(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' (9 page)
“Good…now all we need is a confession from the perpetrator at the station and we can go home soon”, Turner said, closing his eyes for a second. He was tired and hungry after all the events of the day, but hopefully, it would be over soon, he told himself. He opened his eyes and stifled a yawn with his fist and turned his head around as a noise coming from the door reached him. His eyes fixed on the man coming in, the look on his face and his gut jumped, his senses telling him that the reason Thompson was there had nothing to do with the stiff laying on the table. The man’s face was set in hard lines, the look in his eyes grim and Turner knew that his hopes of the day being over soon had just evaporated again. Thompson walked fast, approaching the table and stopping, his eyes fixed on Turner and despite the cold outside, sweat ran down his face.
“We have…another one”, he said softly, his voice almost a whisper in the confines of the autopsy room, his hand wiping at the perspiration running down his face in rivulets.
“What the hell are you…talking about now”, Turner asked quietly, his mind knowing well what had happened even before Thompson said it. Another cop was dead.
“It just came in”, Thompson said. His face was pale and his eyes were haunted. He shook his head like a man wanting to dispel bad thoughts and continued talking.
“Police officer named Pete…Pete Moore. Somebody just took his head off…exactly like Dunbar”. His voice was barely above a whisper and Turner had to strain his ears to catch what was being said.
For one long second, Turner remained still, his body frozen in place and then his eyes turned cold, hard, his lips moving in a snarl of rage. For one long moment his face was contorted by an inner fury, disappearing as fast as it had come. His shoulders slumped, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes narrowing.
“Where?” he asked then, quietly, a thousand thoughts running wild in his head. He felt the wild thud of his heart beating on his chest, taking air deep into his lungs to control himself
“Some bar’s parking lot…downtown. Looks like the killer was waiting outside.”
“Damn it…damn it all to hell”, Turner said, feeling the adrenalin jolt and the anger building in him again, pushing the cobwebs from his brain. His hand reached for his overcoat, shrugging his shoulders into it, his face set in hard lines, the exhaustion of a few minutes ago now forgotten completely.
“Let’s go” he said his eyes glancing at Holt, whirling around without another world and starting toward the entrance, followed closely by Thompson.
Holt threw the bloody, dirty gloves in a trashcan next to him, picked up his keys and started after Thompson and Turner. Another long night was ahead of them, another cop killed.
Downtown Chicago January 27, 1995
04:45 a.m.
Josh Turner bent down, his eyes taking in the new crime scene. A man and a woman, the bar’s owners, were standing close by, eyes shifting every few seconds to the body still laying on the ground. They talked softly with Thompson while several regular units, blue lights shining brightly and persistently, surrounded the small section of the parking lot. A TV unit was parked just outside the ring of police units, people moving back and forth, cameras on their shoulders, waiting impatiently for anything they could get.
The bar owners had found the body after closing, sometime around three o’clock and had run back inside to call the police as soon as they realized what had happened. Moore was well known to them, they knew he was a cop, a patrol officer and a good customer. He waited for Holt to insert the rectal thermometer before asking any questions, but his eyes registered everything about the dead man and his surroundings, the position of the body, the blood splatter, the fact that the driver’s door was opened, blood staining the seat and floorboard of the vehicle.
‘He almost made it’, Turner said to himself. The man had come to within a hair’s breadth of getting in his car and then, something, had alerted him to the danger behind him…but too late, just like Dunbar.
His pistol was on the ground, close to him, as well as a hand and several feet to his left, the head. The arm had been severed almost at the elbow and Turner thought that the man had seen his attacker and had tried to defend himself. He made sure the CS investigator had taken pictures of the position of the pistol and then he reached down with a pen, snaring the trigger guard of the pistol, bringing it to his nostrils, smelling the barrel. No smell of gunpowder was evident, meaning that probably the pistol had not been fired. He reached into his back pocket, coming out with a plastic bag and put the pistol into it. He sealed the bag, writing on the cover, and dated and signed the bag as evidence. Powerful overhead lights had been set up by the CS investigators, giving him a good look at the body, which was covered with blood. Moore had been a man of medium height, with short, cropped salt and pepper hair. He appeared to be about mid forties, was not overweight and was a casual dresser. Holt had found his wallet and the contents were lying next to the body, being itemized by a uniformed officer. He could see the man’s wallet and a wad of money among the other odds and ends. Obviously, robbery was not the motive here, just as it had not been with Dunbar.
“Any…sign of his badge? he asked softly, eyes resting on the wallet.
Holt reached for it now and opened it completely, showing the imprint of the badge, now gone.
“It was laying close to his body, meaning the killer took his time in finding it, taking the badge out” he said. We will test it for prints, but…if it’s like the last one…we are not going to find anything useful”.
Just like Dunbar again, Turner thought grimly. Meaning the killer was collecting items from the dead officers. He shook his head slowly, thinking back to other murders, other cases of serial killers. Most of them collected things from the dead ones, sometimes gruesome things like bones or skin, even ears or other body parts that strike their fancy at the moment of death. Some of them took jewelry, clothing or extremely personal items. This one…this one was taking the badges from the dead officers. Was it a reminder to them that he, the killer, was taking on the Police that he was not afraid to kill the very people that represented law and order…power? He shook his head, disgusted, running his fingers through his short hair in a characteristic gesture for him when he was irritated. He glanced around, centering his eyes on the dead man again, breathing deeply of the cold air, the words ‘serial killer’, encroaching in his thoughts. With a second officer killed, the investigation had now turned into a different dimension and now it could be considered that the killer was a serial murderer.
“Great…just great”, said Turner as he returned his attention to the dead man, trying his best to figure all the angles with this new murder.
The man had died on his knees apparently and even now, his body was leaning against the car. The blood splatter was everywhere, the smell sweet and overpowering, as well as the ever-present smell of human feces and urine.
Holt stood up, shaking his head, peeling rubber gloves from his hands. “About an hour, maybe an hour and a half”, he said softly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It seems like ‘our’ killer is back”, he continued, “the same MO (modus operandi), and apparently the same weapon.”
“And once again, a police officer”, Turner said, his face etched in disgust, a sour taste in his mouth. He ran his hand over his face, feeling the weariness seeping slowly through his tired body. He searched for a cigarette and lit it. He took a drag of it, exhaling the smoke, his mind running with questions. He had been going strong all day long, subsisting on coffee and aspirin and nothing else and it took effort to concentrate on this new development. Now another cop was dead. No witness, no suspects and no motive so far…just like Dunbar. ‘Who the hell is killing cops in Chicago and why’, he asked himself. Was it a serial killer bent on revenge or someone with a beef against a cop or cops? Or was it just against Dunbar and Moore? He shook his head, feeling the beginning of a blinding headache about to come on, knowing well they had more questions than answers right now. By the look of things, the crime scene was as sterile as the first one. A dead body, a head severed from the trunk, a hand severed at the elbow, a pistol on the ground, his badge…gone. No shots fired, meaning the killer had gotten close enough to be able to swing the axe or machete and accomplish what he wanted, the killing of a cop, then vanish into thin air.
The voice of Thompson brought him out of his reverie and he shook his head savagely, glancing around. Daylight was coming fast, but the sky was still laden, full of black clouds and he shrugged his shoulders into his coat, glancing quickly at the heavens above. It was cold and it looked like it was going to snow again. He swiveled his head around, glancing at Thompson.
“What…do you have?” he asked quietly. He needed some sleep or he was going to fall flat on his face soon, he thought, fixing his eyes on Thompson, waiting.
“I’m finished talking with the bar owner. They didn’t see a soul or hear anything when they came back, just Moore, leaning against the car like he is now. They didn’t touch anything, just ran back and called 911”. He stopped talking for a moment, looking at his notes, and then resumed. “Looks like he was…some kind of a regular joe here, coming by just about every day, drinking heavily. Owner said he was quite drunk when he left the bar, came in by himself, left alone after getting into an argument with a hooker…named Gloria”. He stopped for a moment, his eyes glancing at the small notebook in his hand. “He got physical with her…slapped her twice and then the whore, Gloria…left the bar with a joe by the name of Jimmy, just before Moore left”. He stopped again, fingers scratching at the stubble of beard on his face, continuing; “They think he left the bar around three o’clock…but no later than that”
He nodded his head, breathing deeply of the cold air. The damn killer was one lucky son of a bitch, he thought grimly. So far he was like a ghost in the night, striking almost at will and getting away with it. He glanced at Holt who was unfolding a black body bag for the body.
“You…about finished here?”
“Yeah…yeah…just about”, Holt said. “We have the sketch, the blood samples and the photographs and I’ll do the autopsy and all the other tests as soon as we get back”.
Turner glanced at the dark parking lot, at the crummy, dirty buildings surrounding the bar and he shook his head. ‘What a hell of a place to die’, he said to himself. He closed his eyes as he tried to place the killer there, tried to see in his mind how the killer had approached Moore, how he struck the blows. ‘This damn…killer is really smart’, he thought, ‘able to approach two police officers, both experienced, close enough to use an axe or machete to kill them, without either one of them being able to use their pistols’. That both had been able to discern something wrong behind them was obvious, but that was as far as they had been able to go, dying shortly afterward, unable to protect themselves. This killer was intelligent and obviously, had spent some time tracking the officers, getting to know their habits and their whereabouts.
“Where are you now?” he asked softly, opening his eyes. “Where…are you? What…the hell motivates you?’ He stood still, waiting for answers, getting back nothing but the whisper of the wind. He glanced around at the desolate parking lot, small and dirty and he shook his head. It wasn’t decent for a man to die like this, he thought, alone…drunk…behind a bar, sitting in his own shit and piss.
There was a killer walking the mean streets of Chicago and he was afraid that this cop would not be the last one. Someone had a grudge, a deep one and cops were the target. He breathed deeply of the cold air, shrugging his shoulders deep into his coat, walking a few paces away from the crime scene, his eyes lingering on the empty parking lot. Another long, frustrating day was ahead of them and probably, there would be a lot more questions than answers. Luckily, Moore was not married, so there would not be a wife and children to comfort and take care of. He probably had quite a few women in his life, Turner thought, shaking his head. They would have to be found and questioned. Not that he thought they would find anything connected to the murder in that way, but they had to look. They also had to find this Gloria woman and her joe, find out if they had seen something in that parking lot where Moore was killed.
“Yeah…he told himself grimly, ‘questions and no answers’, and I’m afraid our killer will come back…again”. Something in his cop mind was telling him that he was in for a long haul concerning these murders and that whoever was involved was no ex-girlfriend or jealous husband. ‘This is different’ Turner thought angrily, thinking that the way they had being murdered was indecent, cold. Cold and indifferent like the wind whispering softly around him.
Chicago January 29, 1995
05:00
She woke up with a start, gasping, sitting up in the king size bed, her naked body clammy with perspiration, trembling, and her breathing coming in ragged gulps as her heart beat painfully against her ribs. She hated the nights and the dark, especially the dark She hated the haunting dreams that shattered her soul and left her trembling and weak like a reed in the wind. The dreams were always the same, had been for the last fifteen years, ever since the rape of her young body. The dark shadows that bent over her, steel like claws reaching for her, ripping her apart. Then the smirking faces that leered at her, diffused at first, then changing into the faces of people that she hated the most; police officers.
She threw the bed covers aside, sliding out of the bed, breathing deeply to calm the wild hammering of her young heart, completely naked. She walked out of the room to the front window, pushing the curtains aside and glancing out at the dark world beyond the window. A world as dark as her soul, terrifying in her loneliness and in her weakness to stop herself from killing.
It had been two days since she had killed the last man, the one named Moore, and she had thought that the nightmares would stop then. For the first couple of days the bad dreams had stopped, just as they had after Dunbar’s death. She had felt exhilarated, clean and powerful. Then the nightmares came rushing back in, stronger than before, threatening to shatter the tenuous hold that she still had over the reality of her life. She folded her arms against her small breasts, touching the cold windowpane with her forehead. “Maybe I just need to keep on killing cops’, she thought grimly, a grin flickering briefly on the beautiful face at the thoughts running wild in her head. She really enjoyed the sense of power that killing the ‘bad’ people gave her, the incredible clarity of everything surrounding her, the sexual charge as the axe bit deep into flesh and bone, the smell of blood and terror in the air. She also enjoyed the look of utter fear in the face of her prey, the moment of weakness showing clearly on the faces of men that knew they were but seconds away from dying. The arrogant son of bitches were full of crap after all, just like a handful of clay, and when the time to die was rushing at them, they fouled themselves in their own shit and piss, the smell of utter terror drifting in the air. It was a terrific rush and she longed for more, wanting the feelings to stay with her forever. It was the only way her soul could be clean, free of the horrible nightmares in the darkness. She knew where to find them and she knew how to do it, so she might as well continue to rid society of the bastards that were out there ruining people’s life. It didn’t matter who they were any longer. What mattered now was the fact that they would continue to pay, for her and for all the others that had been brutalized by the very men that were supposed to take care of them. The two main ones, the men that had ruined her life, were dead, but…there were quite a few more out in the streets. They were just as dirty and cruel as the two who had died so far.
