(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' (16 page)
“We need to talk, Turner” Crawley said without preamble, glancing at Thompson, giving him an icy stare.
Turner nodded his head slowly, his eyes glancing at Thompson who was sliding out of the door fast.
“Sure thing Chief…just…come on in”, he said, irony heavy in his voice.
Crawley looked at him, a smirk on the rugged face. He pulled up a chair, letting his body drop, his hand holding a newspaper. He opened the paper, flicking it around so Turner could see the headlines.
‘
Cop’s Murder Investigation Getting Nowhere’
.
Turner reached for the paper, a frown on his face. Not that the headlines were anything new, he had seen the same thing before, every time a murder was committed and the police were slow in releasing information to the press.
“Turner…Goddamn it…the fucking papers and the TV reporters are crucifying us. They are saying we are not doing enough, that we don’t have any leads. So give me something to go on…something I can share with the news people.
Turner glanced at the Chief, his eyes turning hard and cold.
“Chief…when you put me in charge of this task force…I told you that I was not going to release information on the cases to any one outside the Department, much less to the press. We have a killer out there, stalking cops and the less the killer knows about what we know, the better it is for us”. He stopped talking for a second, sighing deeply. He stood up from his chair, hands in his pockets, frustrated with himself. Hell, the damn news people were right. They had been working their tails off, checking and rechecking everything, talking to people, poring over records and reports and still they were hitting zero.
“I hate to tell you Chief…but we don’t have much. Four officers killed and all we have is some very scant evidence and some suppositions. I’ve some ideas about this killer…but that’s all it is, ideas…nothing concrete that I can release to the press.”
Crawley fixed his eyes on him for a moment, nodding his head, saying; “I really understand what you are saying, Turner…but you have until next week to get ‘something’ or you are out of the investigation. I need something more than ‘ideas’, we need to solve these damn murders or we are going to be the laughing stock of every police department”. He stood up then, eyes still fixed on Turner. “Do I make myself…clear?”
“Yes…you do. Very clear” Turner answered him, shaking his head slowly. With that Crawley whirled around, exiting the small office, closing the door behind him with a resounding crash. Turner saw him go and his stomach heaved, thinking that the man was stupid for pushing that way. And now he had a week, probably less, to solve four murders. He sighed deeply, fingers massaging his forehead, cursing the man softly.
Chicago
4:30 am February 11, 1995
He woke up slowly, his befuddled brain trying to come to terms with whatever had awakened him. He opened one eye, taking in the luminous dial on his wristwatch. 4:30 in the morning. He slumped again on the pillow, breathing deeply, tasting the sourness in his mouth. He opened his eyes again, glancing around in the semidarkness of the room, trying to come to terms with where he was. He shook his head, pushing the black satin sheets from him and sitting up on the edge of the bed. He was in Mariska’s bed, alone. His ear caught sounds coming from the bathroom and he wondered what the hell the woman was doing, up so early. He was completely naked and he shivered slightly as the cold air in the apartment hit him. The woman didn’t like heat and she slept with the heater off and completely naked in the winter. He pushed the sheets aside again, swinging his legs unto the floor. His forehead frowned in thought again as he tried to come up with what day it was. For a second his mind was blank and then it came to him. It was Wednesday morning, a working day, and the events of last night kept slipping from his brain. Too much alcohol, he thought grimly, thinking that he was going to have to quit drinking so damn much. ‘It’s too damn early and cold to be getting up’, he told himself. He pushed the window curtain aside, glancing outside, watching the snow falling down gently to the ground below. He sighed, his hand reaching for his cigarette pack on the nightstand and was about to light it up when he recalled that she didn’t like him smoking in her bedroom either. He put it down without lighting it, as she opened the bathroom door, stepping out, framing the door with her body. In the light coming from the bathroom, he could see her, noticing that she was already dressed. He got up, snatching his pants from a pile of his clothes of the floor, pulling them up and stifling a yawn as he walked toward her.
“Well…you are up”, she said softly, eyes glancing at him. She was dressed in a black running outfit, tying her long, blonde hair into a ponytail.
“Yes…I’m up and it’s an ungodly hour for that”, he mumbled, closing his eyes as she turned an overhead light on. He stopped on his way, still half sleep, running his fingers through his short, cropped hair, saying; “Where…are you going?”
“Running”, she said softly, a grin flickering on the beautiful face at the expression on his face. She didn’t have any make up on, but the face was still splendid, the eyes bright and luminous even that early in the morning.
“Running” he said, shaking his head slowly. “It’s cold and snowing like hell out there, woman”.
She laughed then, sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for her running shoes and bending over to lace them. He glanced at her and the shoes and his eyes suddenly became alert, open. New Balance shoes, size six or seven, he thought idly and then she brought the second shoe up and his eyes caught the dark, brown stain on it. He moved then, edging closer to her, blinking his eyes rapidly. What the hell were those brown spots? he asked himself as his eyes stayed fixed on the rust colored spots, noticing the same thing on the other shoe. They looked like big rust spots or dry mud, but then he thought they looked like dry blood, also. Why would she have dry blood on her running shoes, he thought, moving again. He raised his eyes to her…to find her watching him closely, a speculative look in the cold, blue eyes. He swallowed hard, wondering why he had that funny feeling in the pit of his stomach just because she had some brown spots on her running shoes. She stood up swiftly, coming to him, the smile still on her face, touching his cheek lightly with her fingertip, the blue eyes laughing at some inner thought.
“I’ve got to run…I’ll see you tonight…lover”, she whispered softly, her lips kissing him softly. Then she whirled around and was gone, leaving him with an empty feeling. He went into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. He came out and began to get dressed, his mind churning. He finished dressing, heading for the door, shrugging his shoulders into his coat. He exited the building, wondering how anybody could be crazy enough to go running in the damn mess outside. He breathed the cold air deep into his lungs, clearing his mind, heading for his car and a hot cup of coffee, another thing that she didn’t enjoy. It seemed to him that the only thing the woman enjoyed was sex, the harder the better, but…even now, he had his doubts that she was being perfectly honest with him about that too.
At this time of the morning, the streets were almost deserted, empty of cars and most pedestrians, people staying away from the cold and the snow. A snow plow went by him, the noise infernal in the quiet of the morning, scraping the snow from the pavement as he reached his car. He got in, starting the motor, and then going back outside to scrape the snow from the windshield. He got back in, his mind still preoccupied with the scene in the bedroom. He reached for his cigarettes now, lighting one, waiting for the engine to warm up some, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaling slowly. He put the car in gear, heading for his place and the promise of some breakfast and hot coffee before heading for the office, realizing that he was also hungry after another night of wild sex with Mariska. For a brief moment his mind centered on the events of last night, the incredible sex, the woman’s body, the way she could make him forget about everything as he lost himself inside of her. She was fire and ice, sweet and caring and easy going and for a second he was ashamed of the way his mind had being going about her. But then he thought about the coldness in the eyes at times, the feeling in his gut that she was faking everything and that slowly, she was becoming a suspect in his investigation. Not that he was sure of her, but there were things about her that bothered him, things that he was going to have to check before he could feel better about her. With those thoughts in mind, he made his way, thinking that it was going to be another long day.
* * * *
From across the street, huddled next to a building, Mariska Mason saw him leave, a slight grin flickering on her face. For a moment, her thoughts centered on him and what had happened inside the apartment. Somehow, she had forgotten to clean the blood from the shoes and this morning, she was sure, Turner had wondered about the spots. She had caught his eyes fixed on them and she knew very well she was dealing with a man that was extremely efficient at working murders, a bright, intelligent man and so, he was dangerous to her. He was not stupid and his mind had to work just like a cop. The cat and mouse game she was playing with him was incredibly exhilarating to her, but it was also dangerous, especially with a man like him and she needed to be extremely careful, until the time was right for her to kill him. In her cold, analytical mind, Turner was nothing, not a human being, just an insignificant object that needed getting rid of. There was no room in her mind for caring about him, he was just one of ‘them’, one of the bad people and the fact that he was sharing her bed at the moment, didn’t mean anything at all to her. It was all fake, a way for her to get control of him until the day she was ready to kill him…just like the others.
She saw him go, her eyes closed to slits against the ever present wind and snow, her mind working furiously. How good was Turner at deducing, at getting to the point where she was a suspect in his investigation…at a point where sex with her was no longer relevant to him? She didn’t know and so he was an enigma to her. But she knew that his mind was working on the problem, on the murders, constantly and that he could put two and two together and make her a suspect in his investigation. She stepped away from the building, starting to jog, her long legs eating the distance swiftly. Her mind was made up…and Turner was going to die…soon.
Chicago Police Dept. 3151 W. Harrison St. February 11, 1995
He sat in his office alone, immersed in the life of Mariska Mason that he had been able to glean through his research. He had managed to check on her, going all the way from her high school days and then the years at the University of Chicago, then graduate school and her work for her PhD. He had also looked at Dunbar and Moore’s files again, looking for her name in connection with either one of them, but had come up empty handed with that. Her life, as far as he could tell, was unremarkable. No arrests, no dealings with the police anywhere, not even a traffic ticket, no steady boyfriend, no family left, her parents dying when she was very young, raised by a grandmother until she was twenty and the old lady died. Nothing, just her work at the museum and her running. Which was another puzzle to him. Until he came along, she had been a loner, or pretty much so. She was incredibly beautiful, intelligent, with a good mind and an incredible body and there was no mistaking the fact that she liked men. So why was she alone? Why there was no man in her life before him? She was not shy or introverted, he told himself, part of his mind listening to the small, inner voice in his head again: “Maybe she is just a loner, period”. ‘And maybe I’m letting my manhood interfere with the job at hand’ he told himself, a smirk on his face as the thought hit him. He knew that he was getting deep with he woman, that his desire for her could very well be clouding his judgment, stopping him from seen things that were obvious.
He stood up, stretching tired muscles, lighting another cigarette, feeling the dryness in his mouth from too many of the damn things. He sipped hot coffee slowly from a mug, still not satisfied. Something was lurking at the back of his mind, uneasy feelings that left him bewildered and confused. He shook his head angrily, unable to pinpoint what was bothering him, sighing deeply, cursing himself for not being able to concentrate on the problem at hand, make a decision and stick with it. He glanced at the clock on the wall, three in the afternoon and he realized that he had spent most of the day checking on her. He walked to the small window in his office, watching the snow still falling down, his forehead creased in thought. He walked back to the desk and sat down. He pulled a note pad and started writing, trying his best to get organized in his thoughts, what he knew about Mariska and why she had become a suspect in his investigation.
He had spent another two hours checking on the burial tapes, freezing the frame when the mystery woman had shown up on the tape. He had a very tall woman, dressed in black, with apparently long, blond hair, showing up at both funerals, something that he knew murderers would do on occasion. But then, the woman had not shown up at the funeral of the last two slain officers either, of that he was sure, because he had been there and been watching for her and again, a tape had been made and upon reviewing, no woman like her had shown up.
So far, no one had been able to identify the woman on the tape. Mariska was tall, blond hair, with a predilection for black outfits. And she was a runner, with New Balance shoes, small, size seven, possibly an eight. And he had a shoeprint of someone just like that from the first murder. There are probably another hundred thousand runners just like her in Chicago, wearing New Balance shoes, he thought bitterly. He stopped writing for a second, disgusted with himself, shaking his head grimly. He sighed deeply, continuing his task. She worked at a museum and was extremely familiar with the type of axe used in the murders, so she had easy access to the weapon. He leaned back in his chair, his mind running with the wild thoughts, thinking that she had not shown any surprise at all when he showed her the murder weapon when he had come to her for help, was just matter of fact about it. Maybe the woman is able to control herself, is not squeamish, he told himself, therefore showing no visible surprise at a murder weapon encrusted with blood. Then his thoughts went back to the night when he had opened the garage to put the car in, her violent reaction, the speed of the movements, yanking the control from his fingers, closing the door, but not fast enough. He had seen a silver SUV parked in there, which might be hers or as she said, belonging to a friend. The killer was driving a silver SUV as far as a witness was able to tell, but so were numerous other people in the Chicago area, he told himself again. But the more he thought about the woman and all the circumstantial evidence at hand, the more he was convinced that he was into something.
