Deadly Consequences (16 page)

She raised her brows and maneuvered past the crime scene techs, cocking her head to the right. The suite had floor to ceiling windows; maybe, she estimated around ten feet high. And right outside those windows was the Wrigley Building bathed in subdued gold night-lights. She moved closer, reaching out to touch the glass in awe. The old world elegance and intricate detail of the famous Wrigley clock up close mesmerized her.

Like any Chicagoan worth her salt, she’d been to the 95
^th
and the Signature room at the top of the Hancock Building, dined at The Top of The Rock and had even taken a turn at playing tourist by stargazing from the observatory at Willis Tower, but this had a unique beauty all its own. The living area gave off stunning sensation of being suspended in the center of the city’s famous skyline.

Oh yeah, this was definitely how the other half lived. And died
, she reminded herself,
but what a beautiful setting for murder.

Which begged the question, why would anyone who could afford to piss away nine hundred bucks a night on a hotel room gamble their life on the slim odds of getting away with murder?

A series of lightning strikes streaked across the sky lending an eerie quality to the night. Sam backed away from the window, spooked by how near the lightening was. The vicious, steaming hot wet weather hovering over the Midwest was putting her in a direct path with the crazies. Random murder wasn’t typical in this quadrant of the city. This was where the rich and the fabulous lived, worked, and played yet she was two for two this weekend. What were the odds? She scratched her head and turned back to the scene, curiosity engaged.

The silence around her was telling. Though the suite was crowded with law enforcement types there was none of the usual banter or camaraderie while they worked. No morbid jokes flew through the air like electricity. To the outside world, that might seem twisted. For those on the inside, it was a way of dehumanizing the hellishness of violent death.

Her gaze swept the room. Outside of the clutter from the investigation, nothing looked disturbed or seemed out of place. No articles of clothing or personal items were visible, not even a drinking glass. It was quiet enough for her to hear the shutter of a camera from somewhere inside the suite as the photography unit took photos and video to document the scene. Photo’s they’d later paste on the murder board, looking for clues missed on the first go round.

Sam stepped around the maze of equipment scattered on the floor and addressed the nearest tech, a man she’d worked with dozens of times. “The body?”

He jerked his head to the right, refusing to look at her. “Bedroom.”

Sam raised a brow at his abrupt response.
Something bad enough to set trained professionals on edge had gone down here tonight. She steeled herself and headed in the direction he pointed. Her allergies went into overdrive at the overpowering odor of ammonia drifting down the hallway. The killer knew what he was doing and had taken the time to clean up his mess. The muscles in her neck tensed when she reached the doorway. Men dominated the bedroom moving with stiff, jerky movements, their somber faces pale and terse.

Mark Matsuda bent over the body, features sour with disgust as he examined the victim.
Not good,
Sam thought,
not good.
Nothing fazed Matsuda. For him to show emotion at a scene was not only rare, it was a first. She lowered her eyes to the corpse, and sucked in a lungful of putrid air. She’d built a reputation for staying calm and composed on the job. This time it was going to be tough.

Sam slathered a second healthy dollop of Mentholatum under her nose and stepped forward for a closer look. At first glance, she couldn’t distinguish if the victim was male or female. The lower abdomen and genitals were pulverized beyond recognition. An involuntary shudder ran through her body. Talk about a hatchet job. She prayed most of the damage inflicted was post mortem.

Her blood ran cold as she met Matsuda’s eyes.

“Remind you of anyone?” he asked.

She nodded. The instant the scene registered, the similarities between the victim and last night’s Mag Mile John Doe screamed out at her.
What were the odds the two murders were coincidental of each other?

Sam puffed out her cheeks and shoved her hands in her pockets.
Focus on the here and now. Absorb the scene. Let it tell its story. Get inside the perps head.
This was a rage killing, pure and simple. The gender of the vic didn’t matter. The method of killing did. 

Mark Matsuda remained silent, letting her do her thing. Behind a wiseass exterior lurked a compassionate heart. She knew through firsthand experience, from the days before she joined the force. Back when she was on the other side, as a family member of a victim.

Lot of hate right here.” Her voice bounced off the walls in the silent room.

Matsuda nodded in acknowledgment. “My thought exactly.”

She’d seen some nasty things during her time on the force. None of them held a candle to the butchered lump of meat bound spread eagle on the bed.

The victim was male. His genitals loped off. It got worse. A dental gag held his mouth open, freezing his face in an expression of perpetual agony. His tongue had been severed, most likely to silence his screams. Raised welts across his torso and thighs indicated a severe beating. And then there were the knife wounds. At minimum, there were at least fifty cuts of varying degrees and lengths carved into the body.

It was little wonder the men were acting strangely. Last night, in the midst of the storm, the victim could have come from anywhere. The killing could have been the result of gang violence or the mob seeking retribution if the victim had his hand in the till or been caught screwing the wrong woman.

In this setting, the killing was more intimate. It was personal.

Sex killing screamed in her mind. Sam leaned in for a better look and covered her mouth, swallowing back the coffee she gulped before arriving.

She frowned. The sex aspect didn’t fit. Women didn’t typically kill this way, or with this kind of rage. She glanced up at Mark. “Talk to me.” 

“Hasn’t been dead long, my best guess somewhere between three and six hours. You can see where the blood has accumulated in the buttocks and back. Rigor has started, and the body temperature has cooled.” He paused.

“And?”

The M.E. stood erect, snapping off his gloves. “You go first. I like hearing your first impressions.”

“Okay.” She nodded, walking the length of the bed from both sides. “For now, I’m going to discount a possible connection to last night’s victim and just focus on what’s in front of me. I can’t link them in my mind just yet; otherwise I might miss something important.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed, stepping back to let her observe.

Her brow knotted. “At first glance, it looks like a rage killing. A crime of passion.”

“Go on.”

“But that’s not the case at all.” She extended a gloved ginger, pointing out various wounds, “These here, made with a serrated blade could have come from the room service tray over there. These cuts on the other hand were made with a smooth edged blade, and aren’t deep, indicating a sharper smaller object, like a paring knife.” Her eyes narrowed. “The cuts to the tongue and genital area are clean. No sawing. Looks to have been done with a single hack. My best guess is some type of butcher knife.” She shrugged. Knives weren’t her field of expertise. “Which forces me to conclude this wasn’t a crime of passion. It was premeditated. The perp brought knifes to the scene with the intent of using them.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Just because different knives were used, you can’t necessarily assume premeditation.”

She stared at him. “Are you kidding me? You can’t be serious.”

“You’re overlooking the bondage aspect.” He gestured towards the body. “The vic is bound. He’s been whipped and gagged in an unusual manner.”

“Your point?”

“These S & M sicko’s engage in all types of play. Needles, knife’s, lots of sick shit gets them off.”

“This sure as hell wasn’t consensual.” Sam pressed her lips together and shook her head. She didn’t buy his theory.

Mark arched a brow. “Until you’ve seen the
accidents
that have ended up on my slab —all I’m saying is that you can’t rush to judgment. What started out one way could have ended in this. There’s a clear and present S & M aspect here you’d be naïve to ignore.”

She kicked the idea around, following his line of thought. “So the knives could have been in the killer’s toy bag all along. And the victim said or did something that caused the killer to fly into a rage…”

“Exactly.” His nostrils flared as he gazed at the corpse. Mark folded his arms across his chest. She got the impression he was daring her to challenge his theory.

Doubt crept up on her. She shoved her hands in her dress pockets, surveying the scene. “I still don’t buy it. The UNSUB cleaned the body with ammonia. He was prepared. He came here with the intent to kill.”

“He? I thought we were going with the assumption that this was a sex crime?”

She stared at victims face, squinting when she noticed a strange mark. “You don’t think a woman did this? It doesn’t fit the standard M.O. for a woman, even an enraged one.”

“You think this is a gay killing?”

“Don’t you?”

Ignoring his dubious expression, she studied the dead man’s forehead. “Look at this. Does this look like a number to you?”

Matsuda leaned over the body. The victim’s hair was matted with blood and partially covered the forehead. “Could be. Or it could be a burn mark.”

Sam zeroed in on the wounds. “I think there’s some marking in the pelvic area too. Between the lower right hip and the groin.”

He came over to her side of the bed, put on a fresh pair of gloves, and swabbed the area. “Sonofabitch. How’d I miss that? Jesus. You know what that is? The guy was branded.”

Once Matsuda cleaned the wound, the words leapt out like a neon sign.

Till death.

Dread curdled in Sam’s stomach. The killer was sending a message.

“What do you think it means?” Mark held a flashlight over the brand.

She glanced up at Matsuda. “Till death? Come on, that’s an easy one. Till death do us part. Like a marriage vow.” She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. “Damn it. I have bad feeling about this.”

Jay Lombardo stopped what he was doing and stepped to the foot of the bed. He let out a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a hissy fit.”

Her face turned grim. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

Sam frowned and moved aside to give Lombardo a better view of the body, shooting a wary glance in his direction. There were two things everyone at the precinct knew about Lombardo. The first was that he lived for the job. The second was that he had a reputation for hitting on younger women. Not that she gave a damn about his personal life, that was his business.

On a professional level, she respected his opinions. He was a decent cop. A twenty-year vet. The scuttlebutt was that despite killer instincts and attention to detail Lombardo would never rise higher than the rank of detective due to his tendency to be brash with the press during high profile cases and the fact that tidbits of information tended to leak out when he was on the job. Classified information the CPD wanted to keep out of the public eye.

Lombardo vehemently claimed he wasn’t to blame. She suspected his memory got faulty after kicking back a few too many boilermakers in neighborhood bars. Ignoring the rumors, she’d given him the benefit of doubt. But now he was on her turf and stepping on her toes. Again. And he was a bit of an asshole.

“What are you doing here?” She snapped. The LT had assigned her the case. Lombardo had no reason to be at the scene.

He craned his neck to see the markings on the body. “I heard the call come in over the radio.”

“At this hour?” It was well past midnight. “Shouldn’t you be home, in bed?” she regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. They conjured up images of Lombardo diddling with a younger woman.

“Yeah, well, I was having a pizza over at Giordano’s on Davidson. The night ended earlier than planned, so I was cruising for a bit.”

Sam read between the lines. His much younger date dumped him  and he hadn’t given up hope of getting lucky with some local bar cutie. She sighed. What he did on his own time wasn’t her concern. The life of a homicide detective could get damn lonely at times. Who was she to judge? Her own life was a big enough mess.

Deciding to ignore him, her gaze swept the room. “Who found the body?”

A uniform stepped forward, keeping his eyes off the bed. He pulled out his notebook but answered without bothering to look at it. “The couple in the next suite called the front desk to complain about a strong ammonia order coming from this room. After repeated attempts to contact the victim, the night manager used his key card to let himself in.”

“Witnesses? Anyone hear a disturbance? See anything suspicious?”

“No Ma’am.”

Sam sighed. “Do we at least have an ID on the victim?”

“No Ma’am.” He hesitated. “Well, not really. You’re not going to like this.”

So far, she didn’t like anything about tonight. She pushed a strand of hair off her face with the back of her glove. “Go ahead, tell me anyway.”