Splintered (5 page)

“I agree with you on both accounts. We are dealing with a serial killer.”

“I knew it! Everyone keeps telling me I’m crazy and to mind my own business, but I’ve been doing a little snooping around. I think this guy has killed at least four or five.”

“Seventeen.”

Struk’s eyes went wide. “What? No fucking way,” he said disbelievingly.

Hutch nodded as he quietly watched the play of emotions run across Struk’s face. What started out as true shock quickly turned to a mix of horror and outrage.

“How is that possible?” Struk asked dubiously as he apparently tried to process what he was hearing.

Hutch watched him carefully. Kimura’s roommate knew about the number of deaths within their small community, so perhaps Struk wasn’t gay. Yet Struk, being in a closed-minded and hostile environment, wouldn’t want his fellow officers knowing he was gay and hence wouldn’t mingle among the local gay hangouts. Hutch still wasn’t sure, but the more he thought about it, the more it didn’t matter. His only concern was if Struk would be an asset in the investigation.

Hutch rubbed at his eyes, the coffee doing little to overcome his need for sleep. He pulled his card out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “I have got to get back to the hotel. Give me a call tomorrow, and I’ll share everything I know. Better yet, stop by and I’ll show you. I’d love to get your input on it.”

Struk picked up the card, studying it, and then slid it into his shirt pocket. “I’ve got to work an early shift and am pulling a double, so I’ll give you a call as soon as I get a chance.”

Hutch dropped some bills on the table and stood. “Thanks for coming,” he told Struk and held out his hand.

Struk nodded and shook the offered hand, still looking a little stunned.

Hutch left Struk to process it all and headed back to the hotel. Hopefully after a few hours to zone, since sleep wasn’t really an option, he’d be better prepared to run through all the deaths again, this time hopefully making some actual progress.

Chapter 4

H
UTCH
OPENED
the door of his hotel to find Sergeant Struk standing in the hallway looking wary. “I did a little research on my own today, and you were right. This is way bigger than I thought.”

“C’mon in.” Hutch stepped back, allowing Struk to enter.

“Holy fuck!” Struk exclaimed as he took in the room.

“That pretty much sums it up,” Hutch commented as he shut the door.

Struk scanned wildly along the walls covered with maps, photos, reports, and newspaper clippings and the large stacks of files cluttering up every available surface.

“Sergeant Struk, Andrew Caswell and Agent Travis Green,” Hutch said, pointing first to Byte, who was sitting at the small table, fingers poised above the keys of his laptop, and then to Granite, who was stretched out on the bed.

“Nice to meet you,” Byte said and held out his hand.

Struk shook his hand and then Granite’s as he joined them.

“Call me Granite.”

“Carson,” Struk responded.

“Byte here is working on taking all this data you see and trying to work it into something a little less overwhelming.”

“Tough job,” Struk muttered, still taking in the room with an awed expression.

“Don’t go blowing up his head,” Granite groaned. “He thinks he works harder than either me or Hutch as it is.”

Byte flipped him off.

“Granite is a geo profiler. He’s working on trying to pin down where this guy lives.”

Struk looked back and forth between Granite and Byte, then nodded. “The names make sense now.”

“Stick around long enough, and he’ll give you one too,” Granite told him as he flopped back on the bed and grabbed his computer. “Hutch has a strange aversion to calling people by their real names.”

Hutch directed Struk toward the wall and spent the next half hour going over what he and his team had learned thus far. He made sure he named each of the victims, pointing to first their picture in life and then in death as he said their names. Struk stayed silent, eyes intense, taking it in. His expression turned more and more somber with each name and photo Hutch pointed to. By the last one, the color had drained from Struk’s face, and he was visibly shaking.

Hutch removed the crime scene photo depicting Kimura’s naked body and handed it to Struk. “Can I get you a drink?”

“So many,” Struk muttered.

“I damn sure need one.” Hutch went to the small bar and grabbed the bottle of bourbon with a trembling hand. Struk wasn’t the only one feeling grim.

Hutch had already seen each of the photos and spoken the names of the victims several times, yet it didn’t get any easier, nor would it, no matter how many times he repeated the process. He was having a difficult time detaching himself from the cases. Hutch poured two fingers of the bourbon, surprised when Struk snatched it up and threw it back, downing the liquor in one big gulp. Hutch raised a brow at Struk but didn’t comment. He knew the feeling all too well. He refilled Struk’s glass and then poured one for himself.

“I see why homicide has a higher rate of officers giving in to the bottle. I don’t know if I could do this every day,” Struk said glumly, slumping into a chair.

“You’re not homicide?” Hutch asked, a little stunned at Struk’s statement.

“No. Vice.”

“I had assumed incorrectly. Why were you in the briefing?”

“Captain wanted a representative from each department in the meeting. To be quite honest, I don’t think he considers this a high-priority case, but he knew you would be there and was putting on a good show of it.” Struk swirled his whiskey in his glass, staring at the amber fluid.

Hutch met Byte’s angry gaze and shrugged. They’d already come to the same conclusion as Struk. Hutch took the seat next to Struk. “So what’s the word on the street?”

“No one is really talking about it, at least not on my turf. Most of the people I deal with are too worried about getting off or getting their next fix to care about what’s happening around them. I’m going to try and see what I can find out with some of the male street hustlers tomorrow night. They might know more or at least have heard some rumors.”

“That’s a good idea. You said you’d done some research?” Hutch asked.

“Yeah, I got a buddy who works over in Oak Park—beat cop. They’ve had three murders with the same MO as the two murders we’ve had.”

“Dante Reed, Mike Mitchell, and Ralph Mayr,” Byte piped in.

“Wow,” Struk said, awed.

“He’s like a walking encyclopedia.” Hutch chuckled. “I seriously don’t know how he keeps it all straight, but I’m damn glad he does and that’s why he’s on my team.”

Byte preened a little and tapped a finger against his temple. “It’s a highly superior machine.”

“Oh good Lord,” Granite groaned. “I swear, if you two blow that son of a bitch’s head up any further, I’m going to beat the shit out of both of you. He barely fits through the door now as it is.”

“Ignore him,” Byte told Struk. “Granite is pissy because the only thing he has inside his head is rocks.” He leaned over a little closer to Struk. “It’s why he’s so bad at dressing himself.”

“Hey! I heard that,” Granite grumbled. “Your prissy candyass can suck my dick.”

“There you go again,” Byte responded with a roll of his eyes. “It must be hell being so hard up you have to try and weasel sexual favors out of your coworkers.”

“Bite me,” Granite countered.

Struk was taking it all in, eyes bouncing back and forth between Byte and Granite as they continued their shenanigans. “Don’t pay them any mind,” Hutch said. “They actually do like each other, I promise.”

“Are they always like this?”

“Pretty much. I deal with the stress of the job with this”—he held up his glass—“and they deal with it by bickering. We all have our coping mechanisms.”

Struk shook his head and seemed to relax a little, a hint of a smile curling his lip. “Guess we know which one I’d choose.” He took a sip of his drink and then set it aside.

“Play in our sandbox long enough, you’ll need both,” Hutch assured him. “So back to what your buddy said. Did they ever identify any suspects?”

“They had a couple with the Reed investigation. His boyfriend was at the top of the list and then a neighbor who had been harassing him, but both had iron-clad alibis and were cleared.”

“I read the reports on both of them. What about with the other two murders? Neither file mentions a suspect?”

“That’s because there wasn’t any. Zac—that’s my buddy—he said it was common knowledge around the station that they were dealing with a serial killer with the Mitchell murder, had it confirmed with Mayr.”

“I didn’t find that in any of the reports,” Hutch said and thrummed his fingers against the table. “In fact, not a single mention that any of the murders were even tied together in any way.”

“Nope, and you won’t either,” Struk said assuredly. “They have the same mentality in Oak Park that we have in Jefferson. No one wants this case, and they just keep their fingers crossed that he dumps his shit in someone else’s yard.”

“Nice attitude,” Byte grumped.

“Wait, so you’re saying they knew he was killing in other jurisdictions?” Hutch inquired.

Struk leaned his elbow on the table, cupping his chin between his thumb and middle finger as he tapped his index finger against his upper lip. “I don’t know. I’m simply comparing the attitudes of their station and mine. With all the cuts, guys are running on fumes as it is. I’m not making an excuse for any of them, but no one wants a serial killer in their backyard, especially a force who is already overworked and underpaid.”

“That’s what the fucking Feds are for, to pick up the overload on larger cases,” Hutch growled and then pressed the bridge of his nose as a throbbing began in his head. “Sorry, I’m not accusing you. It’s simply a general statement.”

“No offense taken, and I agree with you,” Struk said easily. “You seem to know everything I do, so I have to ask, why did you ask me to meet you?”

“I noticed you at the briefing. You were the only one who appeared to be taking the case seriously. I saw the way you flinched each time one of your fellow officers used the word
faggot
.”

“I hate that word,” Struk muttered, his face contorting into a look of disgust.

“And you hate the way they’re dismissing these murders because of who the victims were,” Hutch surmised.

“Fuck yeah. I became a cop to protect and serve the community—not just a few, but the whole damn community.”

Hutch leaned back in his chair, swirled the bourbon in his glass, and then drained it as he studied Carson Struk. With his blond hair cut short and tight, clean-shaven face, and muscular build, his looks fit the cop persona, but it was the intensity shining in his blue eyes that made him stand out. He had a fire within him, a passion for right and wrong, good versus evil.

“What made you want to become a cop?” Hutch asked.

“Family tradition. Both my dad and grandpa were cops.”

“I think there is more to it than that.”

“Uh-oh,” Byte muttered.

Struk shot a glance at Byte. “Uh-oh?”

“He’s trying to get inside your head,” Byte warned. “Run, save yourself. Once he gets in, he’ll know all your secrets.”

Struk cut a panicked look at Hutch. Hutch waved it off. “He’s just fucking with you again.”

Byte made a disgruntled sound, but he couldn’t hide his grin. Byte knew Hutch all too well. Of course he was trying to get inside Struk’s head; it was something he did with most people he met. Hutch loved discovering people’s deep-down dark secrets. It’s what made him a great investigator.

“Is it a secret?” Hutch nudged.

Struk stared at him for a moment and then shook his head. “My dad was killed in the line of duty when I was twelve. At least that’s how they classified it. He was killed by a fellow officer, the murder covered up.”

“Why?” Hutch inquired.

Struk looked away, but not before Hutch caught a glimpse of the sadness in his eyes. “Secrets,” he muttered dismissively.

Ah, the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place. “Carson,” Hutch said gently. As soon as Struk turned and met his gaze, Hutch asked, “Was your dad gay?”

Struk tried to look outraged as he stared at Hutch, but he couldn’t quite pull it off, the truth obvious in the sadness in his eyes. Hutch continued to stare at Struk, unflinching and without judgment, calmly waiting for him to respond. After a long, drawn-out moment, Struk took a heavy breath and nodded.

The way Struk had flinched each time someone had made a crass or negative remark completely made sense now. The man he’d seen as a role model, whose shoes it was his goal to fill, had been killed because he was gay. It was the ultimate betrayal. For Struk, catching the killer when his colleagues refused to was personal. It was as if he had to relive the injustice of it all over again.

Hutch glanced at Byte, who was looking at him with a questioning look. Hutch gave him a slight nod, and Byte turned his attention back to his computer, his fingers flying over the keys. Their main focus had to be the case they were currently working on. It would take every bit of it to stop the madman, and Byte knew that too. Hutch knew Byte as well as Byte knew him, though. Byte was no doubt already making notes and sending out feelers into the death of Struk’s father.