THE UNSUB
C. Wayne Winkle
© 2011 C. Wayne Winkle
Smashwords Edition
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Wayne Winkle.
Cover image by Laura Shinn.
CHAPTER 1
What’s he doing? Is he dangerous? Am I going to have to kill him?
Jacob Wiley asked himself the questions for the third time. Closely followed by another question.
Where are we?
Glancing around, nothing looked familiar but somehow he had the feeling he’d been there before. In the darkness, they seemed to stand in an alley somewhere in a city. Actually, Jake crouched in an alley watching a man at the end of the passage. The dumpster in front of him gave off an acrid perfume. Not as bad as if it had set in the hot sun all day, but pungent enough. He ignored it as he ignored many other smells in his life.
The man stared out along an unfamiliar street lined with moderately tall buildings. Traffic slid along the street, tires making a sizzling sound in a fine mist that curled in on itself in the passing headlights. A few people stepped quickly from building to building in the mist, holding umbrellas and newspapers over their heads as protection.
The mist settled in Jakes’ hair, running down his cheeks as the tiny droplets gathered into larger drops. He shivered as one rolled under his collar and down his neck.
Jake had no idea why he was observing the man in front of him. From the back, the man seemed as common-place as anyone. Maybe bigger, judging from the size of his back and his height, but still no different from hundreds of other men Jake had known.
But something, some indefinable aura, emanated from the mere presence of the man. Jake could almost see it oozing out from every pore, through the clothing the man wore, contaminating the entire alley with its stench. The only way he could label what he sensed was:
Evil. Why that was, he didn’t know.
Gabriel! It had to be him! Couldn’t be anyone else. He must be looking for his next victim. But why now? Why here? It had been months since Gabriel had taken someone. Everyone thought he’d moved elsewhere.
That realization brought a sudden intake of breath, almost a gasp, completely unlike Jake who had encountered evil before, but there nevertheless. The man at the end of the alley heard him, began slowly turning. Instantly, Jake slid further behind the dumpster. As he did so, Jake became aware of a fear so intense he could only think of getting away. Fear was another emotion he’d befriended previously. Those other times, he fought through the fear. This time was different. Getting away was far to be preferred this time. But try as he might, he couldn’t move. Something invisible bound him to the dumpster behind which he hid. No amount of struggle brought release. In some way, some weird way, he knew he didn’t want to see the man’s face. Knew something terrible would happen if he even glimpsed the visage.
The man had almost turned completely around so that his face would be visible to Jake when sirens sounded. Bells, whistles, chimes. From everywhere at once.
Glancing rapidly around the dumpster and searching the alley, Jake saw nothing. A quick look toward the end of the alley showed the man had disappeared.
With a grunt of surprise, Jake jerked awake. His alarm clock rang, rang, rang from the bedside table. Shaking off the dream shackles, he reached out and flipped the tiny button to shut off the damned thing.
Through eyes gritty with dream grime and too little sleep, he squinted at the clock. How could it be morning already?
“Shit!” he muttered. “That was one of the worst ones yet.”
Nightmares of increasing intensity and foreboding plagued him for the last several weeks. Never had he gone through such an assault on his sleep in his life. No matter what time he went to bed, he could count on no more than an hour or two of good rest. The balance of the nights were spent in nightmares, one after another. Evidence of his sleep struggles greeted him each morning. Sheets wrapped around his body, around his limbs, damp from sweat wrung out of him by the dreams, even once waking up on the floor.
Never one for a great deal of introspection, Jake had nevertheless taken a look inside himself for the reason for these nightmares. So far, he’d found nothing. If he didn’t have twelve years of police work under his belt, he could put them off to the work he did. But that wasn’t it. He’d seen terrible things in those twelve years and had handled them. His wife leaving him didn’t seem to fit as a reason, either. And he couldn’t think of anything in his distant past that could have led to the dreams. Not that he looked very hard back there.
This was the first time he dreamed about Gabriel, though. Could that be the reason for his nightmares? It certainly would be enough, he knew.
Gabriel took up six long months of Jake’s life a year before the dream. During that time, the murderer killed nine people in very gruesome ways. Jake never came close to catching him.
So, yes, Gabriel could be the reason for Jake’s nightmares. What could he do about that?
Nothing.
So he just suffered, hoping the nightmares would go away.
But they didn’t.
“At least I don’t have to worry about waking up a wife with these things,” he growled out at the world. For a moment, the vision of his wife walking out the door for the last time a year ago slapped him in the face. At the same time Gabriel struck over and over again. Pushing that away again, he kicked out from under the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
He stumbled to the small kitchen in his apartment and flipped the switch to start his coffee maker. Jake ritually prepared his coffee each evening, the last thing before going to bed, so all he had to do the next morning was flip the switch. While the coffee brewed, he showered, trying not to think about the nightmare. Hot water followed by a two-minute cold rinse drove away the dream residue.
Fortified with two cups of really strong black coffee, he left the apartment twenty minutes later. In Jake’s modest city, it was still safe to park his car by the curb in front of his house. Besides that, everyone knew Jake’s car and left it alone. He wouldn’t even have to lock it, except that he did so out of habit. It was an absolutely beautiful day, but Jake didn’t see it.
Most days, it took Jake twenty minutes to drive the distance from his home to the station house. Traffic sometimes stretched that time to twenty-five minutes, but not often.
Today, halfway to the office, the freeway became a three-lane parking lot. Jake was in the left lane, the fast lane, next to the lane reserved for those with break-downs. Seldom had he seen anyone in that lane. Slipping his shift lever into Park, Jake got out and stood on the ledge of his open door. With his height advantage, he could see over the heads of other drivers also out of their vehicles. The situation of the entire freeway being stopped was unusual enough that everyone wanted to see the cause.
Jake caught a glimpse of smoke not far ahead of him, quickly increasing in volume and darkening in color as he watched. Something big had happened and there might be a need for someone to help out. Without another thought, Jake slid behind the wheel again and pulled over into the break-down lane. Flashing his lights and hitting his horn, he made his way toward the smoke.
The string of cars ended a quarter mile away from where he started. About 200 yards further on, three cars tangled in the aftermath of a dance of collision. Two of the cars wore
wreaths of flames from under their hoods and from inside the passenger compartments.
“What’s going on?” he asked as he showed his badge to a young patrolman standing close by.
The policeman’s relief that a senior officer showed up was evident as he examined Jake’s badge. “I just got here myself, sir. From what I’ve gathered so far, the blue car that’s on fire tried to make the exit across the other two lanes and didn’t make it.”
“Everybody get out okay?” Jake asked.
Before the young cop could answer, a woman rushed up from behind them. “There’s still somebody in the red car! I saw them moving just a minute ago.”
Jake and the other cop turned toward the wreckage. The red car was the one not on fire.
“Come on!” Jake shouted to the young cop as he sprinted toward the cars.
Coming up on the red car from the rear, Jake spotted someone sitting behind the wheel in the driver’s seat. She didn’t move.
He rapped on the glass of the window beside her head. “Ma’am? Ma’am, are you all right?”
No answer.
The sharp odor of gasoline filled the air around the car.
He rapped again, harder this time. “Ma’am! You’ve got to wake up and get out. You’re in danger here.”
No response.
Heat from the flames engulfing the other two cars was intense but not unbearable – yet. A glance down at his feet showed Jake he was standing in a puddle of gas. Not a reasonable place to stand with fire around. As he raised his gaze from the ground, he looked in the back seat of the red car. Goose bumps wended their way across his scalp.
Fastened in a pink car seat was an infant. Maybe a couple of months old. Asleep.
In the distance, sirens from fire trucks wailed. Jake knew they wouldn’t get there in time. Already the flames from the burning cars intensified; the heat increased ten-fold, it felt like.
He looked closer at the woman in the driver’s seat. Blood made a path down the side of her neck from her left ear.
“Give me your baton!” he shouted to the young cop.
Although the boy’s face turned white with fear, he snatched the baton from his belt and handed it over. It looked like he might bolt any second.
Jake flicked his wrist, extending the collapsible baton to its working length. With practiced strokes, he shattered the driver’s window. Pellets of safety glass covered the woman’s hair and blouse. Reaching in, he confirmed what he already suspected. No pulse in her neck.
“Too late for her,” he shouted over the now-roaring flames. “Help me get the baby out.”
Jake unlocked the car’s doors by reaching inside and pushing the button on the arm rest. To the younger cop’s credit, he didn’t hesitate. Immediately, he jerked open the rear door, leaned
inside to unfasten the safety belt, grabbed the infant’s seat, and took off for safety.
The gasoline stink increased around Jake. From somewhere, he recalled reading about the fumes from gas being as volatile as the gas itself. Any second now, he stood a good chance of being engulfed by a huge fireball from the fumes. Right then, for some reason, Jake became fully aware of how gorgeous the morning truly was. No matter how unreasonable it seemed at that moment, being able to enjoy wonderful mornings like this meant everything to him.
For about a tenth of a second, Jake toyed with the idea of leaving the woman strapped in
the car. After all, she was already dead. She wouldn’t feel a thing. Then, he knew he couldn’t leave her like that. She was somebody’s wife, that little baby’s mother. He couldn’t leave her to burn. No way could her family go through the horror of a closed casket funeral for that reason. No way could Jake live with himself if he did that.
Fortunately, the wreck hadn’t jammed her door. Jerking it open, he leaned across her and clicked the safety belt. He dragged her out, thanking her for being a small woman. With her draped over one massive shoulder, he hurried away from the red car.
When he reached the rest of the people watching, Jake lowered her carefully to the pavement. Just then, the car he’d pulled her from erupted in flames with a muffled ‘whoomph’.
Then the fire trucks pulled up with a hiss of air brakes and firemen piled from them, pulling hoses and other equipment out to fight the fires. Jake turned the body of the young woman over to the patrol sergeant who’d arrived, then steered his car over to the exit and left the scene. He had no desire for accolades or awards. Let the young cop who grabbed the baby get those.
CHAPTER 2
Two days later, a man cruised the streets of Jake’s city.
This will kill Jake. I know it will.
That thought came with such pleasure, the man allowed himself a smile of cruel confidence. He’d waited for hours because of that thought. He’d wait for hours more if necessary.
He didn’t often consider his reasons for wanting to torment Jake Wiley. He just knew he thoroughly enjoyed doing so. Every once in a while he wondered if he was jealous of Jake, or if he harbored hatred of the man, or if it was just his nature to hate someone and Jake was it. When he thought about it, he always decided it was the latter reason.
The early summer sun, red and engorged, its light striking the upper floors and making them glow golden and then orange, dropped behind the western buildings an hour before the girls came out. Like bats, they rarely came out before the light disappeared from the sky. Seldom before the “day people” left. Now, in the summer when daylight lingered, the action started later and later. The girls worked harder, feeling some time pressure.
It wasn’t for themselves they chose the darkness. They’d journeyed far beyond shame in their profession. No – the darkness covered the embarrassment of their customers, the johns. At least those who cruised this part of town, but lived in the big houses elsewhere.
But the man didn’t care about that.
He cared more about a bug he stepped on than he did about the johns. The ones with more money than brains. They got what they deserved.
High and mighty in their fancy cars and fancy clothes. He mused as he gazed out at the shadows overcoming the street. Look down their noses at everybody during the day an’ come cruisin’ the streets at night. Hope they all get a dose.
He cared more about the whores. Cared more in terms of what he could get out of them. And then only when the acid-burning desire grew so intense he could ignore it no longer.
Like tonight.
Over the last three days, he’s felt the need growing. He knew it wouldn’t stop until he fed it, gratified it, as it demanded. So he started cruising, like a shark he saw once on television. A National Geographic Special. The shark swam slowly, scoping out all the possible prey until it found a particular fish, then swooped in to grab it without warning, consuming it completely. Dominant in its world.
Like him.
He’d cruised this street before. Knew all the girls by sight.
This time, he’d picked one out last night. Saw her as she negotiated with a john, then slid into his car. He got just a glimpse of her face as she looked up when he passed by, but that was enough. He’d seen her before, but now he was sure. Like all predators, the man could pick out those in the herd who were weak or sick or somehow vulnerable. Maybe a special sense, he thought, smiling at the possibility. Something way beyond others, something unique, special. Yeah – special. Just like all the other predators out there. He turned his gaze from his whore to stare out into the night, out past the city, out to the wilderness where predators lived and fed. His smile grew as he compared himself to those other predators. His wilderness to theirs. Then he turned back to watching his whore. She was the next one and tonight was the night. Just like those others had followed one after the other, each on her own night.
He’d waited over an hour just for her, wanting to be her first tonight. It was always better that way. He didn’t know why, it just felt … what? More powerful, maybe. If he couldn’t be first tonight, he’d come back. Night after night if necessary, the desire growing all the time, until he would be her first for the night. But the man didn’t worry about that. This was her night. He knew it.
That was important. Knowing she hadn’t been with anybody just before him, that is. Knowing she’d been with a lot of men before that wasn’t important. Again, he didn’t know why for sure. Just that it was. It was that feeling he had about things, about her. And the man lived by his feelings.
A tremor shivered through him. Not yet, not yet. Push it back under, he scolded himself. Don’t give in yet. Not ‘til you’re satisfied. Often, that shiver told him the change was coming. That change came relentlessly, unstoppable. Over the years, he’d gained more and more control over it, able to stay in command longer and longer.
He took a deep breath, regained control this time, too, as the odors of stale cigarettes and cheap vinyl tickled through his nostrils. Another deep breath pushed the tremor of change deeper, down where it had to fight its way out again.
Even though the outside air smelled only slightly better, he rolled down the driver’s side window. The knob moved like a loose-jointed marionette in his hand. Halfway down, the window stuck.
“Piece’a junk,” he muttered. “I should’a known.”
No matter. The black 280-Z would serve its purpose. Its owner would find it eventually, unless somebody else stole it after he ditched it.
The sharp stench of exhaust fumes blew by with each car that passed. The few that did pass. Each cruised slowly, looking to score one way or another.
For a moment, he considered getting out of the car to catch a stray breeze, give his lungs a break. But that meant running the chance of someone seeing him, recognizing him. And breathing the all-present warm scent of stale piss oozing out of the alleys. He decided to stay put.
He slipped down in his seat, only his eyes clearing the door. His whore wasn’t doing so well. ‘His’ whore. That’s how he thought of her now. His. A tiny smile formed, disappeared in a nanosecond. She didn’t know it yet, but she was his.
For the next fifteen minutes, she approached car after car, bent over to look in the window, gave the john a flash of breast, tried to make a deal. Each time, the car drove on.
Watching her, his confidence grew every time a car drove off, leaving her there. She’d always come up dry, if she were meant for him. It was a signal; one he watched for to tell him she was the one for sure, now was the time for sure. Just like all the other times.
Having watched her before, he knew why she had a tougher time turning tricks. He’d even cruised by in a different car, different clothes, and turned her down once. A beauty in her prime, she’d seen the sun go down a lot more times than the other girls on the street. That, and who knows how many needles and joints took care of the beauty. Makeup didn’t work as well now, either. While she dressed her part, bulges showed. The legs weren’t quite as firm, neither were the breasts. They sagged. Hooking is a very competitive business. This one worked the losing side.
Is that why he picked her? Maybe.
Certainly her age helped him see her as if she were the one he barely remembered and that only faintly. But he realized her age didn’t matter. The trace of memory of the first bitch, the bitch who took away his hopes, his dreams, his future, didn’t tell him how old she was back then. Now, he shrugged it off as unimportant. What was important was that he was taking out his rage on other women because he couldn’t do that with the bitch. She was dead. He’d read just enough shrink books to know that much about himself. And that was all he needed to know. Not that he could put any of this into words after so many years. Only the feelings were left. Feelings that had to be handled somehow. And this was a good way. Knowing why he did it just made the killing sweeter.
The man glanced at his watch. Ten thirty-five. Good to go now.
Straightening up just enough to see over the dash, he cranked the 280-Z and eased it forward at a crawl. Half a block away, the whore looked both ways down the street, heaved a great sigh, and headed away from him as fast as her six-inch heels and tight red mini-skirt would allow.
He imagined the disgusted set of her mouth as she stalked off. Good. Not turning a trick would have her in the mood he wanted.
Quiet and slow he eased up behind her, staying far enough back so she wouldn’t hear him yet, watching the exaggerated sway of her hips. Bait for any passing fish. Too bad she didn’t know it would attract a shark instead. His smile matched that toothy grimace of the shark on TV.
Wonder what Jake will think about this? The smile grew into a wide grin. It’s so much fun screwing with his head.
He followed the whore until she started up the short flight of steps into a seedy neighborhood bar. Its bright lights made it stand out, a beacon to all those who craved company, several drinks, and the possibility of other things that too often substituted for failed chances at life. That was the reason his whore went in there. Going in to try to score a hit of coke on the barter system. She did that from time to time, he knew. The last two nights she tried it while he sat in the bar. Both times she failed. It just made him want her more.
Just as she reached the top step and laid a hand on the door, he slid to a gentle stop at the curb and touched the horn. She turned, took in the car. He leaned over enough for her to see him, motioned her to come down. When she began stepping down, he leaned back over on his side of the car.
She bent over, not getting too close at first. “Hi, Honey. Lookin’ for somethin’?” Her voice spoke of too many cigarettes, too much booze, too long since her last hit.
“Sure am.” He smiled with a suggestion of naughtiness. “I need a date.” He knew to tell her up front what he wanted, let her know he wasn’t undercover Vice.
The whore leaned on the car door, arms squeezing her breasts together, giving him a good look. “Let’s talk first, Baby.” Her wide smile, plastic and cold, showed crooked teeth he knew would be yellow in good light.
Playing out the game, the man replied, “How much?” Another way of assuring her he was safe, just another customer.
The woman’s smile grew with her greed. “It’ll cost ya tw--, thirty dollars up front. Anything kinky’ll cost ya extra.”
Hands held up, palms toward her, he said, “Nothin’ kinky, ‘less it’s doggy-style.”
Her smile became suggestive, except for a gap showing on the left side where she’d lost a tooth. “My fav’rit way.”
Pulling a wad of bills out of his pants pocket, he started peeling them off one by one. When sure her eyes were riveted to the money, he asked, almost as an after-thought, “How much for all night?”
The whore’s eyes, still filled with dollar signs, flicked up to meet his. He knew all she saw was darkness. He kept the bill of his cap pulled low.
“A, all night?” she stammered. Two swallows and a deep breath later, she said, “Three hundred … and fifty.”
Another smile from the man. “All right.” He knew he could bargain with her, probably get her for half that. But it didn’t matter.
“There you are,” he said, holding up the money just out of her reach. “Three hundred and fifty dollars.”
She stepped back, opened the car door. Easing in, she glanced up at the interior light that remained dark. “Been meanin’ to get that fixed,” the man said.
“Yeah,” she responded, slipping the rest of the way into the car. Before she closed the door, she held out a hand. “My money?”
He laid the bills in her lap. “Wanta count it?”
Huge grin in place, the whore said, “Naw, Baby. I trust you.” She told the lie smoothly. “I’m yours.”
“You sure are.” If she could’ve seen his eyes, the whore might’ve thought more than twice about the date.
“Mind if we go somewhere else?” he went on.
“You’re in the driver’s seat, Honey.” She crossed her legs at the knee, showing a lot of thigh.
“Right.” Easing the car out onto the street, he started east, in the direction of the river. “What do they call you?”
“Darlene.” She ran fingers through her dishwater blonde hair. “What’s your name?”
“Does it
matter?”
“Naw. It don’t matter.” She looked out the
window. “Where we goin’?”
Older buildings scrolled by, many of them wearing plywood where windows used to be.
Occasional vacant lots broke into the rows of buildings. Fewer and fewer working streetlights interrupted the night.
“I own a building down on the river,” the man replied, not taking his eyes off the street. “Thought we’d go down there, so we won’t be interrupted.”
“Oooo,” she purred. “A little privacy, huh? That’s nice.”
He turned then, grinned his shark grin at her. “Yeah. Privacy. I like my privacy.”
For a second she felt an icy finger trace a frigid path down her spine. Then she forced it away. After all, she’d dated scarier-looking guys.
“Here it is,” he said a moment later, turning the car into the curb. “The door’s right around the corner.”
They both got out, the man going to the trunk, motioning to the right. “Go on around, the door’s unlocked. I left a light on. Gotta get a blanket.”
Warily, the whore stepped around the corner. She could just make out gang graffiti on the side of the building. The only light came from a streetlight in the middle of the block. Darkness formed a wall not far away on two sides. Fishy smells from the river coated her nostrils and the back of her throat.
A gray steel door waited there in the side of the building. She gingerly turned the knob, pushed open the door. A little way in the distance, she saw a naked bulb suspended over a mattress lying on the floor. Outside the small yellow cone of light, nothing but gloom with the suggestion of things waiting there. If she had any imagination, she could have felt terror just past the threshold.
“Go on in,” the man said from behind her. He’d slipped on surgical gloves. The whore didn’t see them. He always wore the latex gloves. Always two pair. He knew that in situations of high emotion, hands sweated, making it possible for fingerprints to ‘leak through’ a single pair of gloves. And he knew he’d usually sweat a lot on his missions.
Together, the woman in the lead, they entered the huge building, echoes rising from their footsteps. Stacks of crates and boxes lined the path to the mattress.
“It’s a temporary warehouse,” he said to her unspoken question. “I rent out space for people to use.”
When they got to the mattress, the man set aside the gym bag he also brought in, shook out the dark green wool blanket he carried, flipped it over the mattress. Stepping back, he looked at her, said, “Strip.”
“Okay, Baby.” The whore skinned out of her clothes slowly, pausing a moment when she was completely naked, then lay down on the blanket. “This is scratchy.”
The man stood over her, unmoving, staring at her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You won’t notice it in a while.”
She smiled, cut her eyes up at him. “Oh, yeah? You that good?”
A slow shark-like grin grew across his face. “Yeah. I’m that good.”
“Ain’t you gonna get naked, Honey? I’d like to see what bought me.”
“Later.” His reply was gruff, curt. The grin disappeared. “Turn over.”
“Oh, yeah. You want it doggy style. I forgot.” She turned over on hands and knees, wiggled her butt at him. “Here it is, Baby. Come and get it.”
The man dropped to his knees behind her, rested his upper body on her back, reached his left hand around to her throat. His right hand drew a black-handled hunting knife from the small of his back. He could shave with the blade or cut through metal pipe. Quicker than she could react, his left hand covered her mouth while his right snaked around, plunged the knife almost to the hilt in her neck, and ripped it out the front.
She had little time to feel the pain. Made no sound.
He held her down while her body jerked with her death spasm. In seconds only, all movement ceased. Still, he held her a little longer.
Turning her over, the man was careful not to splatter her blood over his clothes. Although they’d been sanitized, no need to ruin them if not necessary. Maybe he could wear them again.
Seeing the whore completely dominated excited him. Not a sexual excitement. Not exactly. Far better than sex, in fact. Total control. Power.
As he gazed at the whore, his breathing speeded up, heart raced, sweat ran off him. His eyes drifted to the gore-smeared knife in his hand, its blade shining through the blood.
He raised it overhead, brought it down. Over and over and over he stabbed the corpse, slashing its flesh, his excitement rising, rising. All thought of keeping blood off his clothes disappeared in the fury consuming him. At the fury’s peak, he jerked the corpse’s legs apart, rammed the knife to its hilt in her vagina.
Then, satiated, he rocked back on his heels, chest heaving. Ten minutes he spent like that, staring at the thing before him. A necklace with a locket dangling from it caught his attention.
Just the thing he needed. A quick jerk, and it was his.
Blood soaked into the blanket and mattress. He used the coarse wool blanket to wipe the corpse’s face where he touched it, then the handle of the knife. No need to take chances.
Taking a deep breath, the man carefully folded the blanket over the whore’s body, changed his clothes for the sweat suit in his gym bag, walked out to his 280-Z, and drove sedately away. Jake will literally hate this. A laugh like a shot exploded from his mouth.
CHAPTER 3
“Hey, Jake,” Mahaffey called when he spotted the detective on the way in. “There’s been another one.”
“Shit. Double shit.”
Jacob Wiley stopped dead in the door, filling it up. Hanging his head, shaking it slowly, he muttered, “Why in my town? Three whores killed in six weeks. Why here? We’re not Mayberry, RFD, but that doesn’t happen here. At least, not since Gabriel left.”
That was all he needed after three weeks of not sleeping well. Dreams plagued him. Especially a particular dream. One that wasn’t clear yet, but came back time after time, waking him every time, interrupting sleep, denying rest.
He stared at Mahaffey, not seeing the sergeant, but the man from his dream of a couple nights previously. The one that wore evil like a favorite sweater. That was the kind of man who would murder others as easily and ruthlessly as an ordinary man would kill a snake. And maybe with less emotion. If it had been Gabriel.
Jake was right about his town. Actually a small city of about 300,000 souls, it boasted a very low murder rate. That fact was touted in a roundabout way in the town’s attempts to attract tourists. Oh sure, Jake worked his share of domestic homicides over the years he’d spent on the force, drug deals gone back, bar fights that ended with a body on the floor. Not, that is, until the person who labeled himself, or herself Jake thought, Gabriel showed up. At that time, nine souls were taken. But never a murder every two weeks other than that time. That and more was for the big city boys, the ones who worried about things like murders as a routine thing. Not for small-time cops like him.
People lined up behind him to get through the door. A gentle clearing of someone’s throat reminded him they couldn’t get by. He turned with the frown generated by the news of another murder on his mind. No one in the line behind him met his eye.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Jake strode over to the desk of his friend, Mahaffey. He moved easily, with the smooth grace some big men possess. Gliding across the floor like a stalking carnivore. At times, he’d just show up beside someone’s desk, giving them a jolt. People complained they never heard him coming. Jake feigned ignorance about why people were jumpy around him.
“Mahaffey, for a uniformed sergeant, you really know how to start a guy’s day. What happened?” Jake leaned forward, both hands planted firmly on Mahaffey’s desk. He noticed the white residue of a powdered donut on his friend’s uniform shirt.
“Call came in about thirty minutes ago,” Mahaffey began. He’d grown a spare tire during his desk time. Jake carried no more fat than a hummingbird. “Patrolman answered a call down in the warehouse district. Dead body – very dead. Throat cut, multiple stab wounds. Lotsa blood.” He leaned closer, his brown eyes holding Jake’s blue-green ones in a death-grip, his voice quiet, meant just for his friend. “Found the murder weapon stickin’ out between her legs.” He watched Jake’s eyes go through the change from blue to green like they did whenever he got angry or worried or charged up. “We gotta sick puppy out there, Jake.” A beat, then, “You think Gabriel’s back?”
Jake straightened up to his full six feet, six inches. Outside of his hearing, people called him Godzilla’s little brother. “Right about that, Mahaffey. Real sick puppy. Don’t know if it’s Gabriel. But I sure hope we can put him outta our misery. Whoever he is.
With that, Jake walked off to his office, slapping his friend lightly on the shoulder as he passed. Mahaffey rubbed his shoulder and returned to his paperwork.
At the top of the stairs, Jake turned right at the first door, entered a long and fairly narrow room. The walls were institutional green and the linoleum was scuffed to a dirt brown. Down both sides, gray metal desks waited for the ebb and flow of detectives working the day shift. All the way at the end, a frosted-glass wall partitioned off the office of the Lieutenant in charge of the detectives, Douglas Knox.
His own desk, halfway down the left side, held a telephone, four blue loose-leaf notebooks, and a stack of papers from two days before. Pushed up to touch his desk, his partner’s stood lonely vigil, holding a telephone and small florescent lamp.
Jake eased over and touched his partner’s desk, his fingers light and reverential. It felt cold and empty to his fingers. Wally Martin had put up with him for six years. Three-fourths of the time he’d been a detective. And now Wally might have to retire.
Steps behind him drew his attention, although he didn’t move.
“Hi, Jake.” Another detective, Bud Warneke, came in. “Heard from Wally? How’s he doin’?” Warneke’s familiar voice, sounding like he gargled fish hooks, gave him away. He stopped on the other side of Wally’s desk, facing Jake.
Warneke went back a long way. He’d been a senior officer on the force when Jake came on board twelve years ago. In that time, Jake compiled an outstanding record as a patrolman, made sergeant in two years, became a detective in three. Since getting his gold shield, his record of felony arrests and cleared cases remained the envy of his fellow officers.
All except Warneke. He’d climbed as high on the career ladder as he planned to go. The job he held in Homicide allowed him freedom of movement. Most days, he just had to check in every so often.
It also allowed him access to whores. Warneke liked whores. Didn’t matter what size or color. He liked ‘em all. And what they did. More than a few times, he’d told Jake about getting a quick blowjob in the back seat of his car. More often than not, these were freebies.
Warneke didn’t take whores to the apartment Jake allowed the other detectives to use. Jake made sure of that. He was allowed to take only one of the three girlfriends he kept on a string.
“Morning.” Jake didn’t look up. “Haven’t heard from Wally in a couple days. Saturday, we had dinner. Doin’ fine then.”
The other detective nodded. He glanced down at Wally’s desk, then back up at Jake. “How’s his ulcer?”
“Not too good.” Jake didn’t shift his gaze from Wally’s desk. “Still bleedin’. May have to cut on him if it don’t stop.”
A sympathetic sound came from Warneke’s lips. “Tough. Tell ‘im I said hello, okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Jake kept his hand on Wally’s desk as the other man walked off. His thoughts turned back to his partner. Maybe former partner now, he reminded himself. Why did you have to get sick on me, Wally? We’ve had shoot-outs before. Why now? I’m handling it. No ulcers for me. Why couldn’t you do okay?
More of the detectives filed in. The noise volume grew, phones rang, people talked and laughed. Jake sat down at his desk, still staring at Wally’s.
“Hey, Jake,” another detective greeted him. “Thanks for lettin’ me’n Cathy use your place the other night.” He dropped a key on the desk by Jake’s hand.
“Uh, yeah. No problem, Carl. No problem.” Jake glanced at the other man, then back to the key which he scooped up. Need to remember to talk to Warneke about the key he used.
“Hope we left it clean enough?” The detective examined Jake closely. “Not like some guys leave it.”
This brought a slight smile to Jake’s lips. Just a quick upturn of one corner. “Yeah. It was great. No surprises.”
A chuckle came from the other man. “I heard about Warneke leavin’ the blow-up condoms an’ the ones with water in ‘em.”
“Yeah.” A genuine smile then from Jake. “But I got ‘im good.”
“Heard about that, too. What he thought was a used condom in his lunch bag? How’d you manage that? What was in it?”
“Can’t tell you how I managed it.” Jake savored the memory. “But I filled it with sour cream and petroleum jelly. Just the mix that looks like the real thing.”
“I heard Warneke cussed a blue streak when he saw that all over his lunch.” The other detective wiped his eyes from laughing. “You’n Wally must’ve really enjoyed that.”
“Yeah.” Jake’s voice gave away his sinking feeling. “We sure did.”
Clapping Jake on the shoulder, the other detective said, “Tell Wally we’re all pulling for him, Jake.”
All he could do was nod as the other man walked off. In a few seconds, Jake went for the first of his usual ten cups of coffee at the office.
***
Sheila Spencer, newest detective in Homicide, came in just then. She’d grown used to men’s stares and comments. Out on the street, here in the office, didn’t matter. Men were men wherever she went.
She said as much to the only other female officer she allowed herself to get close to since she moved to the city. “I guess they can’t help it. Maybe it’s hormones or something.”
They both laughed. “Yeah,” her friend said. “I can think of a few who I’d like to put on hormones. Maybe mellow them out some.”
Sheila laughed with her again. “Or turn them into eunuchs.”
Talking about this triggered memories. Sour ones. Most everybody knew Sheila was divorced, but no one knew her ex-husband left her for another man. That, she’d never tell. I still can’t believe that son-of-a-bitch is living with another man! Leaving me, me! for another man! Maybe I’m not everything he wanted, but I’m still a lot of woman. At least, other men think so. But that bastard’s sleeping with another man!
Thankfully, they had no kids.
“Say, Sheila,” the other officer ventured. “A friend of mine called me last night, told me something about you breaking up a bank robbery on your last job. Said you’d tell me about it.”
Sheila made a face. “I asked people not to say anything about that.” Then she smiled so her friend wouldn’t think she was angry at her. “Yeah, I was involved in a robbery. On my way to work, I passed by a bank when the silent alarm went off and the call went out. Had a scanner in my car, couldn’t call in, forgot my cell phone, but I decided to respond anyway. Big ol’ guy had an AK-47. I got inside the door just as he shot the guard. Hollered at him to freeze, he turned the rifle on me, I shot him.”
“Good way to stop a robbery.”
At the door to the Homicide Detail, the other officer went down the hall to Traffic while Sheila walked inside and found her temporary desk. Well here I am. First day without an FTO. Wonder what Lt. Knox will have me doing? I hope he puts me with a good detective for a partner. She glanced around, noticing several of the men quickly dropping their gazes to the papers in front of them. Wonder what Dad would say about his only daughter now? Three big, old boys who were all into sports and guns, then along comes a prissy little girl. And who was the only one to follow him into law enforcement? I don’t know any of these guys well enough to ask for any of them. There are some I wouldn’t want to be in the same car with, though. From the way one or two of them stare at me, they’d probably try to tear my clothes off the first day. Of course, I could handle most of them. Her eyes passed over Jake Wiley with only a glance.
***
Jake eased himself back into his chair, began looking through the papers on his desk. He did little more than shuffle them, his mind drawn to the three murdered prostitutes. The only thing like to happen in his twelve years on the force had been the episode with Gabriel. Sure, they had their share of crime, even other murders. What town of over a quarter-million didn’t? But not this kind of murder. The kind that happened over and over and over.
Glancing up, he spotted something else that drew his mind. Or rather, someone else.
Sheila Spencer. All five feet, eight inches and 135 pounds of her. He knew these vitals about her because they came across his desk shortly after she came to work there. Along with some silly males-only poll concerning just who she looked like. Jake filed it with the rest of the trash, got another one later with the consensus that she most resembled Pamela Lee. Except for the hair (reddish-brown, not blond) and the eyes (hazel, not blue). Otherwise, she stacked up quite nicely compared to Ms. Lee.
Jake tried hard not to think about her. Like he did with most women. Like I have a choice. I screwed up my marriage to Jana, why would I want to take a chance again? Way too painful, and I’m not into pain. Especially the kind I bring on myself. Lots better just to ignore women and not get involved. Most of the time, he succeeded.
The next fifteen minutes crawled along while Jake tried to catch up on a couple of sixty-day reports. There was little he could do outside of manning a desk until Lt. Knox assigned him a new partner. As he worked, the noise level dropped around him as the other detectives left to follow up leads or catch new cases. He clenched his teeth thinking of the cases he worked on, the ones two months old with little or no further progress made on them. The one in front of him involved a newborn found in a dumpster, the umbilical cord still attached. An autopsy showed the baby died of exposure in the middle of winter. She was perfect otherwise. Jake swore under his breath realizing that somebody could do that to a helpless infant.
Many of the other detectives stopped by to ask about Wally or about him. Jake didn’t mind the interruptions.
However, he strongly minded the major interruption that came later.
“Wiley!”
That voice always set his teeth on edge, like the feel of steel wool on porcelain.
On purpose, Jake kept the sixty-dayer in front of him. A full twenty seconds passed before he slowly laid down his pen and turned around in his chair. “Yeah, Lieutenant?” he drawled.
“Get in here.” Lt. Douglas Knox growled the words, his face the shade of a boiled lobster, and glared at Jake as he held the office door open for him.
Knox was a dandy. Not in the sense of being good at his job. In the sense of liking nice clothes. Dressing well. Never having a speck of dirt or dust on his shoes.
Any time they talked (which was only when necessary), Jake stretched himself to his full height, amplifying the five-inch advantage he enjoyed. Knox hated to look up to Jake. Knox hated Jake.
Some of the hatred was professional. Jake cleared more homicides than any other detective. Knox made two felony arrests in the beginning of his career that helped earn him the promotion to Lieutenant. Eighteen years before. He hadn’t done much since, except the ass-kissing that bought him his current job. There had been rumors of a couple of departmental cover-ups for Knox over the years, too. At least one of those involved a female officer who later transferred to a plush job higher up the ladder. Knox had someone at a high level protecting him, a powerful rabbi.
Some of his hatred for Jake was personal. At least partly due to jealousy because everybody, or nearly so, liked and respected Jake. Knox bought friends.
Careful to set no land speed records, Jake pushed back his chair, rose, ambled into the Lieutenant’s office. Knox’s dull blue eyes tried to drill holes right through him the entire way from his desk to the office. But they lacked power. They’d gazed through the bottom of too many bottles and stared through the glass ceiling too long. Over the months Knox served as his commanding officer, Jake grew used to this treatment.
At first, he thought it happened because Knox dated Jana, Jake’s ex-wife, after their divorce. Although Knox supposedly quit seeing her when he took over as Jake’s boss, Jake thought he still dated her at times. That explained some of the personal hatred Knox had for him. But Jake had come to realize Knox’s behavior was driven mainly by one personality factor: Knox was an asshole.
Stopping in front of the desk, Jake never met the other man’s eye. The slamming of the office door behind him probably rattled the windows in the front of the building. Knox walked around him, keeping his gaze nailed to his subordinate’s face.
Once behind his desk, Knox sat down, careful to refrain from leaning against his coat draped over the back of his chair. The Armani suit was almost new, and he didn’t want to wrinkle it.
“Sit down.” The words shot out like an order from a Marine D.I. No hesitation expected. Certainly no argument.
That’s why Jake went against him.
“I prefer to stand.” He kept his tone flat.
Knox repeated the order, the words enunciated slowly from between clenched teeth. “Sit down.” The red in his face deepened.
Jake lowered his gaze from the wall filled with framed certificates behind his supervisor to touch eyes with the man. If he’d moved any slower, both could’ve retired before their eyes made contact. But he only brushed pupils with Knox, shrugged, and sat.
“The Shooting Board cleared you and Martin,” Knox said without preamble or satisfaction. “Called it justifiable homicide. But I still don’t see why you emptied half a thirty-round magazine into two of ‘em.”
Jake just sat, face showing nothing. “Stopped ‘em both.”
Knox stared at him, waiting for something that didn’t come. “As of today,” he went on, “you’re cleared for street duty.” A little half-smile tickled one side of his lips.
For the second time, Jake looked at him. “I haven’t seen the shrink yet. I thought he had to clear me for duty.”
“That’s why you’re not paid to think.” Knox relished his role of supervisor. “I’m clearing you. We’ve got more than we can handle, and you’ve got to take over your fair share.”
“I don’t have a partner,” Jake said.
Knox’s smile grew, tickling both sides of his lips. He shook his head. “Don’t worry about that, Wiley. I’m way ahead of you. You get a new partner. May’s well get used to a new one, ‘cause I doubt if Martin’ll be back.”
Suspicion bloomed in Jake’s chest. He didn’t like the way this sounded. Not the part about getting a new partner. Especially not the part about Wally not coming back. Where did Knox get off, making that determination. Yeah, he was the commanding officer. But he was also Knox. And that didn’t give him the right to say what Wally was going to do.
“So,” Knox went on, sounding more official, “beginning today, you’re catching the prostitute murders. You and your new partner.”
A deep frown stamped Jake’s face. “But Sweeney and MacKenzie have that. They …”
Knox interrupted. “Doesn’t matter. They work for me. You work for me. You all do what you’re told. They’re yours. And you’re going to work them hard, even if they were only whores. You’ll work them just like they were any other citizen.”
“What are you saying, Lieutenant? You think I’d work these cases any less because the vics are whores?” Jake glared at Knox as he spoke. “I resent that implication.”
Knox met him glare for glare. “I don’t care if you resent it or not, Wiley. What you think makes no difference to me. Just do your job.”
“What if this is Gabriel back in business? I can’t go after him with a new partner.” Jake glared at Knox. “He’s way too dangerous. I need somebody who thinks like I do, who knows what to do just as soon as I do. There won’t be time for me to teach somebody new. They’ve gotta know it already.”
Knox shook his head, grimacing as he did so. “Wiley, Wiley, Wiley. You think I haven’t already thought of all that? I’m way ahead of you in the thinking department. You don’t worry about those kinds of things. Just do what you’re told.”
Jake said nothing. What could he say? He gripped the arms of the chair until his fingers turned white.
“Now, about your new partner,” Knox was saying. “Let me call her.”
Her? Jake felt his scalp crawl as the realization of what was about to happen made itself clear to him.
Before Jake could say what came to mind, Knox bounded up out of his seat, a grin all over his face. At the door of his office, he looked out across the desks and called, “Det. Spencer? Will you come to my office, please.”
“Now wait a minute!” Jake started.
“Shut up, Wiley!” Knox ordered over his shoulder. Then, softer, “Come in, Sheila.”
Closing the door so he only rattled his own windows this time, Knox directed her, “Have a seat.” He returned to his chair, placing the desk between him and the other two.
Jake glanced at Sheila once as she took a chair next to him. Shifting in his seat, he betrayed his awareness of the woman beside him. Just her presence reached out and grabbed him, along with her perfume. Tabu, he realized. Same as Jana used to wear. For just a second, old feelings, special feelings flooded him. Close on their heels came the real hurt of Jana not being there anymore. He grew very still. He’d kept all women at more than arm’s length since then. And that’s how I’ll treat her. So, he pushed most of his feelings away.
The Cheshire-cat grin glowing from his face, Knox went on. “Sheila, you know Jake Wiley, of course. Jake, you may not’ve met Sheila formally.” Knox sounded like a host introducing two guests to each other at a cocktail party.
Sheila turned to Jake, smiled, said, “Hello,” and held out her hand.
Reluctantly, he responded with a curt, “Hi.” Her handshake was firm, stronger than he figured it would be. He managed a second glance at her.
What he saw didn’t fit with the image of Sheila Spencer he’d formed before meeting her. Those hazel eyes remained steady as he met them, fixed on his with strength and confidence.
Getting past her obvious physical attributes, Jake sensed a great deal of professionalism there. The longer he stared at her, the more he felt the walls melting. This realization sobered him. Hold on, he cautioned himself. Back up! What’s going on here? I know Knox is setting me up, that part’s real clear. That I can handle. But that’s not all. Last thing I need is some woman with a face and boobs coming into my life. Not gonna happen! Can’t happen. Can’t let it happen. Won’t let it happen. With more effort than he thought would be necessary, Jake broke eye contact with Sheila and turned back to Knox.
“I know you’ll get to know each other over the course of your time together.” Knox was saying. “Now, I expect you to go all out to catch this perp.”
Before the Lieutenant could prattle on, Jake interrupted. “Look, Lt. Knox, I don’t know what your intent is behind assigning her,” jerking his thumb toward Sheila, “to be my partner, but I don’t like it.” He was more than a little surprised at the harshness he heard in his own voice. But that’s the way I have to feel, he told himself.
Sheila stiffened at the tone of his remarks. “What do you mean by ‘her’, Det. Wiley?”
Jumping in before either of them could say more, Knox put on a face full of innocence. “Why, Jake, I don’t know what you mean. You need a partner, I’ve assigned you a partner. Why do you think I have another agenda?”
Jake didn’t bite on that. Only enough to get in trouble. “You’ve assigned me the same as a rookie!”
“Wait a minute!” Sheila almost shouted. “I’m nowhere near a rookie. I’ve been a cop ten years, a detective for two …”
“And in my town for only six months,” Jake blurted, matching her volume. “That makes you the next thing to a rookie here.”
Sheila had no response. She just glared at him, as if she could tear him apart with her thoughts and her eyes. Jake saw none of this, turning away from her after he cut her off.
She stayed that way for probably fifteen seconds, boring through him with her eyes, while Jake made it a point to ignore her. Finally, she turned to Knox.
“Lieutenant, I don’t think Det. Wiley and I can get along as partners. I respectfully request reassignment.”
Knox nodded, giving every impression he could be considering what she said. Even after Sheila finished, he quietly looked from one to the other for a few seconds. When he spoke at last, his voice started out soft, sounding concerned.
“Det. Spencer, you’ve been with us for six months now. Your probationary period is over, your FTO reports you did very well. I understand you feeling some dissatisfaction, even feeling like you’re being picked on, by being assigned to Det. Wiley.” At this, his voice hardened, all pretence of caring disappeared. “But get over it! Both of you! I’ve made the assignment, and by God, it’s gonna work. Now, do you have any questions?” His eyes darted from one to the other of them, lingering a couple of seconds on each face.
This time, Jake met Knox’s eyes, held them with drawn-down brows for several seconds. Then he shrugged, knowing it wouldn’t help to fight. “Okay. I’ll give it six weeks, two months at the outside. Do we get all the dope on the prostitute murders right away?”
“Right away. Sweeney and MacKenzie will get it to you today.”
“All right.” Jake stood up.
Sheila stood with him, her head coming to his chin. Facing her, Jake was almost painfully aware of her nearness. And of her standing with her shoulders back and chin lifted in a very pleasing way. But he pushed all that aside.
“I just want you to know,” he said, keeping his voice low and even, “if you can’t keep up with me, I leave you behind.”
Sheila’s eyes flashed at that remark. “Det. Wiley, I’ll do everything you do … and save your skinny butt in the bargain.”
With that, she stalked out of Knox’s office. Jake followed a second later, feeling a pinch of admiration for her confidence.
Neither of them saw Knox’s self-satisfied smirk.
CHAPTER 4
The weight of the .38 caliber Chief’s Special in his pocket lent confidence to Frank Lee’s off-balance walk. His congenitally shortened right leg made him easy to pick out on any street. It also made him an easy mark for other kids when he was growing up. They called him “Crip” and other less than flattering names.
“Until I put one of ‘em in the hospital with my fists,” he often bragged to those who passed as friends. “That stopped the little bastards cold. They never called me that again.”
Not out loud anyway.
He fingered the .38, felt its cold power there, pulsing just below the blued surface, waiting for his command to strike. None of ‘em would’ve thought those names either, if I’d had the pistol back then.
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