Wrong Chance (10 page)

Hakeem pulled out his Palm Treo 750 and snapped a barrage of crime-screen photos. The victim's face was covered with the Metro section of yesterday's newspaper. Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics were carefully carved into every visible part of the victim's skin. Hakeem ventured to lift the newspaper some. The victim's eyes were bulged from heat-expanded tissues and were filled with maggots. His mouth was frozen open as if he died screaming.

“Son of a bitch.”

A
spen climbed through the third-floor window with the straps of her high-heels clenched between her teeth. She eased her small feet into the shoes, then she removed a fingerprint kit from her clutch and dusted the window.

Nothing.

The killer had concealed his prints. The stench of human tissue crept up her nose. It reminded her of Pete's Butchery. When she was a small child, she and her mother visited Pete's every weekend to get the following week's supply of fresh meat. Her mother wouldn't allow the hired help to purchase their meat. She insisted on handling that herself. Aspen hated the weekly visits to Pete's, and she hated the smell even more.

When Aspen clicked her heels to the end of the hallway and rounded the corner, she came to a balcony that overlooked the ground floor. A marble flight of steps unfolded from the balcony to the floor. She looked down and saw Hakeem kneeling beside a naked body. Her first concern was Hakeem. “How are you feeling?”

His tired eyes found her voice. “Sick.”

“Good to hear,” she said, coming down the stairs. “What did Officer McNally do when I walked off?”

“Checked out your ass.”

“I still got it.”

“How'd you get in?” He snapped off a few more pictures.

“The oak tree outside invited me in.” Then: “It's how he got in.”

“Our unsub is a he?”

She knew Hakeem wouldn't miss a beat. “Not many girls can climb a twenty-six-foot tree and scale across a nine-foot branch and break in through a window. And I did it barefoot.”

“You're the exception to the girl rule.”

Aspen stood beside him and looked down on the dead man. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The implications of the elaborate markings carved into the body was a threat to every citizen in Cuyahoga County. “Looks like a serial killer has come to town.”

“Maybe it's a copycat,” Hakeem said.

“Maybe not.”

“If not, I sure hope he isn't planning on staying too long.”

She said, “I feel you.”

“Aspen?”

She already knew where his head was at. “I want to catch this guy too.”

“Then let's get him before he does it again.”

Aspen whipped out her BlackBerry and put in a call to Forensic Pathologist Aura Chavez MD—the trusted Alfred to their Dynamic Duo, then they began to process the scene of the crime.

F
orensic Pathologist Aura Chavez MD was over-the-hill and did her best to disguise it with too much CoverGirl. She was one of those women who found it necessary to whack her eyebrows off and draw them back on in such a way that made her look like she was in a constant state of surprise. “The Hieroglyphic Hacker is a pretty salty fellow,” she said with her thick Spanish accent while looking down on the enigmatic symbol system cut into the victim's skin. “What type of hate, what type of mind does it take to do something like this?”

“An unstable one,” Aspen said, firing up a Newport three hours before scheduled. “The type of hate our death penalty will cure.”

Hakeem said, “What's your preliminary thoughts on the cause and time of death?”

“It's way too early to talk cause; it could be anything. Speculation without an autopsy in my line of work is unprofessional, Detective.”

“Well, I don't have a problem with speculating,” Aspen said. “Judging from these three stab wounds in his thigh, I'd venture to say he bled to death and the hieroglyphics were postmortem.”

“Possible,” Dr. Chavez said. “Full rigor is set. The buildup of internal gases is purging fluids from his nose and mouth. In combination with lividity and liver temp, this man has been dead for approximately sixteen, seventeen hours. On record I'd say he was murdered around eight-fifteen, eight-thirty yesterday evening.”
She shook her head. “So does anyone have a clue who this young man is?”

Smoke flowed from Aspen's mouth as she spoke. “No cell phone, wallet, or keys.”

“Only thing we can infer is he works for UPS by his shirt, so we'll start there.” Hakeem put his arm around Dr. Chavez's shoulder. “In the meantime, after you check his hands for trace, fax me his prints. I'll run them through IAFIS. Maybe he has a record.”

Dr. Aura Chavez considered the victim for a long moment while her criminalists busied themselves in the background video taping, collecting evidence, and snapping hundreds of photos along with the crime-scene techs. As a little girl she was taught that dead people could talk. Her grandmother, a Yoruba priestess, told her that sometime people's souls stayed earthbound so they could help someone heal or to warn them about something. She was taught that sometimes souls even stayed behind because they needed help themselves before crossing over. Her grandmother once shared a story with her about their cousin who didn't cross over when he died. He stayed behind so he could help his wife accept that his death was an accident, that it wasn't her fault.

“But why doesn't she understand, Grandma, if he's there to help her?” Aura had said in Spanish so many years ago.

The Yoruba priestess had held her granddaughter's tiny hand. “When she learns to listen to him with her heart, they'll heal each other. Right now, my sweet child, she's only listening with guilt.”

Now, as an adult, Dr. Chavez never had any personal run-ins with ghosts, but she knew exactly how to listen and interpret what a dead body had to say. She kneeled down beside John Doe and slipped paper bags over his hands to protect any trace evidence. “When I get back to my office, I want you to tell me who did this to you.”

H
akeem's head was swarming with questions. Nothing but death would stop him from getting the answers. He had an eerie feeling about this murder, something that strangely bordered on nostalgia. By the time he and Aspen left the scene of the crime, his energy was hovering just above zero. He knew he needed sleep or he wouldn't be any good to himself or this case. He just wasn't sure of how to get some sleep. He was literally scared to close his eyes now. Each time he did, the gruesome images were there. As he and Aspen reached her BMW, Gus Hobbs approached them smiling like a game show host.

Gus was a dusty blond who had a surfer's swagger and the boyish charm of someone who grew up in Southern California. But his jaded blue eyes inferred a rougher upbringing. Gus's byline was attached to just about every crime story in the city. Hakeem frowned. Gus was the last person he wanted to be bothered with.

Gus nodded at Aspen like a professional philanderer. “Detective Skye, you're looking as scrumptious as ever.”

“I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“We can always work it out over a biscuit and a pillow,” Gus said.

“I'm a direct descendant of Nat Turner,” Aspen said. “I'm loyal to my hard-wiring. What I got for a white man won't make you come.”

“What a pity.” Then: “Detective Eubanks,” Gus said, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, “you could at least pretend that you're
happy to see me. You know it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile. Can't we let bygones be bygones?”

Hakeem started getting agitated. Never would he forgive Gus for running a smear campaign in the paper about his family's tragedy. He blasted Gus with a gaze that had turned many tough guys into cowards. “What do you want?”

Gus shrugged a
nothing really,
avoiding direct eye contact. “Just trying to do my job. Some of us actually have to work to put biscuits on the table.”

“You boys play nice or you'll get jumped, Gus.” Aspen started the car with a feature on her BlackBerry.

Gus threw his hands up, surrendering. “Okay, okay.” Then: “How about giving me something, Eubanks?”

“How's this? We're in the business of hunting killers, not encouraging them through incorrigible journalists,” Hakeem said.

“The Homicide Unit,” Aspen said, “is not making any statements at this time. Come on, asshole. I mean, Gus. You know the routine. You get no special privileges; you'll wait like every other reporter.”

“Okay, I'll play fair.” Gus pulled a mini tape recorder from his pocket and shut it off. “Off the record then, Eubanks. I'm hearing whispers on this side of the crime-scene tape that the victim was taken out by the Hieroglyphic Hacker. Is there a serial killer stalking our city?”

“I don't know where he is or anyone else for that matter,” Hakeem said on the verge of strangling Gus for old and new. “If you let me do my job without running interference under the Freedom of Press Act, I can find the murderer and put him behind bars where he belongs.” Hakeem and Aspen turned into a slap of cold air, heading for the car.

“Chill out a minute, Eubanks, would you?”

Hakeem spun on his heels and faced Gus.

“Tell 'em to kiss your ass and let's go,” Aspen said and kept going to the car.

Gus sighed. “Come on, Eubanks, let me get the inside track. I need this story. You can give me something without compromising your investigation. All I'm looking for is an angle to get ahead of the pack.”

Hakeem imagined his hands around Gus's neck squeezing until he turned beet red and the blood vessels in his eyes broke. “The department will issue a statement in due time.”

“Okay, okay. I screwed up. Is that what you wanna hear me say, Eubanks? I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for sensationalizing the story about your personal tragedies after you asked me not to.”

“Goodbye, Gus.”

“Wait a minute.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “How about letting me work with you?”

“Give it up and stay out my way or I'll have you arrested.”

“Can't. I have a job to do and the public has a right to be informed.”

Hakeem stepped so close to Gus that he felt the man's trepidation. “You mean scare them with your half-cocked assumptions, twisted words, and stories that aren't always fact checked. Stories that have no regard or sympathy for the victim's family. And if you somehow do get the facts from a leak in the department, you'll print them and give the killer the advantage by telling him everything we know. All you reporters are inconsiderate liars and snitches.” Hakeem worked himself up a good dose of anger. “Get your pad out. Here's something you can quote.”

Gus fumbled with his notepad and pen. When Hakeem saw that he was ready to write, Hakeem said, “No comment, you son of a bitch.”

T
he Cleveland
Plain Dealer
and other national newspapers and networks were going to have a field day with this turn of events. Aspen took a furtive look at Hakeem, then put her eyes back on the road as her heart filled with empathy. She wished Hakeem would summon the strength to pull out of his rut. It was obvious to anyone with a set of eyes that Hakeem was suffering from post-traumatic stress and was burying himself in work to self-medicate. She checked him out from the corner of an eye as she maneuvered the BMW through Public Square. He was exhausted and trying to pretend as if he wasn't.

“Have the sleeping pills worked for you?” Aspen said.

“I'm immune.” He yawned. “I need tranquilizers.”

“You look whupped. I'll go back to the office and write the report; you go home and try to get some rest.”

“You know that's not my style. There's no way I'll dump all the grunt work in your lap like that.”

“Hakeem, you're no good to me running on fumes. Go home and rest so we can approach this from a fresh perspective tomorrow.”

Hakeem settled his head against the headrest, relaxed, and closed his tired eyes. “I've been following this story since CNN broke it fourteen months ago. By all news accounts, the Hieroglyphic Hacker has exclusively stalked Denver, Colorado. He's never strayed from his hunting ground. So why now?”

“I'll find out who's the lead in Denver. See what we can learn about this guy's MO. See if any of their suspects or victims have any connections to Cleveland.”

Hakeem massaged his temples. “It's oddly uncharacteristic for a pattern killer to change patterns this late in the game. Our victim makes number eight. Three more and he'll be tied with Anthony Sowell.”

“Maybe the Hieroglyphic Hacker is evolving or changing geographical locations to elude capture.”

He opened his eyes and gave her a serious look as they rode by Stouffer's Inn on the Square. “This guy is no stranger to Cleveland Heights.”

“You're thinking the Hieroglyphic Hacker is a native?”

“All I'm saying is he didn't find the synagogue by accident. Like McNally said, ‘you wouldn't know the place was there unless you
knew
it was there.' If I were a betting man, I'd put my money on the unsub being Jewish. He also knew he'd have privacy for a long period of time.” He yawned. “Can you imagine how long it takes to do what he does to his victims?”

“He's definitely not an opportunistic killer. He plans, which means his victims aren't random. Now we have to find out how he selects them.”

“I'm thinking we'll find some answers in yesterday's paper if everything he does is as meticulous as his hieroglyphics.”

“Possible,” Aspen said, not sounding too convinced. “Maybe he knew the victim and covered the face because of his conscience. Maybe he felt like he was being watched as he did something awful to a friend or loved one.”