Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (22 page)

Once you have experienced the thrill of killing with your hands, nothing as impersonal as a car could ever really satisfy. Not after feeling the slick, warm blood flow over your hands and flutter of the heart as it slows and finally stops. The eyes, consumed with fear. The pleading, the begging, the promises…

He suddenly realized he was touching himself and he looked around but as usual he was invisible. People just didn’t care about him. Nobody ever noticed him.

Lewery was still sitting at his regular table at Starbucks. Preston glanced at his watch and knew he had to get back to work soon. He took up his pad of paper and began drafting the letter he would type later.

As I sit watching you sip your double latte, I wonder at your abilities as an investigative reporter…

Mann looked over at Greer’s desk. The detective had been at it almost non-stop since he left the crime scene last night. First man on the scene, Greer had caught most of the paperwork. Between running the scene and filling out forms, Greer looked exhausted; Mann wandered over to his desk.

“Go home. You’ve been on it long enough.”

Greer shrugged. “I’ve finished putting in most of the latest data. I was just taking a little break to clear the cobwebs.”

“Clear them at home, that’s a direct order. Keep going like you are and you’ll be useless to us.”

Greer nodded and stood. He pulled his coat on. “Yes, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.”

Mann nodded, distracted by an overweight, balding man in an Inspector’s uniform going into the Livermore’s office. Mann wandered over to Keough’s office and knocked on the doorframe. Keough, busy on the phone, waved Mann to a seat. He slammed the phone down seconds later.

“I’m still trying to get those god-forsaken cots.”

Several of the detectives had taken to sleeping in one corner of the warehouse rather than waste time with the commute home. Some had not seen their families for over a week. Marriages were going to break because of this case. Keough thought the men should at least be comfortable. Unfortunately, the unseen minions who looked after supply didn’t agree.

“What’s Flem doing here?”

“The Mayor has decided that the case now has official ties with SOCU.”

“Thorman?”

“Thorman.”

Mann swore. The SOCU was the Mayor’s pride and joy. Standing for Special Organized Crime Unit, the SOCU investigated mob activities in the city. Tying Thorman with Angelino had been no difficult matter, at least for their purposes. Doing the same thing in a court of law would be much more difficult.

“You can’t run both investigations, Gregg. It was clearly a hit so it had to go to them. It doesn’t have anything to do with the Slasher and you have plenty on your plate with just that.”

“I know but…” Mann said, even sounding like a whiny teenager to himself.

“Not even in your sandbox so I couldn’t get it thrown to Davis. You’ll get your shot at Angelino.”

Mann shrugged, still looking sullen.

“What’s the latest from Buchanan?” Keough asked, trying to change the subject.

“Nothing good,” Mann said. “You already saw the preliminary shots of the mutilation. Buchanan confirmed our suspicions.”

“The Slasher was there?”

“I’m afraid so. The signature was done but it was sloppy and obviously rushed. Buchanan said it looked like he had to do it, was compelled. However, he didn’t have much time.”

“What’s your timeline?”

“She was already dead before Thorman got into the alley. He must have been working on her – slashing her. He had already taken her larynx. He likely heard the voices and panicked. He finished the sign and then got out. Given the speed that everything happened, it’s likely he followed our guy right out of the crime scene. Mrs. Thorman was busy with her husband; the crowd hadn’t really formed yet.”

Keough sat back in his chair. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. No amount of massaging was going to get rid of this headache.

“So, to recap,” Keough said. “We have another dead woman – mutilated and covered in excrement and garbage. We have a dead Mob accountant, armed with an unregistered silenced Forty-five automatic – undoubtedly a hit. He also had forged passports and airline tickets in his pocket for him and his whole family. We have a uniformed cop running right by the killer that an entire task force is searching for. And that same cop and his partner in a patrol car, likely distracted everyone so they didn’t notice a psychopathic killer covered in blood strolling down the street. That about it?”

“Not quite,” Mann admitted. “We have two dead men in a car parked down the street from Thorman’s house. Shot with a large caliber weapon.”

“What about ballistics?”

“Not yet, but I’m betting on a match with the gun in Thorman’s hand.”

“Is that it?”

Mann nodded. “That about covers it – except for the fact that our only witness to the hit is a psychopathic serial killer.”

“And to add to the crucifixion we are going to get in the press, we now have Inspector WH Flem ready to camp out on our doorstep,” Livermore said from the doorway.

Keough couldn’t help but smile. “They did catch Hiz Honor’s double chin, though.”

There had been a Keystone Cop cartoon (featuring the Commissioner and the Mayor in the traditional paddy wagon) in one of the editorial pages.

“Is Flem really here for good?” Mann asked.

Flem was a lousy cop but he was perfect for the PR work. He loved to give interviews. He was on the news at least once a week and always wore his uniform. As far as Mann knew, the man didn’t even own a civilian suit.

“Do we need that glory hound around here?”

“He smells the media and is already preparing his sound bite,” Keough said.

“Watch yourself,” Livermore warned. “That particular jerk off has the Mayor’s personal emergency cell phone number – for the phone His Honor keeps hidden up his ass. And I don’t even want to know what he has on the Commissioner. Something made James back off when the Mayor picked Flem. No secret that he’s being groomed to replace James, and you better believe James knows it. And that will happen pronto if we don’t solve this case very soon. Come on, it is time to meet the great Flem.”

*

Mann had disliked Flem the moment he met him. The man had risen by the political route rather than by any great police work. It was true enough that early in his career, he had done some good things with organized crime. From the beginning, the mob had been his focus. He had even made some key busts. Since then, he had been just sitting on the political fence turning SOCU from an investigative unit into a political juggernaut. Now, the task force had to put up with him. Mann was determined to put the Inspector through his paces and spared no details of the killings. He even brought in some of the better stills.

“Is that, uh…?” Flem said, pointing at one of the pictures.

“It is. The shrinks figure the killer wanted the victim to be dirty. Hart was beaten, as though the killer wanted to inflict injury on the victim. For whatever reasons, and the shrinks have a handful of reasons, they figure that the killer wanted to punish this latest victim by making her dirty.”

Flem shook his head. “It’s all beyond me. Still, you figure that the killer might have seen the shooter?”

“If our timing is right, there’s no doubt. He would have had a front row seat for the actual killing. They were standing in full view of the stairwell. ME is also of the opinion he was interrupted and did not complete his tasks. We think the hit was the interruption. My guess, he saw the shooter up close and personal.”

“Perfect. The only good witness I have is a psycho. I’ll need an office and a line plus a desk for one of my squad,” Flem demanded.

“You could have mine, sir,” Mann offered quickly. “It’s quite small, though.”

Livermore spoke up. “We’ve got a larger office toward the back. It would give you more privacy, sir.”

Flem stood and shook hands with Livermore. “That will do nicely. I’ll be moved in by the end of the day. Thank you, Captain. Lieutenant, I’ll have more questions for you later.”

Flem left with an air of dismissal. Mann fought the urge to flick him the finger.

“Art got some blood in the feces. Same blood type as the Yeck kill,” Mann said once Flem was gone.

“Art has sent it up to Lifecode Corp for a DNA match. At least once we find him, we’ll have enough to hang him.”

“But we still have to find him,” Livermore said.

Dear Mr. Lewery,

As I sit watching you sip your double latte, I wonder at your abilities as an investigative reporter. In fact, I wonder how you fooled me all these years into thinking you have any intelligence at all.

I admit I am doing a dirty job but it is necessary for the survival of the human race. We must rid society of these bullies and tyrants. A person does a good turn for someone and what does he get in return? Shunned, laughed at, ridiculed, spurned, despised, lied to, and beaten. We try to make the world a better place because it is the right thing to do and what is the result? “Nice guys finish last.” Or sometimes the nice guys don’t even get to play. Ignored, never chosen.

But now the game is mine. I make the rules. I choose the players. I choose the winner. And I choose me. Now is my time. Time for the dodge ball champions to duck because I have the ball and I don’t miss. For every welt that seared my skin, I make a cut. And believe me, the first cut isn’t the deepest, it is just the beginning of the pain.

So I continue. Not as the mad psycho that you portray but as a true knight, prepared to do what is necessary to save the kingdom. Salute me or become my enemy.

Sit and sip your double latte and consider your position. Understand who the real victim is, lest you become a victim yourself.

Yours sincerely,

A suspicious friend and victim who has refused to take it anymore…from anyone. The time of vengeance is at hand.

PS: I thought about sending you a finger to help you type or an ear so you could learn to listen but I figured a momma’s boy like you would prefer a nipple.

“Can you believe that?” Lewery asked. “The little coward has been following me! Following ME!”

Munro watched Lewery. Full of bluster that might fool the others in the room, Munro could see the edge of fear that tinged all that bravado. And the round, desiccated bit of skin had given the reporter a definite greenish tinge.

“I think we should put some men on Dale just to cover our bases. If he is following him…”

“No way,” Lewery interrupted Mann. “No chance I am going to have a couple of your guys following me around all the time. I got a right to some privacy.”

Mann looked at Lewery and saw some actual fear in his eyes that wasn’t there when the serial killer was threatening him. Mann wondered what Lewery was worried might get exposed. Mann flashed again on the idea that Lewery could be the killer. It wasn’t unusual, especially for showier killers to interject themselves into the investigation. And, what better way to get close than to be the sole contact with the killer? Mann had even entertained the idea that Lewery was doing the killing to increase his readership. More readers could earn him a lucrative book deal. But Lewery had been quietly checked out and the detectives had found easily confirmed alibis for two of the killings.

But was he meeting with the killer in secret? Did he have more contact than they thought? Was it all a ruse to build his writing credentials? A threatened reporter would certainly sell more copies when the inevitable book was written.

Mann knew that he could easily make a case for making Lewery a person of interest but the Mayor’s office would have a fit if they found out. Still he had to put him under surveillance of some sort. It was too good an opportunity to miss.

“So, you’re going to print?”

“Damn right,” Dale said. “And he truly is nuts if he expects me to roll over. This guy needs me way more than I need him.”

Mann wasn’t too sure about that.

He patiently removed all the pictures from the small binder and spread them around the floor of the living room. Finished, he sat cross legged on the floor and stared down at the array of pictures.

Several moments passed before he was satisfied with the arrangement. He picked out four of the computer simulated pictures and set them across the top of the arrangement.

He picked up a wide, black Magic Marker, ready to draw an X through each of these four pictures.

But they are still out there, aren’t they?

Preston paused, the cap in one hand and the marker poised over the first picture.

They are still out there.

He felt a delicious hardening in his groin as he realized he might have the opportunity to kill them all over again. He carefully put the cap back on the marker and set it aside.

Taking a deep breath, he slipped on gloves and checked his equipment.

He had been busy modifying several of his sport coats. They had ridiculed him for his sewing skills. Now, he was using those same skills against them. He needed to have all his tools with him at all times. Sheila had taught him that.

You almost let her get away.

He showed her, though.

You cut her up good. But you still didn’t do the slut.

I couldn’t when she was covered in shit.

You should have done her first. They are going to call you a fag again. They’ll say you can’t get it up with a woman.

I just forgot. Besides, there was no time with that other guy getting shot.

But they won’t be calling me a masturbator after I take care of Millership. Finally, the truth will come out.

He pulled up both pant legs of his special outfit for tonight and slipped a knife into each of the sheaths strapped to his calves. The knives were hidden, difficult to retrieve but they weren’t for emergencies. They were for later.

A length of nylon cord with some sort of plastic coating was coiled tight and put in an inside pocket. It was very fine rope but unbelievably strong. Technology made his job so easy. A loop at each end made it even easier.