by Roger Hayden
Dobson blanched at the criticism but continued staring at the collage on the wall as his eyes shifted to the newspaper articles. “None of this was here yesterday. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Harris leaned forward. “You sure about that? You checked the room?”
“Well, no. The rookie did. She said it was clear. I can’t imagine that she would have missed any of this.”
Harris patted Dobson’s shoulder from behind. “You’d be surprised just how much they can miss. I’m sure that you’ll sharpen her up though.”
Dobson narrowed his focus to the first article with its headlines in big black letters: Business Closes After Mysterious Explosion Kills Two. His eyes shifted to the next article, equally ominous in its headline banner. “Arson ruled out, Lead Investigators Say.” As he read on, Dobson began to realize that the plastics factory was the building the newspapers were referring to.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, turning around in a panic.
“No,” Harris said, looking at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Shift is almost over.”
Dobson didn’t have time to humor his old partner and instead bolted past him and out of the bedroom.
“Hey!” Harris shouted. “Where are you going?”
Dobson could barely get his head straight in Gordon’s stuffy apartment. “I’ve got a few places in mind,” he said, walking toward the front door.
Harris followed him, frustrated. “Hey, this is your scene now, buddy. I’ll even help you get the warrant. What do you say?”
Dobson stopped and turned around. “Something’s not right, Jack. I don’t think Mr. McDonnel is the culprit here.”
Harris looked incredulous. He then walked to the front window, pulled open the curtains, and looked out into the quiet street. “If he isn’t, then I’m sure he knows who is. Either way, you need to focus. Sometimes the easiest answers are right in front of you.”
“Maybe not.” Dobson scanned the living room, thinking. “Whatever is here can wait. I’ve got to go.” He rushed out the door without another word.
Harris stepped outside and shouted to him as he reached the stairs. “Where the hell are you going?”
Dobson ran down the stairs. There was no time to explain. He passed Faye and Sergeant Calloway with a nod, telling them both that he’d be back. Harris watched him from upstairs, leaning against the balcony. Dobson ran to his car, jumped inside, and started the engine. He knew where he needed to go and wasn’t about to spend another minute playing the killer’s game, though part of him knew that by going to the plastics factory, that’s exactly what he was doing.
He arrived at a long and bumpy dirt road with a tall chain-link fence on both sides and rows of barbed wire running along the top. Trees and bushes partly obscured the fence, with branches sticking out from the chain-links and above. There were “No Trespassing” signs hanging amid the overgrowth, rusty and faded. Dobson had not passed any operational factories or warehouses along the strip and had reached an area long designated for demolition.
Several land developers had announced plans for the area over the years, but nothing had happened yet. The old plastics factory had sat there, a shell of its former self, in a neighborhood of other vacant warehouses. Dobson hadn’t researched the history of the area and what had led to its ruin. However, the newspaper articles displayed along Gordon’s wall had piqued his interest. The chain letter address was no coincidence. The crimes led to the factory itself. And the more he knew about its background, the closer he believed he would get in finding the killer.
Hollow Ground
Dobson arrived outside the factory and immediately saw that something wasn’t right. A chain around the entrance gate was hanging loose, with the padlock snapped and lying in two pieces in the dirt. He sat behind the wheel as the car idled and looked beyond the gate for anything suspicious. His cell phone sat in the middle console, its screen flashing with updates from several missed calls. He ignored them, stubbornly avoiding distraction and intent on the mission at hand.
With the news radio playing low, he reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a pair of small binoculars, holding them to his eyes and looking ahead. A dusty haze concealed most of his view in the distance, but he could see the line of broken windows along the walls of the broad, two-story building, with its chimney stacks and work yard of stacked pallets, empty barrels, crates, and trash strewn along the ground.
The building had large holes on all sides of its decaying walls, looking as though it should have been demolished ages ago. The newspaper article in Gordon’s room said there had been a fire that nearly destroyed the building. The details, however, weren’t known to Dobson. He’d need to do more research.
He carefully scanned the area from his car. Not a soul looked to be around. If Gordon was on the premises, he’d have to offer a good reason for being so. Dobson could make an arrest for trespassing alone, but that was not what he expected to do. He opened his door with the car idling, got out, and walked to the gate, examining it further. The chain hung aside, and there was a line in the sand where the gate had been recently opened, with fresh tire tracks leading inside.
Dobson looked beyond the gate but still didn’t see anyone. Birds flew over the dense thicket of trees surrounding the factory. Unseen crickets droned from the saw grass growing on the property, and horseflies the size of ball bearings buzzed by his head. A regular wildlife habitat. It was time to decide. Dobson looked around again and then went to the gate and pulled it open enough to drive his car through. He quickly walked back to it, got inside, and drove in, leaving the gate open behind him. He didn’t believe that he’d be there that long.
He drove toward the factory across a rocky path, noticing a small pile of rusted metal barrels lying in the overgrown weeds. He pulled to the side of the building and stopped at an oddly placed concrete barrier blocking his path. He looked through the holes in the wall and could see rubble inside, the darkness broken by patches of light shining through the damaged roof.
He took a deep breath and turned off the ignition, uncertain of where to walk. He picked up his cell phone and binoculars and stepped out of the car as a gust of dusty wind blew into his face, flinging the edge of his tie upward and dirtying the lenses of his sunglasses.
The factory had closed about twenty years ago, before Dobson had even moved to the area. There was still a smoldering scent in the air as though the building had never stopped burning. Dobson felt a crunch of glass under his feet and saw shattered pieces all over the ground, including the remnants of broken beer bottles.
The “No Trespassing” signs didn’t stop at the fence. They had been pasted all over the building, serving as a warning to anyone who might take heed. Dobson wondered who owned the land. Someone had to, and why would they do nothing with it after so many years? He reached the corner of the building and prepared to circle around. He was surprised to see, about a hundred feet away, a pond just beyond the trees.
The glistening water and surrounding natural setting was a refreshing sight when contrasted with the dilapidated building and trash-filled yard. His eyes suddenly widened. A car sat in the distance, parked just within the shade of a tall tree. Dobson threw his back against the wall of the building, out of sight, and pulled his pistol from its holster.
He hadn’t called for backup or even let anyone know where he had gone. The threat was clear. There was little room for error, and he couldn’t take any chances. He peeked around the corner and spied upon the car again. It was red. That much was clear. He raised his binoculars to get a better look.
There, parked behind the factory, was Gordon McDonnel’s four-door Ford Escort, license plate: 428RS. Dobson gripped his pistol in one hand while surveying the area with his binoculars held in the other. He knew he should call for backup, but his old ego-thing was getting in the way.
He saw what looked like the silhouette of a person at the wheel but was unsure. What was Gordon’s car doing here? He lowered his binoculars and caref
ully stepped forward, pistol aimed ahead. He tried to avoid the bits of broken glass along the way, but couldn’t prevent the crunching sounds. There seemed to be more glass than there was dirt. He moved quickly, hunched down as he neared the car, keeping both hands on his pistol. As he grew closer, it looked as though Gordon was asleep at the wheel or just sitting there, not making a move. He felt a chill. Even though he was at a distance and the windows were clouded with dust, he could see inside a bit.
He caught a glimpse of Gordon’s hands on the steering wheel but saw no movement whatsoever. Dobson crept from the rear of the car to the driver’s side and stopped. A long trail of blood spatter smeared the driver’s side glass. Was it Gordon’s blood or someone else’s? Was he alone? He backed away, holding his pistol out with both hands, and crouched down.
“Out of the car, McDonnel!”
But it was clear that something was terribly wrong. Gordon sat stiff and silent, covered in blood from head to toe. His eyes weren’t open, and upon closer inspection, Dobson could see that he didn’t have any eyes at all. His mouth was agape and crusted with saliva and blood. He had multiple stab wounds along his neck and chest. Grey duct tape bound both his hands to the steering wheel. It looked like he was missing a finger. This was no simple murder. This was an act of rage.
Dobson neared the window to get a closer look, one hand over his mouth in shock as questions flooded his mind, beginning with why Gordon was here in the first place. Blood was smeared onto the inside of the windshield and all over the dashboard. Dobson broke away from the grotesque sight, placing both hands on top of the roof and trying hard to catch his breath. Every nerve in his body was on alert. Then he heard a twig snap.
“Who’s there?” he shouted, looking around frantically. “Identify yourself or be shot!”
“Detective Dobson?” Sterling’s voice called from the edge of the factory, out of sight. “Is that you?”
“Hands in the air!” he said, taking aim.
A woman who resembled Sterling stepped out, her arms up. Dobson couldn’t believe it. There she was, dressed in blue jeans, a white shirt, and a jean jacket. She continued toward him, her boots flattening the tall grass in her path.
“What are you doing here?” he shouted.
She approached him with an air of lax confusion that only put him more on edge.
“Freeze!” he shouted.
She halted, frightened and baffled. “What’s wrong?”
“I asked you a question,” he continued, pistol extended forward. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I got your message. You said to meet you at the plastics factory.”
“What message?” he shouted, face red with intensity. As she held her hands up, he glanced at her side and saw a holstered pistol.
“The message left for me at the station!” she said with a slight tremble in her voice. He could see that at this point he had her shaking. “Detective Dobson, please stop. You’re scaring me.”
“Drop the pistol,” he demanded. “I mean it!”
Trembling, she brought her hand to the side, took her pistol out slowly, and dropped it on the ground. “There! Happy?”
“Kick it away. Hard.” Reluctantly, she did.
“I didn’t leave any message at the station,” he said, undeterred. “No one knows that I’m here!” He moved forward, ready to make an arrest, his mind spinning with paranoia.
“Someone does,” she said in a panicked voice, her arms shaking in the air. “I just got there. I-I was looking for you. It’s the truth!”
Dobson stopped with his gun inches from her face. “And how’d you get here?”
Her eyes were wide with fear as sweat beads formed on her forehead. “I brought my car. The message was urgent. You have to believe me.”
“Is there anyone else with you?”
“No,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“No one put you up to this?” he asked. He could see that she was on the verge of tears, but her presence and her story didn’t make sense.
“Nobody!” she insisted.
Dobson considered her explanation, though he wasn’t completely convinced. Two anonymous calls to the station? Few people even knew that he was there. He lowered his pistol and spun her around, patting her down on both sides to her ankles.
“Okay,” he said, backing up. “You can lower your arms now, but stay turned around.”
She did as he told her to and stared ahead as Dobson checked the side of the building where she had come from. There didn’t look to be anyone else around.
“Isn’t that his car?” she said, pointing at Gordon’s red Escort parked in the shade.
“Yes,” Dobson, facing her from behind. Her hair was tied up in a bun, revealing a silver necklace that accompanied her ID badge lanyard. “An anonymous call was placed this morning, reporting that Gordon was in danger, just like with Betsy Wade. Only this time, Gordon wasn’t home. Call it another hunch, but I suspected that he might be here. And he was.”
He then circled around to face her. She looked shaken and angry too.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked.
“I tried,” she answered. “Multiple times.”
Dobson couldn’t argue since he had been ignoring his cell phone for the past hour.
“I drove here and saw the gate open. Figured you were around somewhere.”
“Who gave you the message to come here?” he asked, eyes narrowed.
“Front desk delivered the message to Captain Nelson,” she said. “Then he told me.”
Dobson wiped his hand down his face with a groan. “They got Nelson involved? Great. What did he have to say?”
“He said that he’s been trying to reach you, but you weren’t answering your phone.”
Dobson threw his hands up. “That’s because I’m out here investigating.”
“He wants you to call him ASAP.” She then glanced at his pistol. “We’re good now, right? You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”
Dobson lowered the pistol and holstered it at his side. “The killer was here. He might still be here lurking about for all I know.”
“You didn’t have to aim your gun at me,” Sterling said, hurt. “We’re supposed to be partners.”
Dobson shook his head and then stepped closer. “This isn’t about that, Sterling. Gordon McDonnel was stabbed to death. I just found him in his car.”
“Oh no,” she said with a gasp, and her head fell forward, as if she might be sick.
He was still surveying the area with intensity in his eyes, but saw nothing beyond the forest behind the factory. “Someone is playing us, and I don’t like it one bit.”
“Whoever called the station knew that you were here,” Sterling said. “Can we trace the call?”
Dobson thought to himself, then responded. “Yes, we should try. There’s no guarantees, but one thing is clear. The killer is watching us.” He paused and then pointed to the grass where her pistol lay. “Get your weapon and meet me at the car.”
He turned and walked toward Gordon’s car in haste, pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and putting them on. He went to the driver’s side door and carefully pulled the latch, opening the squeaky door.
Gordon’s head drooped to the side while the rest of his body stayed up, held by the fastened seatbelt. In contrast to Betsy Wade’s crime scene, there was blood everywhere: on the windshield, steering wheel, floor, armrest, dashboard, and passenger seat. Gordon had been butchered in haste.
Sterling came around to the passenger side, put on a pair of gloves, and opened her door. “Good God!” She knelt and studied the scene, seeming unfazed. Dobson didn’t know whether to admire that or be troubled by it. He could recall struggling with his first couple of bodies during his early days with Homicide. Sterling, however, didn’t seem to have that issue.
“Took his eyes…” Sterling said, pointing to the bloodied holes where his eyes used to be. “Another trophy, perhaps?”
Upon
closer examination, Dobson could see that she was right. His eyes hadn’t been stabbed out, as he had thought. They had been taken. They had one victim with a missing head, another reportedly scalped, and now their latest victim was missing his eyes. Dobson could not make sense of the sick reasoning behind any of it, but it did point to a ruthless killer who showed no signs of slowing down.
He pulled a mini-flashlight from his pocket and shined it onto Gordon’s face. Glancing down, he noticed some blockage inside Gordon’s open mouth.
“I’ve got something here,” he said, surprised.
Sterling leaned closer over the seat to get a better look. In the back of his throat, just above the windpipe, something was stuck.
“Well, here goes nothing,” Dobson said, sweeping the inside of Gordon’s mouth with his index finger. He pulled out the paper, sticky with saliva, and examined it.
“What’s that?” Sterling asked.
“A ball of crumpled paper,” Dobson said. They exchanged glances, knowing what it was. They wanted to ignore it just for a moment.
Sterling tried to distract herself. “When did he leave his place?” she asked.
“We don’t know,” Dobson answered. “Got a call from Detective Harris. Gordon was already gone. Police received an anonymous tip that he was in danger, just like before.”
He hesitated to unravel the paper balled in his hand. He knew he wasn’t going to like what it was. Finally, unable to postpone it any longer, he carefully unraveled the revolting paper, exposing a familiar message tossed across the room with contempt by Gordon himself.
He looked at Sterling in grim acceptance and held the letter up. “I knew it. The damn chain letter…” He took a step back from the car, visibly distressed and talking to himself. “The same one he had tossed out. Did I doubt the connection? Not at all. But somehow I still didn’t take it seriously enough.” He folded the letter and stuck it in his pocket.
Sterling walked around the front of the car and approached him, concerned. “We don’t know what it means yet.”