organization.
“OK. I’ll apply with them.” She reaches her hand out to the one with her purse. “Can I have my purse back?”
“Gotta check it out first.”
“There’s some personal stuff in there.”
“I don’t care about your pussy plug, bitch. Got to make sure there’s no guns.”
Seeing just the typical things a guy would expect to see in a woman’s purse—lipstick, makeup mirror, lip balm, eye shadow and a small metal canister along with her wallet, nothing suspicious at all—he hands her back her purse, then strokes her under her chin and kisses her lips, running his hands over her breasts.
“Your titties feel pretty good.”
He then runs his hands down her back to her butt. “So does your ass. I’m off at four. Why don’t you come back to my place?”
Her jaw clenches. Should kill him right here, but even with her training, she’d be hard pressed to defeat two men who are both more than twice her size, along with Marcus. She would also have to kill the woman in there with him.
“Will you both be there? You could take turns. I’ve been so busy looking for work I haven’t had time for a man. I’d love to get done by two in one night.”
He lets her go smiling. “Damn right, bitch,” he says as he swats her backside. She barely resists the urge to break his nose. Grabbing her arm, he writes his address down.
Turning to walk away she says, “So see you at four-thirty?”
“You got it, bitch,” he says as he slaps her on her backside again. Melissa walks away managing to contain her anger knowing her chance will come soon. You got a lesson coming.
Chapter 14
J ackie sits down at her desk. “This girl, Celine Charlebois,” she says as she types the name into her computer and presses the enter button. Nothing comes up in the police records for The Drowner case.
“Records expunged somehow,” Mitchell says.
“For what purpose?” Jackie asks, taking her pen from her mouth and upon seeing that it has been chewed beyond usefulness, she throws it in the garbage. “Why would someone take the name of a survivor of a serial killer off a list?”
Mitchell shrugs his shoulders as he replies, “No idea. Do a Google search on the name. See what comes up.”
Jackie types the name in the Google search bar and comes up with one hit, which she clicks on. The death record of a woman in Quebec, Canada from the early 1900s comes up.
On his computer, Mitchell does a local search for the name and nothing comes up.
“So, a potential victim of our serial killer uses an assumed name of a woman who died a hundred years ago,” Jackie says.
“I’ll check the name Max Kehoe,” Mitchell says as he types the name into the police database. The file comes up with a picture and two charges for armed robbery. Charges which were dropped for lack of evidence. And one last line that states suspected ties to the Russian Mafia.
“It’s almost four a.m.,” he says, “We should get some sleep and then have an appointment with the OC Task Force.”
Jackie taps her fingers while she shuts down her computer. Mitchell, from his desk phone, presses four numbers and then leaves a voicemail. “Hey Torres, it’s Burnlee over in Homicide. My partner and I will be coming over around one. We got a few questions. Let us know if that time works for you.”
“When does The Drowner Task Force meet?” Jackie asks.
“Tomorrow, after we meet with Torres.”
Chapter 15
A s promised, Melissa arrives at the home of Marcus’s bodyguard at four thirty and rings the door bell. Opening the door, he lifts her up by her shoulders and kisses her on the lips as he carries her into the kitchen where the other guard sits at the table drinking a beer. Her fists are clenching as she is under the man’s control.
Next to the fridge, he puts her down. “Like a beer, bitch?”
“Thought you boys would like something a little stronger.” She opens her purse and pulls out a zip seal bag filled with white powder. “Not fair that the boss gets the good stuff, while the help only gets beer.”
He slaps her on her butt. “You got that right, bitch.”
Smiling, she pours out enough to chop into six lines, two for each of them.
“Have some of that, then we have some fun, then have some more of each.”
The one at the table pulls out his wallet and rolls up a hundred-dollar bill as he says, “High-class shit, bitch.”
The guard who felt her up at the club and carried her into the house starts to sit down at the table as Melissa reaches into her purse.
Within seconds, the one who snorted first begins to have convulsions, foaming at his nose and mouth, and grabbing his throat before falling to the floor. His friend looks at him then at Melissa then back at his friend and at Melissa again before jumping up from the table throwing the chair off to the side as he starts to grab at her.
“What the fuck you give us, bitch?”
Pulling a Kel-Tech P3AT automatic handgun with a suppressor out of her purse, she shoots him in both knees and shoulders, dropping him to the floor.
“Drain cleaner, asshole.” She puts the gun back in her purse and takes out a roll of duct tape before searching through the kitchen drawers until she finds a corkscrew. The man who’d been doing all the talking tries to crawl away from her towards the door as she turns back from the drawer. She kicks the wounded man in the face knocking out four teeth and breaking his nose. Blood gushes out of his nose and mouth.
“Please don’t kill me,” he begs.
“Just thought I’d share a little bit of information with you. When you call a woman a bitch, it tends to cause her to lose the mood. Too bad you won’t be able to apply that lesson, but Danil Burlomov wants you dead. The kid you put in hospital is still in traction.”
S
he gets behind him, puts his arm in a hammer lock and pins him on the floor. Melissa then puts duct tape over his mouth and climbs on his back. She drives the corkscrew into the base of his skull and starts twisting as he starts kicking his legs, trying to rise up on his arms while thrashing his body around. But Melissa is squeezing her legs into his ribs like she’s riding a horse. His arms and legs go limp and he drops down to the floor, blood draining into his throat. Choking on the blood, he goes into his death throes.
With the corkscrew in the back of his head as far as she can get it, she sweeps the remaining drain cleaner back into the baggie and puts it back in her purse. The man who snorted the drain cleaner tries grabbing at her ankles, but she kicks him in the face breaking his nose. She leaves the home as he dies on the floor.
Chapter 16
D etective Torres motions for Mitchell and Jackie to sit down in the chairs opposite his desk as he takes his own seat.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“Ever hear of Celine Charlebois?” Mitchell asks.
“Can’t say I have,” Torres says.
“How about Max Kehoe?”
Raising his eyebrows, Torres admits, “Sounds familiar. Can’t quite place from where though.”
“Our search says he is suspected of having ties to the Russian Mafia,” Mitchell says.
Torres shrugs. “Why is Homicide interested in that?”
“We got a letter from someone claiming to be The Drowner. A new victim has been found that fits his signature.”
“And that falls under Organized Crime how?”
Mitchell tells Torres about interviewing the two in the hospital ten years ago.
“I’ll get one of my people to check up on those names and get back to you.”
“Please do,” Mitchell says as he and Jackie stand up.
“Should have it for you by the end of the week.”
“Thanks,” Jackie says as they leave the office.
Jessica enters his office after the other two leave. “I’ve got a possible way to get Burlomov on a bust.”
“What is it?”
“We know of some suspected drug runs coming up.”
“Go on.”
“Do what they’ve done to us.”
“Which is what?” he asks.
“Feed them misinformation on where we will hit. Then go at a different location.”
“And how do you not know if there’s a mole?”
“One of us go over to the dark side?” she asks. “No way.”
“OK, sounds good. Set something up. And while you’re at it, I’d like you or Tom from to check out the names Celine Charlebois and Max Kehoe.”
“Sure, what for?”
“A favor for Homicide,” Torres says.
Chapter 17
C omparing notes inside the police boardroom, seven detectives on the squad are sitting at the boardroom table. A half full platter of sandwiches, a typical catered lunch, sits on a table at the back of the room. Jackie and Mitchell sit next to each other on the right side of the table as they eat their lunch.
The other five detectives, Jack LeMay, Lenny Brown, Mike Saunders, Julian Kennedy, and Phil Jones, are indicated by the folded paper in front of them.
“So, what are we waiting for now?” Jackie asks.
“Zach Steese,” Mitchell says.
“Oh, yeah. Him.” She starts playing drums with her feet.
“Yeah.”
“So, it’s true, they all have one case that haunts them?” Along with her feet she now starts tapping out a beat on the table with two pens.
“We’ve seen that movie before.”
“That’s what the name tags are for?” she asks.
“Yeah, he doesn’t know anyone except me,” Mitchell says. “And can you stop with the drumming, rock star?”
She does as asked.
“Tell me this didn’t drive him to drink or anything else,” she says.
“This along with the other ten or so cases he couldn’t solve got him booted out of the FBI straight into being a university professor,” Mitchell says. “At least that’s what my contact with the FBI told me.”
“Another truism?” Jackie says.
“What would that be?”
“Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.”
Mitchell, along with the other detectives, laughs. “Pretty much.”
“So why do we have him here?”
Mitchell shrugs. “Maybe he knows more about the case than others do.”
Jackie finishes her sandwich, and gets up from her chair to get more food and refill her coffee cup. When she returns to her seat, she has six sandwiches on her plate, a bottle of orange juice, and a full coffee cup. Mitchell looks at the food on the plate as he shakes his head.
“How do you eat so much and stay so skinny?” he asks.
She shrugs.
“Not eating for two, are you?”
She laughs. “No, we broke up last month.”
Many relationships have been casualties of life in public service as a police officer with long hours and abnormal sleep schedules. When a cop gets promoted to the detective squadron or to a task force such as the reinvigorated Drowner task force, the work hours often get longer and more erratic. Some spouses are very understanding and supportive; some view it as a hardship. For this reason, many cops get into relationships with other cops or firefighters or paramedics or anyone else who works shift work. Those people are usually better able to relate to the type of job schedule they have.
“Sorry to hear that,” Mitchell says, genuinely sad for his partner’s loss of love yet again.
Jackie winks at him. “It was a great couple of months, though.”
The other detectives try to conceal their laughter.
“So that’s what got you late for work so often.”
“A girl don’t kiss and tell.”
The door opens and in walks Captain Jacob Maloney followed by Zach Steese, a man in his late forties, who is sporting a bad dye job on what little hair he has left. He stands about five feet seven, slightly built and dressed in a fake Armani suit.
With his retirement coming, Captain Maloney wants this to be the last time he will have to deal with The Drowner, though this would be a great feather in his cap. But that’s the least of his concerns. Like all those here, he wants the killings to stop and the killer strapped to a gurney with the poison coursing through his veins. Lethal injection just doesn’t seem like a suitable death for someone who rapes and murders young women. But as much as they’d like to burn him at the stake, like they did once upon a time when they thought that serial killers were werewolves or vampires, that is no longer acceptable.
“Gentlemen,” Captain Maloney begins, “and lady, of course.” He points to Jackie who smiles and nods. “For those of you who don’t know, this is Zach Steese,” Maloney points to him, “the original case agent from the FBI on The Drowner case.”
Jackie raises her hand. “Excuse me, Captain, but will the feds be sending us a current agent?”
The other detectives cringe as Mitchell kicks her foot. She looks over at him as if to ask, “What?”
Zach shuffles forward looking half at the floor, half towards Jackie. “Likely, yes. I was asked to come.” A broken man, his voice is soft and subdued.
The former agent resumes, “This one case has become my obsession. I have spent the last ten years since his killing stopped going through notes and everything. I’ve come up with possible profiles, both geographic and personality. We should be able to nail him now.”
The detectives at the table all take out pens as the former FBI agent connects a tablet computer to the overhead projector. A PowerPoint slideshow boots up onto the screen.
“The original profile,” Zach starts, “has him at about twenty-five to thirty-five years old. We add ten years onto the age.”
“First,” Mitchell says, “can you speak up a little please?”
“And how did you approximate the age
of the suspect?” Jackie asks.
Raising his voice, Zach continues his presentation. “It has to do with the level of sophistication in the crimes. Criminals learn from their mistakes like anyone else does, drowning the victims in water to wash away any DNA evidence for example. Another example is only one of his letters to the police and media was in handwriting.”
“Are you saying there might have been other murders before the drownings?” Jackie asks.
Zach strokes his chin. “Quite possible.” His voice starts dropping in tone again.
“We need you to speak up,” Mitchell says.
Raising his voice again, Zach continues. “It could have been he almost got caught. This time he learned to take his victims to where he has privacy. Check other unsolved murders in the area. Also check juvenile records for voyeurism complaints.”
The detectives are writing on their legal pads as Zach starts again, “Expect him to work in a menial or low-skilled job. Probably drives an SUV or van.”
“Makes it easier to transport people,” Jackie says.
“Exactly,” Zach replies.
“So, we check every SUV in the city out?” Jackie asks.
“No. With the other personality traits from the profile, you narrow it down.”
“As for the geographic profile?” Mitchell asks.
Zach advances the slideshow revealing a map with a large red circle inside of which are animated pins stuck on where the six confirmed victims were found. “A large area to be sure, but if you find an unsolved murder it could be the key to narrowing down where he lives. Most start within their comfort zones. And as he got more experienced and confident, he expanded his radius.”
“So, the way normal people improve their confidence with achievement, he improves his confidence with murder,” Jackie says.
“Exactly,” Zach says.
“So, there’s no way he can plead insanity when he’s caught?” Jackie half states, half asks.
Zach shakes his head. “I’m sure he’ll try. But to be insane he would have had to not know what he was doing was wrong. Every serial killer from Jack the Ripper onwards knew it was wrong to do what they did. They chose to do it anyway.”