(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' (12 page)
Chicago February 3, 1995
01:30
Lt. Josh Turner saw the blue lights flickering in front of him, saw the TV reporters and their vans swarming all over the crime scene and he cursed long and hard. Even at this late hour and despite the intense cold, the flashing blue lights and the commotion attracted several onlookers. He slammed on the brakes, his handsome face set in hard lines, his jaw thrusting forward, a characteristic sign when he was mad at something. He had been awakened from an exhausted sleep just minutes ago, the bad news slamming into him like a steel fist. Two more officers were dead, and apparently by the same hand that had killed the others.
He exited the car, slamming the door hard and approached the group of officers and CS investigators, pushing TV reporters and microphones away from him none too gently. The yellow tape had been strung and he ducked underneath, listening to the yells and cries of the reporters behind him. He stopped then, his eyes taking in the scene in front of him. The crime scene investigators had put up powerful lights and under the glare he could see a body, headless, lying close to the curb. He approached the body carefully, watching his steps as he bent down. Blood was everywhere and he smelled the sweet, cloying scent of it. He glanced up again, seeing another body and another head on the sidewalk.
“Jesus H. Christ’, he said, looking at the carnage on the sidewalk, blood everywhere. He shook his head, biting his lips and standing up swiftly. His eyes searched for Holt, wondering where he was. He caught sight of Thompson coming in, stopping suddenly, eyes glancing all around, centering on the two dead cops and the beehive of activity. His face drained of all color as he stood to one side watching the investigators at work and Turner walked toward him.
“Where is…Holt?” he asked, spitting the words. His voice was hard, with an edge to it and Thompson fixed his eyes on his boss. He had a pretty good idea what was going on in that head of his. Turner was a man that prided himself on solving some of the worst murders around, in getting down and working the cases until somebody would pay for the crime. And here he was now, with four police officers dead and hardly any clue about what was really going on. He knew the feeling well. Hell, it was the same way he was feeling, he told himself. I feel like a useless pawn in a game where the stakes keep mounting and the end is nowhere in sight.
“He is in the van”, he said, nodding his head in the direction of a van parked next to the curb, black markings on the side indicating it was the Crime Lab for the forensic team. Turner nodded his head in acknowledgement, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.
“Let’s go”, he said quietly, eyes hooded, his mind working all the angles. His trained eyes had taken in the bloody scene and now he was ready to start slowly and break it apart. ‘Maybe, he thought grimly, ‘this time we will get lucky and something will come up’.
They walked to the van together, ignoring the shouted questions of TV reporters, men and women pushing at each other to get to him, restrained by the uniformed officers. Turner was about to climb inside when the tall, thin figure of Holt Lambert stepped out. There was an impish smile on his face and he shook an evidence bag that was in his hand.
“What the hell…are you smiling at, Doc?” he asked, eyes following the up and down motions of the hand in front of him.
“This”, he said and the up and down motions stopped. Turner looked at the plastic bag and his eyes opened up wide. Inside the bag was an axe, or what was left of the axe. The handle had snapped in two and the killer, probably in hurry, had left the axe head at the crime scene.
Turner reached for the bag, eyes bright. The axe head was covered with blood and there was about two feet of handle left with it.
“About damn time”, Turner said, passing the bag to Holt.
“And that’s…not all”, Holt said, the grin still on his face.
“What…else?” Turner asked softly, his heart pounding hard, painfully inside his chest at the unexpected news.
“We have a…witness”. Holt said, his head nodding in the direction of a black man, looking extremely uncomfortable, standing just outside the police tape.
For a moment, Turner looked at Holt in disbelief and then a smile creased his face
“Great…just great”, Turner said, turning toward his partner. “Thompson, you talk to him…while I look around.”
Thompson whirled around, his eyes glancing at the body and the head close to him, shaking his head. Maybe this time the killer had made a mistake and maybe this time the son of a bitch could be found, Thompson thought, making his way to the witness.
Josh Turner lighted a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply, eyes roaming over the crime scene. He shrugged his broad shoulders deeper into his coat, wishing for a hot cup of coffee. A gust of wind slammed into him, making him close his eyes to slits to avoid the dirt flying on his face, feeling the cold seeping into him.
He approached the body laying on the sidewalk first. The body was against the brick wall, a pool of blood underneath it, and the pistol still in its holster. He glanced away from the body, looking at the head, a few feet away. The eyes were still open, staring into empty space and Turner realized that the officer had been incredibly young, probably just out of the academy. “Hell…he was just a kid’, he told himself softly. Turner remained where he was, his mind racing, and the eyes taking in everything slowly. Something moved behind him and he swiveled his head. Dr. Lambert was there, this time with one of his stinking cigars on his lips, hands deep in his coat pockets.
He remained silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the dead man and then, shaking his head slowly, he pulled a pad from his pocket.
“Officer…Morgan”, he said softly, glancing at his notes. “Twenty three years old…just out of the Police Academy”. He glanced down again, closing the pad. “And that was Officer Mullhollan, a twenty-year veteran.”
Tuner nodded his head in acknowledgement. Once again, his thoughts went to the killer. Whoever the hell was doing this killings had to have a lot of guts. To kill two police officers in the middle of the night, in downtown Chicago, that was brazen. He had gotten away with it again, at least for now. He glanced in the direction of Thompson, seeing him in deep conversation with the black man who was supposed to be a witness. He took a deep drag of the cigarette, exhaling slowly, throwing the butt on the street and stepping on it. He approached the body of the young police officer and squatted down, staying away from the puddle of dark blood. His eyes closed to slits as he tried his best to recreate the murder in his mind, wondering how in the hell someone could get to two men, one a hard core pro, and kill them both in a matter of seconds. The killer was incredibly strong and fast, of that there was no doubt. The glare of the lights gave him a perfect view of the body, slumped now against the brick wall. His blue eyes took in the ripped cloth where the badge had been, and then the wound, starting on the right shoulder, coming down, almost half way through the chest. That wound alone would have killed him, Turner thought briefly. He stood up and something on the brick wall caught his attention and he leaned forward slightly, inching his face to the wall. The brick wall, red in color, was marred with a long, white streak about head level. He inched forward again, fingers tracing the surface, coming up stained with dust and red. Something heavy had struck the surface of that wall recently. He took a step back, running his fingers through the short, black hair, eyes roaming the surface of the wall. Halfway down the wall, his eyes caught a similar spot and once again, he ran his fingers over it, bringing them close to his face. He saw the same dust and particles and also a red smear of blood. He shook his head, beginning to see what had happened. The axe head that Holt had shown him had been split in half and he realized that the killer, probably in hurry, had struck the wall a tremendous blow, not just once, but twice, causing the axe to split. A grin flickered on Turner’s face momentarily and he turned to warn Holt. “Get one of your boys to take some pictures of this wall, here…and here,” he said softly, his fingers pointing at the spots on the wall.
Holt didn’t reply, just nodded his head, turning around and calling for one of his men. Turner walked away toward the second body, seeing the head of Officer Mullhollan and then the body. He stopped a few feet away, taking the cold air deeply into his lungs, clearing his mind of everything but the dead man in front of him. Without the glare of the portable lights the place would have been almost in darkness, he thought briefly, the nearest working light pole about twenty feet away, the one nearest to the corner obviously not working. ‘So how had the killer enticed two officers to stop…and then kill them,’ he asked himself, closing his eyes and trying to create a mental picture of what had happened. Car trouble…or what? If they had stopped to help someone that appeared to be in trouble…had they called central with the license plate? The killer had picked the perfect place, obviously confident on how the murders were to proceed, reinforcing the thought that had previously entered Turner’s mind about this killer. He was extremely intelligent, methodical and with a great deal of fearlessness. Footsteps behind him made him open his eyes quickly and whirl around. Thompson was there and for the first time since the murders had started, there was a slight grin on his face.
“What?” Turner asked.
“Witness is Thomas Baker…on his way to work. He saw an SUV, probably silver in color, parked at the curb…hood open, police cruiser behind. He was coming in the opposite direction and…and saw what he thought was a fight, saw the officer next to the wall falling down and someone sprinting away, getting in the car…speeding away. He…ah, wasn’t sure what the hell was going on so…he turned around. When he got here…he saw this and called 911.”
“Did he get a plate…make…model…a look at the guy?” Turner asked, feeling his heart beating painfully against his ribs.
“No. He is not even sure of the color, or if the killer was black or white. The lighting here is not the best…as you can see”. Thompson flipped a page on his notes, his upper lip chewing his lower in what was a characteristic way for him when he was nervous. He raised his eyes to Turner, continuing; “This guy…Walker is his name…he said he just got a glimpse of him when the figure dashed away. It was…dark and the killer was dressed completely in black and was moving fast.” Thompson stopped then, glancing quickly at his notes. “He is sure about the SUV and that the killer was tall, slight of build…dressed completely in what he thought was a black outfit…and this is interesting Lt.”, Thompson continued, “the man is not sure what the killer was, man…or woman.”
Turner heard the words coming out of Thompson’s mouth and he shuddered, his mind going back to the figure in the tapes and the thoughts that had been running wild in his head for a while. ‘Damn…a woman…a woman’, he told himself, shaking his head, puzzled now. If the killer was a woman…that was one hell of a woman, he thought grimly. He stood still for a second, his mind working furiously, finally turning toward Thompson.
“Why…is he not sure? he asked, eyes raised to Thompson’s face
“The guy said something about the way the figure moved…the way it ran away. He is just not…sure”
Turner shook his head slowly, mind churning.
“Call dispatch…and see if they called the plate in…and if so…when.”
Thompson nodded his head in assent, his hand going to the portable radio on his belt.
“106 to dispatch”, he said into the walkie-talkie.
“Go ahead 106”
“Unit 1203…give me their last transmission. Check to see if a 10-28 was requested.”
In matter of seconds the dispatch officer was back with the information requested and Thompson listened to it, lips tight, shaking his head slowly.
“A location was given, Officer Mullhollan giving a signal twenty (motorist assist). Plate was given for a 10-28 but they didn’t request any information on it. Now it just comes back 10-44(stolen) a couple of hours ago…apparently from a mall parking lot.”
“Damn…damn it all to hell”, Thompson said angrily. It seemed to him that the damn killer was getting all the breaks in the case
He glanced at Turner, who was standing still, listening with a grim look on his face. Turner shook his head angrily, cursing softly.
“Get that guy back to the station”, he said, his head nodding in the direction of the witness. “Let him sit a while and…then…get him to write a statement, everything he remembers…everything!”
Thompson grunted, whirling around, approaching a patrol unit and talking briefly with the officer. Seconds later, the witness was hustled into a unit which sped away.
Turner watched him go, wondering if the man was going to be able to shed some light into the murders and then he turned his attention back to Holt, who was approaching him.
“We got everything I need from here”, he said softly, his voice tired. “I’ll get started on the autopsies as soon as we get back…see what else I can get, but from the look of things…it’s our killer”.
Turner shook his head, glancing at his friend, lighting another cigarette, inhaling deeply. ‘It’s going to be a long night’, he thought, casting a last glance at the crime area. Two more men killed; both in a most gruesome way, their bodies left where they had fallen and Turner wondered for the hundredth time in the investigation what was the damn motive, the reason for their murders. Was the killer just picking police officers at random? Or was there something methodical about the killings? Was it a woman…a man with some kind of vendetta against cops?
Turner flipped his cigarette away, eyes hooded against the wind. He sighed deeply, glanced at the bodies one more time and made his way after Holt. ‘Too many questions and no damn answers’, he told himself as he walked away.
Chicago February 3, 1995
04:35
She drove fast, much too fast, her mind still full of the deed she had accomplished. Her heart beat a wild staccato against her ribs as she drove and her breathing came in shallow gasps. She slowed down, watching the traffic, checking her rearview mirror constantly to make sure nothing was behind her. Stopping at a red light, she glanced at the hood of the SUV, realizing that the dark stain on top of it was blood, the blood of the first officer she had killed. She glanced at herself briefly, realizing that her clothes were also stained with blood, as well as her gloved hands. She took her bearings, turning into a side street looking for an all night car wash. Finding a deserted one, she entered it, and minutes later, the SUV was clean, all signs of blood on the hood gone. The broken handle of the axe went into the trash bin, as far down as she could push it, together with the stolen license plate and then she was done.
