by Ethan Cross
“You did great. That’s more than enough for us to track the plate.”
36
Ackerman sat down on a black leather stool in front of the bar at the Alibi Lounge. Chips and channels, marks of age, grooved the bar’s surface, which was in need of a coat of polish. The place was small and narrow with a few booths and tables, a pool table, and a dartboard along one wall. The bar and rows of liquor bottles rested along the opposite side. A haze of smoke infected the air, even though smoking in a bar was illegal in Illinois.
“I’ll take a shot of Jack Daniel’s,” he said to the bartender.
She was abnormally tall, with freckles and a long puckered face. A front tooth was chipped and jagged. She looked Ackerman up and down, and he knew what she was thinking. He was too clean-cut for this place. But she didn’t say a word. She just dropped a shot glass onto the bar and filled it up.
Ackerman had called Marcus again during his walk to the bar. Still no answer.
He slammed back the shot and tapped the bar to indicate that he wanted another. She tipped the bottle and let more of the brown liquid flow into his glass. She still didn’t speak. It wasn’t the type of place where the patrons expected conversation.
A beautiful young woman sat two stools down from him, leaning her elbows atop the bar and flipping the cap from a bottle of Bud Light between her fingers. She sported a black long-sleeve shirt displaying the picture of a heavy-metal band. Long dark hair flowed over her shoulders and hid one side of her face.
Ackerman gave her his best movie-star smile. She blushed, and a grin almost formed on her lips but then disappeared. Her gaze darted back to the pool table as if to see if someone there was watching. He glanced in that direction and found an enormous biker with a shaved head and unkempt goatee who was wearing a black Harley shirt. A tattoo of an eagle stretched across the back of the biker’s neck. The man’s partner had dark skin and short dreadlocks. Another pair of goons matching in appearance and attitude were watching the game from a small table nearby.
He looked back at the woman on the bar stool. Her lip was pierced, and he could see the tip of a tattoo jutting out from beneath the sleeve of her shirt. Tattoos and piercings were typically a turn-off for him, but in her case, the unnecessary adornments were unable to mask the beauty beneath. And something about her—the eyes, cheekbones, facial structure—reminded him of his mother. She glanced in his direction, again noticing his attention, but she turned away quickly. As she did, her black hair swept away from the left side of her face, leaving it exposed for the first time. A large purple bruise that she had tried to cover with make-up ran down her cheek.
Ackerman smiled. Apparently, fate had led him to the right place at the right time, as always.
He moved over to the stool directly beside her and said, “Hey, bartender, I’ll take a Budweiser and another Bud Light for the lady.”
The tall woman behind the bar didn’t move or speak. Her gaze shifted slowly from him, to the dark-haired beauty, to the bald biker. Ackerman’s gaze burrowed into the bartender, and after a moment, she reached down into a cooler and pulled out two bottles. She placed them on the bar and then walked away.
The dark-haired beauty kept looking over her shoulder, but apparently, she didn’t want to cause a scene or draw her boyfriend’s attention by refusing the drink. Instead, she whispered, “Thanks for the drink, but you need to back off. If that guy over there sees you flirting with me, there’ll be trouble for both of us.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t scare easily.”
“You should. He’s not a nice man.”
“Then why are you with him?”
She wouldn’t make eye contact, and her breathing had become short and ragged. “Listen, just stay away from me.”
Ackerman thought about the situation for a moment. Then he said, “So you’re afraid of this guy, and he treats you like a piece of property. He hits you. Probably abuses you mentally as well. Calls you names. Makes you feel like you’re inferior, broken, that no one would ever love you. Despite all this, you stay with him. Are you really that afraid of this man? You think he’d kill you before he let you leave? Maybe he’s told you as much. Or do you actually believe the things he tells you? Do you honestly believe that you couldn’t do better?”
She swallowed hard, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Please, just …”
“I tell you what,” he whispered. “Let’s play a little game. Rules are simple. I’ll let you choose. If you really want, I’ll pay my tab and walk out that door. You can go back to your life, continue on like nothing ever happened here. But after tonight, it will be a prison of your own choosing. Because I’m offering you deliverance. I’m giving you a way out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“So that’s option number one. You keep going down the road you’re on. Wherever it leads. Option number two is that I make sure that he will never hurt you again. That choice has consequences as well. Ones that you’ll have to live with. You’ll feel responsible, guilty, ashamed even. But you will be free.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Why not? Sometimes fate intervenes when you least expect it. It has a funny way of turning your world upside down and setting you on the right path. I’m just the instrument of your course correction. Like I said, it’s simple. If you say no, I’ll leave. But if you say yes, fate will intervene on your behalf.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Her hands shook against the sweating bottle of beer, and her breathing was fast but rhythmic. Each breath a fall and a crescendo, fall and crescendo. She turned and studied him, probably trying to gauge the validity of his offer. She looked away again. More tears fell. But then she whispered, “Yes.”
37
Belacourt and Stupak had already arrived at Glasgow Jewelers when Marcus pulled up to the curb. The store occupied the corner of a tan-colored building bordered by red-brick townhouses. Art deco windows lined the store’s entrance that was carved into a triangular recessed niche. A blue Toyota Camry with the license plate MJA 459 sat in front of the store. The name on the car’s registration was Raymond Glasgow, the owner of the small shop.
Vasques stepped out of the vehicle and said, “Are you coming in?”
Marcus glanced at the shop and the car. “No, I’ll let the professionals handle it.”
She gave him a look. “You did a good job with that witness. I owe you dinner if this turns out to be the right guy.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
She shut the door without further comment and crossed the street. The two cops exited their red Chevy Impala and joined Vasques, who held open the door for them. Marcus leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, trying to get a moment’s rest.
From the back seat, Andrew said, “Okay, show and tell. Why isn’t this him?”
“You’ll find out in a few minutes.”
Andrew muttered something, but Marcus tried not to hear. He tried to shut out the world for just a few seconds. He only needed a moment to rest his eyes and recharge. Just as he was about to doze off for the first time in two days, Andrew said, “How long has it been since you’ve slept? You know being overly tired is as bad as being drunk. It’s going to affect your judgment.”
Marcus sighed. “I already have one shrink. I don’t need another.”
“Come on. I’m your best friend. Hell, I’m damn near your only friend. What’s been bothering you so much lately? Bottling all that up inside isn’t healthy.”
“Who are you, Dr. Phil? You want to help me? Then shut up and let me rest a minute.”
Andrew grumbled under his breath. “Fine. I’ll just keep my mouth shut. Won’t hear a peep from me. Not a word. You can just crash and burn. Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. How dare I try to help?”
“Would you shut up!”
“Fine. Whatever.”
Marcus tried to close his eyes and rest, but his mind wouldn’t allow it. His head kept filling
with a collage of a million unrelated thoughts, a million images flying through his brain at high speed—Ackerman, the missing time on the the tapes, the Anarchist, burnt bodies, eyes held open, a filthy mattress on the floor, a trembling girl, the bullet hole in Ty Phillips’s forehead, smiling faces, blood, pain, the night his parents were murdered, the voice in the darkness.
After a few minutes, Vasques tapped on his window, and he pulled up on the switch to roll it down. “Airtight alibi,” she said. “He was at a jewelers’ convention in San Diego. His flight came in yesterday morning. We’ll check it out, but I don’t think he’s lying. He claims that his wife drove him to the airport, and his car’s been sitting here since he left last week. We’re going to get a forensics team on the car to see if the Anarchist stole it and used it to kidnap Sandra Lutrell.”
“I figured the Anarchist would be too careful for us to get him off a plate number. And I bet your forensics team won’t find anything in the car, but tell them to check the plate itself.”
“You think he switched them?”
“That’s what I’d do.”
Vasques reached up and massaged her neck. “Then we got nothing,” she said.
Andrew leaned forward from the back seat and commented, “Not necessarily. If a cop ran the plate and it came back as the wrong type of car, it could lead to him getting caught.”
“So he drives the same car as Glasgow,” Vasques said. “That’s good. We’ll put together a list of every person who drives a Toyota Camry in the Chicago area. It’ll be a big list, but maybe we’ll find something to cross-check it with.” She looked at Marcus and pursed her lips as if considering something. “That also means that you were right in your assessment of what kind of car the killer drives. If memory serves, a Camry was the first one you listed.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not going to break my arm patting myself on the back. All it really tells us is that this guy is smart, methodical, and can do a Google search. I’m not sure that we’re any closer to catching him … or stopping him from killing again.”
38
Ackerman spun round on his bar stool and walked straight over to the big bald biker. He tapped a massive shoulder, and the man turned, looking down at him with a furrowed brow. The biker outweighed him by at least a hundred and fifty pounds and stood seven inches taller.
The bigger they are, he thought.
“What the hell do you want?” the big man said. His voice was a low grumble. He gave Ackerman a look that the killer supposed had been practiced and honed by years of back-alley brawls. The look in the biker’s eyes announced him as a force to be reckoned with: indestructible, frightening, powerful. It was a good look.
Ackerman smiled back. He knew the type. The man’s size, bulk, and attitude had helped him to avoid more fights than he had ever started or participated in. The biker was little more than an overgrown bully, and behind the bravado he saw something present in the heart of every bully he had ever met: fear.
“Are you the one that gave the beautiful young lady over there that nasty bruise?”
The biker looked him up and down and laughed to his friends. He set his bottle of beer down on the side of the pool table. “Are you serious? You some kind of knight in shining armor?”
“Far from it.”
The biker growled out another throaty laugh. “I’ll do whatever I want to her, and it’s nobody’s business but mine. That answer your question?” A meaty paw shot out and pushed against Ackerman’s shoulder. The killer stumbled back but then returned to his previous position in front of the big man, his smile not faltering.
With a snarl, the biker said, “Did you come in here just to get your face smashed in? If so, you came to the right place.”
Ackerman replied, “I just came here to blow off some steam.”
His hand shot out and grabbed the bald biker’s bottle from its resting place atop the big Brunswick table. He smashed it against the edge, and the bottom half of the bottle shattered. He lunged forward with the bottle stretched out.
The big biker was ready for the move and reacted quickly.
Too bad for him that it was only a feint.
As the biker moved out of the path of the blow, all his weight shifted to his right leg. Ackerman’s foot shot out and collided with the inside of the man’s right kneecap. The joint buckled, and the big man dropped to one knee.
Ackerman slammed the man’s bald head against the side of the pool table and stabbed the jagged edge of the bottle into his left eye.
The big man wailed in agony and clutched his face. He fell the rest of the way to the ground and rolled around the floor of the bar. Screaming, cursing, spitting.
The black man with the dreadlocks just looked at his fallen comrade in wide-eyed panic. When he saw Ackerman staring at him, he dropped his pool cue and raised both hands in surrender.
“Don’t move!” said a woman’s voice at Ackerman’s back.
He turned to find the bartender holding an old black Smith and Wesson 9mm pistol. She had come around the side of the bar and stood a few feet away. Still mindful of the biker’s friends, he cocked his head to the side and examined her weapon. He took a step toward her.
“Stop!” she screamed, shaking the gun at him.
“There’s a layer of dust on your gun. How long has it been sitting back there under the bar, unused?”
She didn’t answer.
“You see, the smarter move would have been to stick a revolver back there. Maybe a .357 magnum. That 9mm has a clip, and if it’s been sitting back there loaded, the spring within the clip has been under constant pressure. Eventually, the spring will go bad. The shells won’t jack up into the chamber correctly. It’ll jam up on you or not fire at all.”
Slowly, he took another step forward.
“Are you willing to take the chance of that gun not firing or maybe even blowing up on you? Plus, you have to ask yourself if you really have what it takes to kill a man.”
“Just get out of here,” the tall woman said in a whisper. “Just leave.”
“I will. In a moment. But first, you need to make a choice.” Ackerman held out his hand, palm up. “You can either put that gun in my hand and get back behind the bar, or I’ll come take it and break your neck.”
She stood frozen. Time stretched out. But then she dropped the gun into his palm and scurried away. “Good choice,” he said.
He turned back to the bald biker and his friends. The big man had pulled himself up to his knees, still clutching the left side of his face. Blood ran out from beneath his fingers and dripped down his forearm to the floor.
Ackerman raised the 9mm to the man’s head and fired. Flame shot from the muzzle, and the big man dropped back to the floor, never to get up again.
As he twisted the Smith and Wesson in his hand and examined it, Ackerman raised his eyebrows and said, “Guess it fired after all.”
39
The place where Jessie Olague had taken her final breath was a tri-level on Jackson’s Grove’s south side with an orange brick and blue siding front and a private yard bordered by a wooded area filled with maples and oaks. According to the realtor, the house had been sitting vacant for the past six months with no serious offers. It was unlikely that interest would increase now that a young woman’s screams had filled the building’s corridors.
As they pulled up to the scene that was still surrounded by squad cars and barricades, Marcus first watched the crowd. Killers often visited their crime scenes pretending to be a bystander, but the Jackson’s Grove PD had been taking detailed photos at every scene and had drawn no correlation.
He then examined the area and asked himself a series of questions that would shed light on the offender. How familiar did the Anarchist need to be with the surroundings? What were the best points of ingress? Would the neighbors have heard anything or seen the car? The closest house on the left was also for sale, and trees bordered the right side of the tri-level. It wasn’t likely that they’d get lucky with any witnes
ses here, but he knew that the police would be canvassing the surrounding neighborhood to be sure.
Having seen nothing outside to shed new light on the case, Marcus, Vasques, and Andrew entered the house through the back door, the same entrance the killer would have used, and walked through to the crime scene. The place buzzed with the activity of crime-scene techs, photographers, and investigators. Tape measures were extended and cameras flashed. The rooms were freshly painted beige with light blue and brown-accent walls. The whole place reeked of burnt flesh and smoke.
Jessie Olague had been tied to a specially designed chair in the center of the house’s den. The fire had consumed most of her body, leaving only a charred husk. The chair had metal plates welded to the bottom of its frame and a high back that secured her head in place. The plates were screwed to the floor to keep the chair from moving. The Anarchist had done similar things at all the scenes, and Marcus guessed that the killer had set it all up before he’d brought the girl here and the actual killing took place.
Marcus hung back, letting the techs do their jobs and examining the killer’s stage for the murder. It matched the others perfectly. Strange symbols drawn in red paint covered all four walls, a mixture of satanic emblems and cryptic runes.
Jessie Olague’s body drew his gaze even though staring at the remains of the poor woman was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d seen many dead bodies during his years in law enforcement, and he’d never forgotten a single one. He could remember all the victims’ names and instantly recall the scenes of their deaths in vivid detail. There were many times in his line of work where an eidetic or photographic memory was a blessing, but also many times when it was a curse.
He’d smelled the odor of burnt flesh and charred bodies before at a few car crashes during his stint as a NYPD patrol officer and a few other times at murder scenes when he’d been a detective. The scent hadn’t been anything like he had expected. He had foolishly assumed that it would smell like a pot roast left in the oven for too long, just another cooked piece of meat. There were hints of that, yet it was also very different.