In Case of Carnage

by Gerry Griffiths

  “One of those guys who broke in wanted me to hand over the camera.”

  “Apparently, they were growing marijuana in one of the foreclosed properties down on Third Street. They saw a real estate woman taking pictures next door, thought she was going to blow the whistle on their little operation. They killed Claudia Danker the next day when she came back. But they never found the camera. Where was it?”

  “She left it at the bar down the street.”

  “I guess this wraps it up.”

  “Wait a minute. What about Kelly Rice? Did you ever find her?”

  “No one’s reported her missing.” Bill pushed out of the armchair. “I guess I’ll be shoving off.”

  After Bill left, Hank called Bella, and they followed Jackie back upstairs to bed.

  * * *

  The following morning, while Hank took his shower, Jackie prepared a late breakfast in the kitchen. She switched on the small portable TV on the counter. On the screen, Jennie Lee clutched her microphone: “Two boys taking a shortcut to school through a wooded area in Holly Park were extremely traumatized when they stumbled upon the body of a young woman in a ravine only days after Claudia Danker was found murdered in the same park. Police are withholding the victim’s identity upon notification of the nearest of kin. This is Jennie Lee reporting.”

  7

  CASE NUMBER: 18-03-242

  Hank looked like a bum in his grubby, paint-spattered sweatshirt, raggedy jeans, and grungy sneakers. His hair was slightly mussed, and he had two-day stubble on his face. His hands were grimy from prepping the walls and cleaning the brushes and rollers after painting the living room and the den.

  They’d been up early moving furniture, masking the trim—all the preparations before tackling the job. It was early evening by the time they finished rehanging pictures, putting everything back in place. Worn out, Jackie didn’t feel like cooking and wanted only to soak in the tub.

  Hank suggested takeout, maybe Chinese. Jackie was in the mood for orange chicken and honey-walnut prawns.

  While Jackie went upstairs to pamper herself, Hank grabbed his wallet and keys. He opened his billfold and saw he was low on cash. He needed to stop at the ATM to withdraw money to pay for dinner.

  Hank drove to the mall through light weeknight traffic and parked in a spot closest to the food court entrance. Twenty feet down the sidewalk, an ATM glowed outside the bank where Hank kept his account. He switched off the engine, turned on the overhead light, and withdrew his wallet from his back pocket. His debit card reflected in the light.

  A few months ago, Hank and Bill had taught a community self-awareness class to a group of senior citizens, warning them of the dangers of using an ATM, especially at night.

  Always lock the door after leaving the car, or bring a friend. Never approach an ATM where suspicious characters lurk. Avoid using an ATM shrouded by shrubbery where a mugger might hide. Never use an ATM that is not safely illuminated at night. Always have your debit card in your hand before stepping out of your car, so you won’t be distracted searching in a wallet or digging through a purse. These were all perfect opportunities for a criminal to catch you off guard.

  Of course, Hank’s bank adhered to all the safety precautionary measures, including installing a security camera and a panic button on every ATM, should a customer be assaulted.

  Hank grabbed his keys out of the ignition. He noticed a woman standing fifty feet away at a different bank’s ATMs. She fumbled through her purse, most likely struggling to find her debit card under the flickering fluorescent lights.

  With no vehicles at the curb, Hank wondered where she’d parked. He leaned forward to discover a white van parked a few yards from the kiosk.

  Hank kept watching the woman.

  A man wearing a black ski mask stepped out from behind the front of the van. He rushed the woman, punching her in the face. Then he grabbed the strap of her purse and ripped it from her shoulder.

  “Hey!” Hank yelled, unsnapping his seat belt, never once taking his eyes off the attack in progress.

  The assailant shoved the woman to the sidewalk.

  Hank leaped out of his car.

  The man crouched. He grabbed the woman’s right wrist.

  Hank saw him holding something in his other hand.

  The woman screamed.

  “Police!” Hank bellowed, running toward them, wishing he had his gun.

  The mugger turned. He sprang to his feet and bolted behind the van.

  Hank sprinted to the hysterical woman. “Everything is going to be fine. I’m a cop.”

  “My God! My hand!” The woman clutched her right hand, blood seeping out between her fingers.

  “Try and stay calm.” Before Hank could attend to the woman, he needed to be sure the mugger wasn’t skulking behind the side of the van, waiting to attack again. He braced himself, edging around the front bumper. He snuck a peek.

  The man was gone.

  The crying woman paused to catch her breath. Hank heard rapid footfalls fading into the shadows.

  Hank returned to the woman.

  Blood continued to gush from her hand.

  Hank slipped his sweatshirt up over his head. He turned it inside out. “Let me wrap your hand.”

  “Oh, God, it hurts!”

  “You’re lucky I showed up when I did.” He gently pried her protective hand from her injured hand. Blood spurted from the stump.

  Hank glanced about the sidewalk for the missing digit, appalled that her attacker had run off with her severed thumb.

  * * *

  “Talk about a disgrace to the department,” Bill said, commenting on Hank’s shabby appearance.

  “Yeah, I guess I do look a mess.” Hank watched the paramedics push the woman on the collapsible gurney into the back of the ambulance.

  “This makes the fifth one this week.” Bill closed up his notepad.

  “She told me he cut her thumb off with a pair of pruning shears.”

  “Sounds like our guy. I understand you got the call.”

  “The investigation cleared me. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Don’t forget the donuts.”

  * * *

  The New Age Banking corporate office was downtown in the financial district.

  The detectives rode the elevator up to the 37th floor and approached the reception desk. “We’re here to see Mr. Stanton.”

  “He’s expecting you. Please go through those doors.”

  The CEO of NAB got up from his desk to greet them as they came into his office. “Please, gentlemen. Have a seat. Can my secretary get you anything?”

  “No thanks.” Bill grabbed a chair facing the front of Stanton’s massive desk. Hank sat in the chair next to Bill.

  “How may I help you?” Stanton sat back behind his desk.

  Bill took the lead. “Maybe you could tell us a little bit about your company. I understand it’s very innovative.”

  “At New Age Banking, we like to pride ourselves as one of the most efficient, cost-effective institutes in the country. For example, we no longer send our customers their billing statements through the mail. Everything is electronic. By eliminating postage, printing, and man power, we were able to save the company one million dollars a year.”

  “That is a big savings.” Hank glanced over at Bill. He seemed impressed.

  Stanton continued. “We’re always looking for ways to eliminate tangibles. It’s the green wave of the future, I’m sure you agree. Everything you see in my office was made from recycled material. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to hear me rave about New Age Banking.”

  “Well, no. We’re investigating the assaults on those women you probably heard about on the news.” Bill pulled out his notepad.

  “The ones who had their thumbs cut off?”

  “Yes, we were hoping you might know something about that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All five of those women do business with your bank.”

  �
�Oh, no! I prayed this wouldn’t happen.” Stanton seemed mortified.

  “You act as though you expected this.”

  “I did. It was a running joke among those in my research and development group. I even voiced my concerns to the board of directors. Of course, they turned a deaf ear when they considered the profitability of eliminating the need for plastic cards. Gentlemen, I am truly sorry.”

  * * *

  The detectives hung back, waiting for the SWAT officer to ram the door. Once it was battered open, the team stormed the apartment.

  After a thorough search, an officer shouted, “All clear!”

  A young man kneeled in the middle of the living room, hands on the top of his head.

  Hank walked up to the suspect. “Are you Thomas Meyers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you currently employed at New Age Bank’s Research and Development Department?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “You’re under arrest for aggravated assault, robbery, identity theft, and bank fraud.” Hank grabbed Meyers by the hand, then held it behind his back to slip on the cuffs. He did the same with the other hand.

  Bill sauntered into the kitchen. He opened the freezer door. Five human thumbs stood upright in an ice tray. Each thumb was labeled with the victim’s name and personal identification number.

  Hank peered into the freezer. “Looks like the New Age Bank ATM Thumbprint Recognition Program might have a few bugs.”

  * * *

  A couple days later, a woman was viciously killed at a different bank’s ATM, her face brutally slashed to ribbons, her right eye scooped out of its socket.

  The detectives headed over to interview the bank manager. On the way up the elevator, Hank sighed. “Do you think these guys even considered the ramifications of installing retina scanners in their ATMs?”

  Bill shrugged. “Here we go again.”

  8

  CASE NUMBER: 18-04-243

  Hank watched the woman as she intently studied the photograph.

  “No, that’s not him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay. What about this one?” Hank replaced the photo with another one.

  The woman shook her head right away. “The guy’s face was fatter.”

  “Maybe you should take another look.” Bill sat to the right of the woman. Hank faced her on the left.

  They had been flipping photos for her for almost an hour. She’d shaken her head at nearly a hundred mugshots.

  Instead of overwhelming her with the thick volumes of repeat offenders, twenty per page, the detectives showed her one picture at a time, a technique professed to guarantee better results. The witness would concentrate on the single image without the distraction or influence of surrounding photographs.

  “I told you before, it’s not him!” The woman batted the photo across the table.

  Hank snatched up the photograph. “Okay, last one.” He placed the final headshot on the table.

  “That’s him!”

  Normally, the detectives would have been ecstatic.

  “You’re sure?” Bill pushed the photo closer to the woman.

  “Yes, I’m sure. He’s the man I saw strangle that poor woman in the supermarket parking lot.”

  “That’s the guy?” Hank sighed.

  “What is it with you two? Don’t you understand English? I know what I saw. It’s him!”

  “Very well. You may go. We’ll be in touch.” Bill scooted his chair away from the table.

  The woman stood up, slowly rubbing the small of her back. Her eyes were puffy from staring at the photographs.

  Hank helped her with her coat. “We appreciate you coming in.”

  The woman grumbled something under her breath. She grabbed her purse, mumbling as she shuffled out of the squad room.

  “Jenkins! Hendrix!” boomed a thunderous voice.

  “Oh, jeez.” Hank cringed.

  The captain stepped out of his office. He headed straight for the detectives.

  “So, did she ID him?” He chomped on the donut in his hand, nearly devouring it in one bite. He was a robust man, six-foot-three, barrel-chested, with a bit of a gut. He always seemed to have a stain somewhere on his crinkled white shirt, which, more often than not, was a fruity spot from a leaky, jelly-filled donut.

  Bill fidgeted in his chair. “Not exactly.”

  The captain licked his sticky fingers. He picked the photograph up from the table. “Don’t tell me.” The captain stared at the picture taken of him six months ago for a departmental newsletter. “She chose me.”

  In a real lineup, it was a common practice to include cops in street clothes as stand-ins, shoulder-to-shoulder alongside the real suspects, facing the one-way mirror. The witness usually lost credibility whenever a cop was picked out as the accused.

  In the same light, it was not uncommon to sneak in a few pictures of law enforcement, adding them to the mix to test the witness when going through mug shots, knowing that, if an officer was chosen, the person in question would immediately be disregarded, and the witness would be excused.

  “Afraid so.” Hank crossed his arms, leaning back in his swivel chair.

  “Maybe your eyewitness needs glasses.” The captain slurped the last of the gooey filling out of his pastry and popped the rest into his mouth.

  “She seemed pretty certain.” Bill wearily shook his head.

  “Looks like you boys are back to square one. Stay on top of it.” The captain marched back into his office.

  * * *

  Two days later, the killer struck again.

  This time, the victim was strangled while waiting on the bench for the last scheduled bus just before midnight, not far from where the first victim was slain.

  The only person who witnessed the heinous crime unfold was a city bus driver who had pulled up to the passenger loading stop. No one else was aboard the bus at the time to corroborate his story.

  The detectives waited at their desks for the eyewitness to show up. Bill kicked back in his chair and shuffled the photographs like a deck of cards, his feet up on his desk, while Hank impatiently tapped his pencil on the side of his empty coffee cup.

  Hank glanced over Bill’s shoulder. He waved his hand to get his partner’s attention. “Here comes the captain.”

  Bill swung his feet off the desk and sat up straight.

  The captain paused at their desks a moment to pull on his overcoat. “I’m on my way over to the mayor’s office to do some damage control. He’s afraid we may have a serial killer terrorizing the city. I’m inclined to agree. Last thing we need is a citywide panic on our hands. You boys keep me posted. Let me know if you have better luck with the bus driver.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hank replied.

  “We’re on it,” Bill assured his superior.

  “Better be, or this could get ugly.” The captain stomped out of the squad room.

  Ten minutes later, the bus driver arrived.

  The detectives listened to the man’s story, then made him retell it, in case he thought of something important he might have forgotten. They showed him the photographs of the suspects one at a time.

  Fifteen minutes in, the bus driver stabbed the single photo on the desk with the tip of his finger. “That’s the creep!”

  The detectives glanced at the photograph, taking a moment to look at each other.

  Hank picked up the photo. “That’s the man you saw strangling the woman at the bus stop?”

  “That’s right! I’m sure of it!” The bus driver gave Hank a firm nod.

  “There isn’t any question in your mind? I mean, it was dark.” Bill played along as devil’s advocate.

  “Believe me, that’s one face you never forget.”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to agree.” Hank placed the picture back on the table.

  “So, can I go? I really need to get back to the terminal.” The bus driver grabbed the armrests on his chair, ready to propel to
his feet.

  Bill waved his hand dismissively. “You can go.”

  The bus driver sprang out of his chair and scurried for the exit.

  “This is getting a little too weird.”

  “I’ll say.” Hank stuffed the photo back in the deck. “That’s the second eyewitness to pick the captain’s picture.”

  They returned to their desks, which faced each other.

  “You don’t think it could possibly be the captain?” Bill pondered.

  “No way.”

  “Then he must have a doppelganger.”

  “A what?”

  “A doppelganger. Someone who closely resembles the captain. Did you know there’s someone out there in the world who looks exactly like you—an exact replica? I’m not pulling your leg. I read it somewhere.”

  “Get out of here. Next you’ll be telling me there’s a parallel universe out there.”

  “There have been scientific studies suggesting an alternate universe might—”

  “So you’re telling me there’s a bad captain out there murdering women?” Hank rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

  “Who looks exactly like our captain.”

  “I’m not buying it.”

  “Did you know the captain has a twin brother?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I did some digging. Have his address right here.” Bill held up a slip of paper.

  “We should pay him a visit.” Hank grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair as they raced out of the squad room.

  * * *

  Hank and Bill sat on a plush leather sofa in an ornate home office, one wall clustered with framed medical degrees and lifetime achievements.

  The man in the wheelchair was the spitting image of the captain, except for the full cast on his right leg. “That’ll teach me to look both ways.”