Shaken (7 page)

He stuck out his hand. I shook it gladly. Herb nodded a goodbye to Shell, then left the restaurant.

“He’s a good guy,” Shell said, running his finger along the edge of his beer glass.

“Seems like it,” I agreed.

“Has the metabolism of a hummingbird. Before we went to the morgue I watched him polish off three hot dogs with the works. I don’t know where he puts it. The guy should weigh three hundred pounds.”

I tried to imagine thin-as-a-rail Herb weighing that much, but just couldn’t see it.

“So tell me,” Shell said, leaning forward on the table so his knuckles brushed mine again, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a career like this?”

I’d been asked that before, but never like that. Most people wondered what was wrong with me for wanting to be a cop. When Shell asked me, I felt like my job impressed him.

“Mom was on the force,” I said, leaning closer, letting our fingers meet. I liked it that Shell was confident enough to flirt with me, and wondered how far he would take it if I let him. “But she joined in the sixties. Women didn’t climb the ranks, and we didn’t get the due respect.”

“Is that what you’re looking for? Rank and respect?”

I answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

“What rank are you shooting for?”

“I’m going to make lieutenant by the time I’m forty.”

Shell ran his index finger over the back of my hand. “I’m sure you will.”

I probably should have pulled away. But Shell was attractive, and saying all the right things, and I was feeling bold and a bit reckless. My so-called boyfriend, Alan, hadn’t so much as called me on my birthday yesterday. That stung. Neither of us had said
I love you
yet, and even though he had a key to my place we’d never had the
we’re exclusive
talk. So if I wound up doing anything with Shell I wouldn’t be cheating.

But I wasn’t going to do anything with Shell. At least, not at that moment. I’d only met the guy two hours ago. I considered myself liberated, but that didn’t mean I was easy.

“So how about you?” I asked. “How did you wind up running an escort service?”

Shell’s lips formed a small grin, and he glanced away, back to some long-ago memory. “I’ve always liked the finer things in life. Food, wine, fashion, cars, hotels.” His eyes centered on mine. “Women.”

The way he said it made me feel like I was, indeed, one of the finer things in life.

“A few years ago I was dating a dynamite woman,” he continued. “Smart. Sassy. Beautiful. She was a model, but finding it increasingly difficult to find paying gigs. She told me she was considering becoming an escort to make ends meet, but was clueless about how to get started. I took it upon myself to help her. For my assistance, she gave me twenty percent of the escort money she earned. She also recommended I help some of her friends do the same thing. A business was born.”

“When was the first murder?”

Shell’s face clouded, and I was a little sorry I’d lapsed into cop mode. But I needed this information, and talking to someone who knew the victims would be more helpful than reading about them in police reports.

“A month ago,” Shell said. “Her name was Nancy. Nancy Slusar. Like Linda, she’d been…” Shell swallowed, “…hacked to pieces.”

“Did Nancy, Linda, or you have any enemies?”

“I gave Detective Benedict a short list. Three disgruntled clients. Several women I had to fire for inappropriate behavior. A guy who kept hanging around, wanting to date one of the girls.”

“How about business competition? How do you get along with the other escort services?”

“The girls often sign up with more than one service, to maximize the amount of dates they get. We’re mostly ambivalent about each other.”

“Mostly?” I probed.

“There is one service—the Dodd Agency—who has aggressively tried to pursue some of my girls, wanting them exclusively. I had to retain a lawyer to get them to stop it. I believe they’re Outfit owned and operated.”

“Outfit?”

“You know. The mob.”

I wished I’d had a notepad like Herb’s to write this stuff down. Instead, I committed it to memory.

“So.” Shell’s tone changed, from sad and guarded to flirty once again. “Are you ready to go shopping?”

“Shopping?”

“For clothing. You have to look the part for your photo.”

I had no idea where he was going with this. “What photo?”

“For your portfolio. Clients choose their dates based on a photo and a detailed bio. So we need to go shopping, get you something suitable.”

“I guess,” I said.

Shell dug into his wallet and dropped a hundred dollars on the table, more than covering the tab. “You don’t seem excited by the prospect. Most of the women I know love to shop.”

I put my elbows on the table, resting my face in my hands. “Most of the men I know love to work on cars. I can’t imagine you getting grease under your manicure.”

He smirked. “Touché. Those who buy Cadillacs can afford to pay someone to tune them up.”

“I could have guessed you had a Cadillac.”

“I love it. In fact, I love it so much I wouldn’t trust a mechanic to tune it up. So I do it myself. And this isn’t a manicure.” Shell held up his hand, spreading his fingers. “I’ve been successfully clipping my own nails for years now.”

I was surprised, and a little impressed. “I guess we were both wrong to stereotype.”

“Agreed. So what is it you do like doing, if I might ask?”

“Competition shooting. I’m the best marksman in the district.”

Shell raised an eyebrow. “Marks
man
?”

“The Chicago PD is still getting used to the idea that someone with boobs can shoot. All of my trophies have little gold men in Weaver stances on top of them.”

“I bet that pisses off your fellow law enforcement officers.”

“It does,” I said. “That’s why I do it.”

Shell stood up, holding out his hand. “So, Officer Streng, are you ready to piss off more of your coworkers by catching this psycho murdering my girls?”

I took Shell’s hand. “There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.”

Present day

2010, August 10

I
had to take a break from rubbing the rope against the edge of the concrete. The salt Mr. K had applied had gotten into the raw skin on my wrists, and the pain was otherworldly. I could have worked through the pain, but it was so bad it caused me to cry, and the crying was accompanied by a runny nose.

With the ball gag in my mouth, the only way I could breathe was through my nostrils. A stuffy nose could kill me.

So I rested, keeping still, trying to calm down enough so I could regain control over my emotions. I’d never felt so along before. The only company I had was the unknown machine humming in the background, and my thoughts and memories.

It would have been okay if there were some good memories mixed with the bad.

Unfortunately, my head was filled with bad stuff that refused to fade away.

Most of the bad stuff revolved around my career. I’d chased, and caught, my share of human monsters. But catching them, or even killing them, didn’t bring their victims back. It also didn’t make me sleep any better at night.

Before my recent retirement, I’d almost called it quits several times. I never did, but I had come pretty close. In my never-ending quest to prove myself to my coworkers, I’d endured a lot of sexist and chauvinist attitudes. A lot of male cops didn’t think women had what it took to work Homicide. It was too ugly for their delicate sensibilities.

In my opinion, it was too ugly for anyone’s sensibilities, female or not, delicate or not. But the fact was, women did have a definite disadvantage when working violent crime cases. It didn’t have to do with physical brawn or stronger stomachs. It had to do with empathy.

Women in general had the ability to feel the emotions of others. Pain in particular.

I’d seen a lot of pain in my years on the force. It was tough to handle.

Coming upon some horrific crime scene, seeing what some psycho had done to a fellow human being, was difficult for me to cope with. Because I could put myself in their place.

I could see their last moments. The struggling. The fighting. The final breath. I could hear their pleas for mercy. I could feel their fear, their agony, sense their helplessness, imagine their horror so deeply it had led to a lifetime of nightmares. That is, when I could get to sleep at all.

Thinking back over the victims I’d encountered, two stood out as the absolute worst ways a person could die. Both were at the merciless hands of Mr. K.

One was known as the Guinea Worm.

The other, the Catherine Wheel.

Lying there in the storage locker, eyes closed, I couldn’t help but shudder at the horrible images they induced.

I also couldn’t help but wonder what was making that ominous humming noise next to me.

Three years ago

2007, August 8

W
hen backup arrived at Merle’s U-Store-It, there was more vomiting, every time someone new showed up. I got wise and pulled a garbage can over to the scene, but that was about the only wise thing I’d done that day. Even Phil Blasky, who had a stomach made of titanium and could often be seen eating lunch while doing an autopsy, flinched when he saw the body.

“He’s been here at least three days,” Blasky said during his cursory examination. “Maybe longer. He’s wearing an adult diaper. Got two healing IV marks on his arm, where the needle pulled out from the spinning.”

According to Blasky, Mr. K had visited the vic at least three times, to change his IV bag, keeping him hydrated and alive during the terrible agony he’d endured.

“Tripod probably held a camcorder,” Herb said. “Or maybe a camera taking time-lapse photos. Gives some cred to the theory that Mr. K is a hit man.”

I nodded. When the Outfit ordered an execution, they often wanted proof. A picture was a nice memento to keep around to remind you what you did to your enemies. Both Herb and I had worked cases before where videotapes were involved, but those were sex murders. This death didn’t appear to have a sexual element. This was about causing as much pain as possible.

The particular torture Mr. K employed dated back to medieval times, where it was known as the Catherine Wheel. It resembled a circus knife-throwing act, where someone was strapped to a large, round board, spread-eagled, and then spun in circles while knives hit the spaces between their limbs. But in this case, there were no thrown knives. The pain came from broken limbs—the victim’s arms and legs were each fractured in several places.

For seventy-two hours, a small electric motor had spun him slowly around, his compound fractures stretching and rubbing together, until his arms and legs were so swollen they looked like they’d been inflated.

I couldn’t imagine a more horrible way to die.

“Nothing at all. Not a damn thing.” Officer Scott Hajek, from the crime scene team, frowned at me. He couldn’t find a single shred of evidence anywhere, inside or outside the unit. No fingerprints. No footprints. Even the floor had been swept prior to our arrival. Mr. K didn’t leave anything behind.

“Jack, I’d like to talk when you have a sec.”

I glanced at Herb, whose fat jowls were hanging down like a basset hound’s. Then I nodded and walked him down the hallway.

“I left my post,” he said when we were far enough away from the others. “You told me to wait downstairs and watch the exit.”

“Herb…”

“I screwed up, Jack. If you want to lodge a formal reprimand—”

“I don’t want to lodge a reprimand. Forget about it, Herb.”

He stared at me, pained. I tried to keep my face neutral. Because it wasn’t Herb’s fault. He’d come to my aid when I didn’t respond. I was the one who should have exercised some control, told my partner the perp was on his way down.

It wasn’t Herb’s fault Mr. K got away.

It was mine.

And I deserved more than a reprimand. For letting that monster escape, I felt I deserved to have my badge taken away.

“Let’s focus on what to do next,” I said, eager to get off the subject of blame. “We’ve got his car, his plates, his address. We can go talk to him.”

“But we didn’t catch him in the act, Jack. Did you see him in the locker, with the vic?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Did we get a good look at his face when he walked into the building? Can we even put him at the scene?”

This was a common problem with law enforcement. Sometimes, we knew who the bad guy was, but couldn’t legally connect him to his crimes. Getting a conviction meant following a specific protocol. If any step along the way wasn’t rock solid, the state’s attorney wouldn’t even attempt to prosecute.

“Dust the elevator,” I said. “And the knob on the security door. Let’s see if we can get that watchman downstairs to ID him.” I had a bad thought. “We should also check to see if our perp has a locker here under his real name.”

My worry turned out to be prophetic. The man we followed here did indeed have a storage unit in his name, also on the third floor. Locker 312. That meant he had a reason to be at this facility, and could easily plead innocence in connection with the murder scene. Even if we did find a fingerprint, it wouldn’t matter.

Smart guy. Smart, careful, and utterly devoid of humanity.

While Herb called judge after judge, trying to find one who would issue a warrant to search unit 312, I considered our next move.

There was only one. We had to talk to the guy.

It was doubtful he’d give us a full confession. It was doubtful he’d even let us into his home. And if he did let us in, I wasn’t sure that was a place I wanted to be.

I’d encountered quite a few psychos in my day. But never one that scared the shit out of me like Mr. K did.

Present day

2010, August 10

“H
ey, Phin. It’s Harry.”

Phineas Troutt rubbed his bleary eyes, wishing he’d checked the caller ID before picking up. He didn’t really like Harry McGlade. No one really liked Harry McGlade. But the private detective was bearable in small doses, and they had enough of a history that Phin had a grudging respect for the guy.