Jack Daniels Six Pack (82 page)

I pulled up a plastic chair and sat next to the bed.

“Do you know why you’re here, Bud?”

“To be punished. Because I’ve been bad.”

He seemed appropriately sad when he said it. Then his face creased in a wicked grin and he began to giggle.

“What’s funny, Bud?”

“ ‘Blessed are you when men hate you, and when they exclude you and revile you, and cast out your name as evil.’ Luke 6:22.”

His whole body shook, as if he were having a seizure. The Parkinson’s. It subsided before I could call the nurse, and Bud again burst into laughter.

“Indiana has the death penalty. They’ll kill me by lethal injection.”

“That amuses you?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“You’ve killed a lot of people, Bud.”

He bit at his hangnail and pulled. Blood smeared across his lips, bringing color to their liverlike pallor.

“I should be tortured to death.” He giggled again. “Lethal injection is too good for me.”

He sucked on his finger, tongue lapping at the blood. I kept my expression neutral.

“I saw Lorna earlier today.”

Bud frowned around his finger. “She never visits me.”

“She’s in prison, Bud.”

“She helped me, with the sinners. Liked to do the flogging. Sweet, sweet Lorna.”

He hummed a song, off tune, suckling his bleeding digit.

I had no doubts Bud Kork was insane. But there was more to it than that. Sitting this close to him, I felt a deep sense of revulsion—the same kind of feeling I had when I watched a nature program on TV that showed a spider catching a fly. Bud Kork radiated a very real feeling of harm, of fear and decay and death.

Talking to him made me want to take a hot shower and brush my teeth until my gums hurt.

“Would you like to see Lorna again, Bud?”

“Yes. My sweet love. So good with the repentant. So eager to make them confess their sins.”

I lowered my voice, so he had to strain to hear me.

“I can arrange it, Bud. For you to see her.” I figured it would happen anyway, once Lorna cut her deal. Bud didn’t have to know it didn’t come from me. “But I need you to tell me something first.”

He stared at me, slurping on his finger, a line of pink drool rolling down his chin.

“I need you to tell me where Caleb is.”

Bud began to cackle. “ ‘You are of your father the devil, and your will is to do your father’s desires.’ John 8:44.”

“You treated Caleb as your son?”

“Caleb was the devil, like Charles was the devil. But not the devil of my flesh. A devil conceived in light.”

I leaned closer, though I had to force myself to do so.

“Where is Caleb?”

Bud opened his mouth to speak, then his yellow eyes darted behind me, to Holly.

“I found a lemon for you, Bud.” She offered him a wedge of the fruit.

Bud snatched it in a gnarled fist, then squeezed it onto his bloody hangnail and rubbed it in, gasping and shuddering.

“Freaky,” Holly said, eyes wide.

I reached for the lemon, then thought better of it; Bud was grinding it into his open cut, and the pulp was turning orange with blood. Instead, I tapped his shoulder.

“Where’s Caleb, Bud?”

He ignored me, focusing on Holly.

“ ‘How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, my angel of the morning.’ Isaiah 14:12.”

Holly found another chair and pulled it over to Kork’s bed. She straddled it and leaned on the back, resting her chin on her forearms, her eyes bright and alive.

“I hear you like needles, Bud.”

He nodded at her, gasping.

“Look what I found in the gift shop.”

She held up an emergency sewing kit: three mini spools of thread, a thimble, and eight sewing needles.

“Holly.” I gave her a look. “Remember what we talked about in the car.”

She kept her eyes on Bud. “Lieutenant Daniels asked you a question, Bud. Where’s Caleb?”

He eyed the needles like a starving man staring at a menu. “I . . . I don’t know where Caleb is.”

Holly opened the pack, pulled out a needle. Examined it.

“Where does he live?”

“Different places.”

“Which places?”

“Indiana. Michigan. Illinois.”

Holly parted her lips and placed the needle between them. Bud was panting in a manner that could only be described as sexual. The lemon was dropped, forgotten.

I’d lost control of the interrogation. I shook Bud’s shoulder.

“Where is Caleb now?” I asked.

Bud remained transfixed on the needle in Holly’s mouth. “Illinois.”

“Where in Illinois?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last hear from him?”

“I don’t know.”

Holly pouted, and slowly pulled the needle out of her mouth, letting it linger on her tongue before she put it back in the kit.

“If you want this, Bud, you have to give us more than that.”

Bud swallowed, an audible gulp that the stretching silence amplified.

“Talk to Steve.”

“Steve who?”

“Caleb’s friend. Steve Jensen. He’d know.”

I’d heard that name recently, and couldn’t remember where. Steve Jensen. Steve Jensen. Steve . . .

And then I had it. I shook Bud again, harder.

“Do you know where Steve is, Bud?”

“No.”

“How does Caleb know Steve?”

“Friends for years. Very close.” He looked at Holly, then back at me. “Had the devil in him. Like Caleb. And Charles.”

“Have you spoken to Steve lately?”

Bud jackknifed into a sitting position, making me and Holly rear back. He pointed his bloody finger at her.

“ ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a hindrance to me; for you are not on the side of God, but of men!’ ”

Holly winked at him. “Matthew 16:23.”Then she tossed Bud the sewing kit.

Laughing, hysterical, Bud fumbled with the kit and removed a needle. He pinched it between trembling fingers and hiked up his hospital gown, exposing parts that should have remained unexposed.

I stood up and turned away, anxious to leave.

Holly said, “Freaky! Look at what he’s doing, Jack!”

I made the mistake of a backward glance. Bud was causing some real damage, jabbing and poking, tears streaming down his face, little rivulets of blood cascading down his ruined thighs.

I reached back to take the needle away from him, but Holly caught my arm. Her grip was iron.

“Let him do it. He’s a child killer.”

Bud was sobbing now, mumbling something about angels. Perhaps it was a prayer. I tore my eyes away and pressed the call button for the nurse.

Holly pulled a face, obviously disappointed. I twisted out of her grip and walked past.

“Let’s go.”

The cops parted for us. I kept my pace brisk enough that Holly was forced to jog to catch up.

“Are you pissed at me, Jack?”

I didn’t answer.

“Come on. The guy was scum. Besides, he was doing it to himself.”

“He’s insane, Holly.”

“So?”

I stopped, faced her.

“My job is to protect and serve. Even the ones who don’t deserve it.”

She put her hands on her hips, oozing attitude.

“Shit, Jack, why so tense? You PMS-ing?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you trolling for vampires? Riding the dry weave burrito? Red river canoeing?”

I blinked, unsure of how to respond. If Holly were a man, I would have smacked her. Is this how women talked to each other? Were all of those commercials with girls trading tampons in the locker room based on fact?

“No,” I managed.

“Is it a postmenopausal thing? Change of life came early?”

Crass. Insensitive. Obnoxious. Ignorant. It was like talking to Harry McGlade. Two peas in a pod. No wonder they found each other.

I spoke through my teeth. “I’m not postmenopausal, Holly. This has nothing to do with my ovaries. What you did in there was wrong.”

“Fine. I apologize for coming with you and getting your suspect to spill his guts.”

Now she stormed off, and I had to run to catch up. Classic McGlade tactic. Start out abusive, and when resistance is met, act petulant.

I grabbed her arm, which was like grabbing a steel cable.

“Look, Holly, I’m the cop. Got it?”

Something flashed across her face, the same hostility I’d glimpsed on the firing range. The scowl disappeared fast, so fast I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it. She smiled, broad enough to show her dental work.

“You’re right, Jack. I’m sorry. I was out of bounds back there. I thought we were doing that good cop/bad cop thing.”

In a way, she was right. Though Herb wouldn’t have been so ruthless, he and I would have played the situation very much the same way. I didn’t like her approach, but she did get results.

“Come on, Jack. Forgive me?”

I didn’t see much of a choice. I could stay angry, and the drive home would be uncomfortable, the wedding even more so.

“Fine. But next time, listen to me.”

I endured another hug. Who knew friendship was so much damn work?

Back in the car, Holly asked the obvious.

“Who’s Caleb?”

“It’s a current case I’m working on.”

“Want to share details?”

“Can’t. Sorry.”

“No problem. I understand.”

The silence lasted almost ten whole seconds.

“Who’s Steve Jensen?”

“Holly . . .”

“Come on, Jack. It’s not like I’m going to go flapping my mouth off on CNN.”

Ouch.

“Holly, don’t take this the wrong way, but you and I aren’t partners.”

“Where is your partner?”

I hesitated. “He’s unavailable at the moment.”

“Do you two discuss cases?”

“Of course.”

“Two heads are better than one, right? And didn’t I do good with Bud?”

“This isn’t about that.”

Holly furrowed her eyebrows. “Why don’t you like me, Jack?”

“I like you, Holly.”

“Why don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not in my nature to trust anyone.”

“You trust Harry.”

“Not really.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes.

“When I got out of the Corps, I was pretty reckless for a few years. Ran with a tough crowd. Got involved in a car theft ring. I did it for the excitement, at first. Then I got in over my head. Cops picked me up and offered me a deal. Do time or rat on my friends.”

I was uncomfortable with her opening up like this.

“I squealed, Jack. I squealed long and loud. I don’t blame you for not trusting me.”

She didn’t get all teary-eyed again, but she looked like a kicked puppy.

I knew I was being manipulated. But friendship was a two-way street, right?

“Four days ago a man named Steve Jensen died in a transient hotel in my district. I was busy with this case, so I transferred the call to Mason and Check.”

“How does Jensen fit in with this?”

I pressed the gas down, easing the car up past eighty.

“I’m about to find out.”

Chapter 34

O
N THE WAY
back to Chicago, Detective Maggie Mason filled me in on the Jensen homicide.

“Stabbed over thirty times. Found in the Benson Hotel for Men on Congress, in a room rented to his name.”

“How long had he been living there?”

“Nineteen days. It’s a pay-per-week hotel, more rats than tenants. Landlord came by to collect rent, found the corpse.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing. Door-to-doored the whole building, wasted three days interviewing Sterno bums and crackheads. No leads.”

“Autopsy?”

“Still waiting.”

The cell phone got crackly, and Mason asked if I was still there.

“You view the body?” I asked.

“Yeah. Nasty.”

“Impressions?”

“Went beyond a crime of opportunity or anger. This was a deliberate attempt to inflict pain.”

“Defense wounds?”

“Ligature marks on the wrists. He was tied to a chair.”

I thought of Mike Mayer in Indianapolis.

“Did he still have his fingers?”

“I think so. I didn’t notice them missing.”

“How are the walls at the Benson?”

“Tissue paper. You can read a book through them.”

“Why didn’t his screaming attract attention?”

“Sorry, Lieut. I forgot to mention the hooks.”

“Hooks?”

“The victim had a mouth full of fishhooks. Lips, tongue, throat, all torn to hell and stuck together. Must have been a hundred of them in there. He couldn’t have opened his mouth with a car jack.”

Nice. And an obvious nod to the Gingerbread Man case. I’ll never forget what Charles Kork did with fishhooks. “Trace?”

“Nothing leading. Scraped his fingernails. Found a black hair. There was some kind of white crust on the wounds, got a sample of that. Rogers at the lab is getting back to me.”

“Prints?”

“Ran them locally. Nothing. Going through the National Fingerprint Database, but you know how long that takes.”

“Check Jensen in the NCIC?”

“Lots of arrests. Drugs. Banging. Battery. Classic repeat offender—until a few years ago.”

“What happened then?”

“Don’t know. Guy seemed to just drop off the face of the earth.”

That sounded a lot like Caleb Ellison.

I thanked Mason, then got on the horn to county. Max Hughes wasn’t in, but the M.E., Phil Blasky, was.

“Good evening, Jack. I heard about Herb. How’s he doing?”

“Stable, last I heard. You burning the midnight oil?”

“Paperwork. Just got a memo, telling me that efforts are being made by the county to reduce the amount of paperwork. The memo came with a twenty-six-page report I have to fill out, in triplicate. I’m not a fan of irony.”

“Have you taken a look at Steve Jensen, transient hotel death from five days ago?”

“Mackerel man? He’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

“Mackerel man?”

“A joke one of the attendants made. Mouth full of hooks. Guy obviously took the bait. I’m not a fan of humor either.”

“Then why did you call him Mackerel Man?”

“I try to fit in.”

Strange bunch, coroners.

“Any chance you can tear yourself away from that interesting report and do a prelim for me?”

“When do you need it?”

I checked the dashboard. Coming up on nine o’clock.