That Darkness Page 14

“Yeah. Weird.” Jack made a mental note never to relocate to London.

  “We’ll see who this last phone number comes back to, with luck it’s a guard who saw something or heard something or has got something to friggin’ say if he wants to keep his job.”

  “Sure.”

  They drove in silence for another few minutes, Jack mentally retracing the steps he took with Brian Johnson and not finding any obvious blunders . . . though you never knew who might be paying attention. Riley, however, had flipped over to another topic entirely.

  “You hear about Barry Nickel?”

  “Yes, I did. A Vice guy told me about it in the elevator.”

  “Been laying there turning to leather for the past five months—couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. From porn king to King Tut. Somebody popped him in the back of the head with a twenty-two and left him on a pile of his own handiwork. Strange.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Very strange.”

  Because he hadn’t killed Barry Nickel.

  Chapter 18

  Thursday, 3:35 p.m.

  Maggie sped through the work piled on her desk, as much as she could—fingerprint comparisons could not be rushed, “because I was in a hurry” never a good excuse to try on the witness stand when asked about an error or a misprint or a transposed number—waiting for the end of the day so she could spend an hour or two with Marcus Day’s tapings before going home. She couldn’t spend city time on a theory with only the force of a major whim behind it.

  It went something like this: Someone killed at least three men with three .22 caliber shots to the back of the head. As a method of murder, hardly unique, but not as common as, say, white cotton or blue denim. That was a fiber examiner’s joke, those being the two types of fiber so ubiquitous as to be considered legally useless.

  Two of the victims, so far, had trace evidence in common. And when she found a blue, trilobal polyester fiber on Marcus Day’s jacket, she had to sit down for a moment. Then she found a white cat hair.

  She also found a smooth, tubelike, clear fiber, too uniform to be silk and without the undulations of cotton. It had some of the crosshatches but not the nodes of linen, hence: Kevlar. Most commonly used in tires, fiber-optic cables, and body armor. This might not be significant since Day, like Johnson, had been in police custody shortly before his death and Kevlar fibers were clingy and itchy. They were a lot like fiberglass in that way. So it wouldn’t be odd if Day had picked up a stray fiber or two.

  But Viktor had also had a Kevlar fiber, and he had not been in police custody. None of the three had been found wearing a bulletproof vest . . . she compared the two fibers, the one from Day and the one from Viktor. They seemed to be the same shade of light yellow, but that didn’t really imply a common source. Kevlar wasn’t a decorative fiber and wouldn’t come in an infinite variety of colors, like cotton or polyester.

  She took a break to clear her head and called Matthew Freeman at ICE. He had, of course, already identified the man called Viktor. But he still had nothing on the dead blond girl from the cemetery.

  He said, “Sorry, kiddo. We got nothing. Whatever she did, she never got caught at it.”

  “Or her only crime was being murdered.”

  Next she checked NamUs to see if Barry Nickel had been entered as a missing person. He had. His faithful wife had made a thorough entry, wondering where her husband had gone. It didn’t tell Maggie anything she didn’t already know, except that Barry Nickel had been diabetic and allergic to tomatoes. Maggie wondered how that would affect the mummification process. She’d research it when she had a chance.

  Then she went back to Marcus Day’s tapings, using the stereomicroscope to move through the myriad of colors and diameters of the stuff that accumulates on a person’s body as one moves through the day. Blue cotton, red nylon, another of the blue polyester (this one from the pants), another white cat hair (same), and a thick dog hair, but not pit bull like Viktor or Brian Johnson. This one looked like a beagle. Another cat hair, but not white, an orange tabby. Insect remains. A dead ant.

  His shoes gave up granules of broken glass, dirt, a few pieces of green from the sparse vegetation that grew up through the cracks even in the middle of the city. A red, dried crinkle of something that looked a great deal like blood but did not react to a Hemastix. Asbestos fibers. And more of the mineral dust that looked like powdered granite. Just like Viktor and Johnson.

  Maggie sat back and rubbed her eyes, wondering where to go with this. She had read up on Marcus Day, going over both the autopsy report and his extensive criminal record. Brian Johnson and Marcus Day had both been active in the drug trade, so it would not be surprising for them to have a location or locations in common. This location might not have anything to do with where or how they were killed, and, indeed, there was no real reason to believe that they were not killed right where they were found. Johnson’s territory had been on the near West side and Day had controlled a chunk of the East. It could be that Johnson had killed Day and one of Day’s men took their revenge on Johnson, but with their territories separated by miles they shouldn’t have even been in conflict. Of course they could still have fallen out over suppliers or, in that world, a simple show of disrespect. Or were they both killed by a person trying to take over dealing in the entire city?

  But where did a foreign human trafficker come in? Viktor didn’t supply the girls with drugs, and the autopsy report showed no signs that he took any himself. Johnson and Day were not and had never been pimps.

  Barry Nickel had been wanted on several counts of producing and distributing child porn. He had not cooperated with his prosecution, and he did not cooperate with her theory. No blue polyester, no white cat hair, no asbestos, no granite particles. Nothing, in other words, that linked him to the other men. He had no connection to the drug trade and certainly wouldn’t have been interested in Viktor’s girls, unless he meant to use them as babysitters. Even the youngest in Viktor’s typical group, at eleven or twelve, would have been too old for Nickel. If it were not for the three .22 rounds, she would not include Nickel in her working theory.

  All four men had nothing in common except being in trouble with the law. Nickel had been under indictment. Johnson and Day had been consistently and recently arrested by Narcotics officers, but were also being investigated for murder by the Homicide cops. The Vice guys knew someone like Viktor was out there somewhere, even if they didn’t know his name or face. The only thing all four men had in common was the police department.

  That thought settled someplace in her heart, and throbbed.

  But then every criminal in the city had the police department in common, and that’s exactly what all four men had been. Established, verified, career criminals. Of course the police would have a strong position in the organizational chart of their lives.

  And they would have been investigated by different departments. Johnson and Day would have been monitored by Vice cops . . . except that they were both suspects in past murders so they might have come to the attention of Homicide as well. Nickel’s activities would have been investigated by both Vice and the white-collar crimes division. Vice had been looking for Viktor but not by name; in that sense Viktor had not been under police scrutiny. Neither of the latter two would have come to the attention of Homicide. Yes, they could access each other’s reports if they knew what they were looking for, but . . .

  So if it was a cop . . .

  A cop tired of seeing criminals thorough or lucky enough to keep themselves out of court. A vigilante trying to tip the scales in society’s favor. Not for revenge, or vengeance, which would seek to redress a specific wrong done by a specific person and once that had been accomplished, the work would be done. But this guy hadn’t finished. A thoughtful, planned campaign to rid the city of people doing bad things, for completely impersonal, altruistic reasons defined a vigilante. It would explain the disparities of the victims. Unfortunately it wouldn’t explain much else.

  No, vigilantes—especially vigila
nte cops—existed only on television. The alternative was not an idea she felt ready to entertain, and certainly not to voice. Not in this building. Her years of service and acceptance would evaporate like a puff of cigarette smoke in a gust off the lake and have just as much significance. She might as well open a vein in a shark tank—the reaction would be equally instant and brutal.

  However, she still believed the men could all be victims of the same person, but she could give the cops no way to catch that person unless she could find a building that was getting the asbestos moved out and granite countertops moved in, that had blue polyester carpeting and a white cat somewhere on the premises.

  So she had suspicions she could not yet voice but neither could she ignore. Simple observation would not suffice for her, not this time.

  She would go over to Planning and Zoning tomorrow. Viv owed her a favor.

  Maggie rubbed another eye and looked around the empty lab. Everyone else had long since gone home to dinner.

  So should she.

  * * *

  Thursday, 7:16 p.m.

  Jack Renner stayed twenty feet behind his quarry at all times, always prepared to dart into an alcove or an alley, should the guy decide to turn around. He needn’t have bothered. Dillon Shaw seemed to believe himself invisible. He trolled up the brick paved expanse of East 4th, staring at any female who approached his orbit, and did not appear the least bit concerned that he might be noticed, recognized, or remembered. Though Jack had to admit that no one in the area would feel too concerned about security. The lights strung overhead turned the restaurant-lined street nearly as bright as day, and the number of people out and about, on a brisk Thursday night, surprised Jack. He didn’t remember Thursday night being a big date night. Didn’t anyone eat at home anymore?

  He already felt out of sorts from his encounter with Dannie Johnson and now he had to ask himself why, if he already felt convinced of Dillon Shaw’s guilt as a serial rapist, did he continue to follow him? Was he looking to catch him in the act—and what would he do if he did? Other than feel a sense of satisfaction that he definitely, positively had the right man? He would have to interfere, stop the attack, preferably without exposing himself. But how? He pictured himself swooping in on Dillon and his intended victim in some dark alley, maybe picking up a two-by-four and swinging it hard enough to hit a home run. He might kill the man . . . via some other way than his usual technique, which might be a good idea. He doubted the victim would complain and Jack could certainly deal with it. But then what? Stay and make sure it was reported properly, get the victim’s statement to prove it was a justifiable homicide, have his name in the case file? Or simply apprehend Dillon, arrest him, be a hero for a day or two, and who cared if the girl got a good look at him because there would be no death, no reason to connect the incident with the recent homicides.

  What he could not do would be to stop the attack and then leave—if Dillon were dead the girl might panic and run off, leaving his unit with yet another unsolved homicide, and if Dillon were not dead he might follow the girl and finish what he started. Dillon was big on finishing what he started, and he had started with a ten-year-old neighbor when he himself had been no more than twelve. He had crept into the girl’s bedroom, which required climbing onto a roof and removing a window screen without waking either set of parents. He had easily overpowered the smaller child but she got out a good scream before he could do much and her parents promptly caught him. It was not difficult. He did not head for his escape route even as he heard their footsteps pounding up the hallway.

  This single-minded determination, the climb, the screen, the focus had given at least one social worker the creeps and her notes had been copious.

  Gaining access to those notes had been quite a challenge for Jack. The Division of Children and Families did not keep their reports on any easily accessed database, no RMS, no LexisNexis, nothing. They were considered as confidential as medical records and unauthorized access would be jumped on with heavy boots. Only two detectives, who worked DCF cases, had remote entrance to their reports. Jack could have easily used their logins since both had a bad habit of writing all their passwords down in various but easily located hiding spots on their desks, but to do so would risk their careers.

  Instead, while escorting a young witness to a meeting with a DCF counselor, Jack watched as a caseworker set up one of those two detectives with an account. This had to be done from their DCF terminal with their personal login. The next time one of their young charges had to make a personal visit to DCF, Jack volunteered to provide the escort. Strategically timed at lunch when most of the workers were away from their desks, as soon as the caseworker took the kid in for a private conference Jack took ninety-two seconds with their keyboard to grant his fictional officer total access to the system. The caseworker might have to answer some questions should it ever come to light, but when suspicion settled on Jack it would provide the DCF social worker with a decent alibi.

  But as for Dillon—neither that first social worker nor subsequent juvenile caseworkers could determine any sort of root cause for young Dillon’s actions. He, his parents, and his sister submitted to many interviews, resolutely civil and completely unforthcoming. No one in the household talked about the household, period. Meanwhile Dillon’s assaults moved from voyeurism to home invasion to groping on the school bus to date rape to random rape, all while he was still young enough to bounce in and out of the juvenile system. By the time he became an adult, everyone had stopped looking for explanations.

  However, a search for proof proved equally frustrating. The man had perfected his technique over the years. He had also grown more violent. It would only be a matter of time until he killed someone.

  But the real reason Jack now trailed Dillon Shaw had more to do with Jack than Dillon. Jack had not managed to find Maria Stein’s current base of operations, and the frustration ate at him. He would start again in the morning, but that left him this evening with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs. If he had to sit at home he might start exercising some primal scream therapy, startling both the neighbors and the cat. Better to stalk Dillon Shaw instead.

  Jack watched Dillon linger outside Lola, peering through the window at the long bar with its dramatic lighting and a glass wall behind it to showcase the walk-in wine cooler. It didn’t seem like Dillon’s kind of place—he preferred the dives with dollar beers and girls who couldn’t afford a lot in the way of personal security. But something made him hesitate outside Lola, perhaps one of the three single girls at the bar. Two were chatting, but in a desultory way and from three stools apart that indicated they might not be together but only making standing-in-the-same-line kind of conversation. The other sat in the middle of the bar, staring straight ahead as if fixating on one particular bottle in the cooler.

  Dillon straightened his leather jacket, pulled open the glass door, and entered.

  Jack needed to bring this guy in. He didn’t have time to follow him all over the place, and it felt too risky to allow Dillon to move around unmonitored. There were a number of online sites that sold cheap GPS trackers, but Dillon didn’t own a car and Jack did not feel confident in his ability to drop one in the guy’s pocket or something. With Cleveland weather, Dillon might wear his leather jacket today and a Windbreaker tomorrow and a parka the day after that—one of those details that could not be controlled. Besides, knowing where he was didn’t tell Jack what he was doing. No, Dillon needed to depart this earth, and soon. The safety of scores of young ladies depended upon it.

  Then Jack would be free to concentrate on narrowing Maria Stein’s world. As far as he could determine she never stayed in any one city for more than fifteen months, and—unless there had been an intervening city that had not yet discovered her house of horrors—they were at fourteen and a half. The fuse burned short, while he roamed alleys surveilling a rapist.

  “Excuse me,” someone said, at Jack’s elbow.

  “Sorry.” He moved out of the gap in the iron ra
iling that separated Lola’s outside tables, empty on this coolish spring weeknight, from the street.

  “Jack?” the voice said.

  He turned. Maggie Gardiner stood next to him.

  Chapter 19

  Thursday, 7:18 p.m.

  Jack felt just as he had with Dannie Johnson earlier in the day. His throat closed up and beads of sweat formed under his arms. His stomach clenched, not right away, but slowly, inexorably.

  But Maggie Gardiner was not six years old. Maggie Gardiner would notice if he looked guilty as hell for no apparent reason.

  “Hi,” he squeaked.

  “Eating or just drinking?” she asked. “Or waiting for someone?”

  “Um . . . debating. There’s a lot to choose from, on this street.” Through the glass he could see Dillon take a seat at the bar, his back to the street and Jack. At the end, which angled him so that he could watch the three single girls without appearing to watch them.

  “Yes, there is.” She glanced up and down the sidewalks. “I walk through here a lot . . . it’s nice to know somebody in the city is having fun. Are you a fan of Lola?”

  “I’ve never been.” Jack watched the serial rapist order a drink from the busy bartender, and came to a snap decision. He didn’t like to make them, but he had never suffered because of one yet. “Would you care to join me?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  He gestured to the restaurant. “Get something to eat.” Then, after watching her try to calculate this out for a split second or two, wondering what he thought, what he planned, and what he was after—how constantly uncertain, the life of the attractive female—he added, “We could talk about the case. Cases.”

  “Sure. Good idea,” she breathed out. He took two steps and jerked the door open for her before she could change her mind—and before he could change his. Maggie Gardiner was a threat to him, and his instinct warned him to stay as far away from her as possible. But that would not be wise. He needed to know what she was thinking, planning, concluding.