(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' (2 page)
It was always like that now, he thought grimly. Working the murders was slow, plodding work to solve the case, unless lady luck was around and a witness could be found that really knew something and was willing to share the information with the police. He cracked the driver’s window, letting the foul smoke from his cigar drift out slowly. He would be home in a few minutes now, he thought, his mood improving with the realization that in just a few short weeks he would retire from the damned police department after almost thirty years of pounding the streets, the last ten as a detective working violent crimes in Zone Five. He shook his head as his eyes took in the eerie landscapes that were streets and homes, covered with snow at this time of the morning. He actually enjoyed working nights, he thought briefly, away from the damn probing eyes of bosses and supervisors. But it was getting old now, he said to himself, feeling tired and used after the long night just passed. The work was not what it used to be in the old days anymore, he thought briefly again, a grin flickering on his face momentarily, his mind thinking about the old days of real police work. No, it sure as hell wasn’t what it used to be, not by a long shot.
He glanced at his watch while he drove the last block to his house, thinking that this morning he could only snatch a couple of hours of sleep and then he had to head back to the department to continue the investigation on the murders. He didn’t want to let them get cold, knowing well that forty eight hours after a murder, it was hard to solve the damn thing.
He took a drag from the cigar, feeling the harshness of the smoke in his throat, knowing that he had been smoking too many of the damn things lately. His wife had been after him for years to quit and to lose weight, but he had always managed to sidestep the issue on both counts. ‘Hell, I’ve been smoking cigars since I was twelve years old, he thought dourly, ‘and eating like a pig for the last forty’. He patted his huge belly fondly, the result of too much eating and too many beers and a grin flickered momentarily on his tired face. He would go on a diet as soon as he retired to sunny Florida, he thought briefly, maneuvering the car into his driveway in reverse, next to his wife’s Ford SUV, shifting to park, a part of his mind listening to the soft humming of the engine, idly cursing his wife for leaving her damn car outside the garage. He glanced at the snow, accumulated several inches deep on the driveway and he cursed softly again, knowing that soon he would have to shovel the crap and also clean her car. He closed his eyes for a second, relaxing now, listening to the radio traffic, hating the moment when he would have to exit the warm vehicle to go into the house. It was cold out there and he hated cold weather with a passion, something that always struck him as funny considering he had lived in Chicago all his life, where it was always cold and windy even at the best of times.
He turned the engine off, pushing the door open, grunting with the effort of getting his huge frame out of the car, wrapping his overcoat tightly around him. He was 6’2” and almost three hundred pounds and he cursed under his breath, his hand holding his hat, his breathing labored in just the few seconds that took him to get out of the car completely. “Damn…”, he said softly, thinking that he was sixty one years old and out of shape completely, something that he was going to have to remedy soon.
He closed the door, his eyes glancing at the dark shadows surreptitiously, a habit of thirty years of police work, his eyes taking in the deserted streets of the neighborhood in one quick, swift look that missed nothing. The streets were deserted, not a light shining anywhere and nothing moving. He glanced down the street, noticing the light on the lamp pole closest to his house was out, throwing his driveway into shadow. He made a mental note to call the power company so they could replace it, glancing down the street at the now quiet houses. For one moment he stood still as his eyes caught motion across the street and he strained his eyes to see what it was. The shadow of a black cat moved swiftly among the piles of snow, stopping momentarily, only to move again, disappearing. Goose bumps ran down his back and he shook his head, wrapping his overcoat around him.
He started walking again, mumbling something under his breath about black cats, and thinking about selling the house to move to Florida. He liked this place, it was safe from the daily muggings and murders that plagued Chicago and his wife was happy living here. The houses were not too close to one another, giving him some privacy from the snooping of neighbors. But it was time to go, he thought briefly, time to leave the neighborhood and please the wife with a move to the Florida Keys like she wanted. Her sister and husband lived there with a whole damn bunch of kids and since they were the only two left of her family, she had wanted to move, to be closer to them. He didn’t know what the hell he would do in sunny Florida, but was sure something would come up; if not, then he would enjoy the warm weather and drink beer all day long.
He pulled his pants up, belching loudly and grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth. His hand reached for the cigar, throwing it away on the side walk, starting to walk toward the fence in the backyard, shoes crunching on the snow, a grin on his swarthy face at the prospect of breakfast and a warm bed, even if only for a couple of hours.
As his hand reached for the handle on the gate, his ears caught a small noise behind him and he turned his head slowly, his tired brain dulling his usually sharp senses, his body still moving forward. Then his eyes bulged in terror as they took in the sight of the figure descending on him. A tall, slim figure loomed over him, moving fast, a hand raise above him, holding something that looked like an…axe?
“What the hell…” he mumbled as the cold hand of fear gripped his entrails. A sickening wave of terror welled up from his belly as his right hand tried to reach for the holstered gun at his shoulder, the overcoat hampering his movement, while his mind screamed at him that it was too late…too late. His feet slipped on the ice and snow covering the driveway as he tried desperately to move his huge body, throwing him off balance and he grunted with the effort of trying to stay upright. Something glinted above him, coming down with incredible speed, striking him on the neck, biting deeply, cutting off the beginning of a scream and then there was nothing, not even pain, just darkness rushing at him.
And so he died.
* * * *
The killer had heard the car approaching, had verified with one quick look that it was her intended prey and her whole body tightened with anticipation., adrenaline surging through her like wildfire, pushing back deeper into the shadows to prevent being seen by the dancing headlights. The car reached the house, the driver sitting there for a few seconds longer, probably enjoying the warmth of the car. She saw the amber tip of a cigarette or a cigar as the man smoked and the plume of smoke drifting out of a crack on the driver side window. She heard the door open and saw the figure of a man exiting the vehicle and she sighed deeply, a grin flickering on the intent, beautiful face briefly. It was time.
Like a shadow that was part of the night, the woman moved, swiftly, silent and deadly, her eyes centered on her pray, her running shoes noiseless as she stepped on the soft snow, covering the short distance to him incredibly fast, like a hunting leopard about to feast on an unwary prey. Nothing else existed in her world now, only the man in front of her and she focused on him with all her being. There was no cold, no snow, no danger, nothing but the man in front of her. She was almost on top of him when the man reacted to the danger looming from behind him and he turned his head to the left and back, eyes bulging in terror at the sight that greeted him. A grunt escaped from the man’s mouth as he tried to turn, his immense bulk restricting his movements, one hand reaching for his pistol and then it was too late for him.
She was already swinging her weapon, the axe describing a whistling circle above her head, coming down with incredible speed, the power of her muscles making the axe swing just a blur in the semidarkness. The incredibly sharp blade caught her prey just above the shoulder, biting deep, the two-handed powerful blow carrying all the way through muscle, sinew and bone, the sharp edge of the axe slicing the man’s head off completely. A spout of red blood burst from the man’s neck and the killer jumped back to avoid the splash as the head tumbled to the ground, eyes wide open, sightless now. With a thud, the head hit the driveway, rolling a few feet almost to the SUV parked there, followed immediately by the body, legs jerking spasmodically. Bright red blood had spurted from the severed neck on its way down, marring the pristine snow, even reaching the parked Ford SUV, as the killer stood still, nostrils flaring at the sight of the dead man and the overpowering smell of human feces and urine emanating from the body. The killer glanced up and down the still dark streets, breathing deeply of the cold air, glancing back at the dead man. She took a step toward the body, a look of utter disgust etched on the beautiful face.
“Hope you rot in hell…you bastard”, she hissed softly, spitting the words, her lips trembling as powerful emotions washed over the taut body, warmth spreading all over her, the pleasure of seeing the man dead almost a sexual release for her. She felt the moistness in her loins and she closed her eyes momentarily, her body swaying spasmodically for one long moment. She roused herself with an effort, shaking her head and glancing at the sky and then all around her, making sure she was still alone with the dead man. She came closer now, careful not to step on the fresh blood, leaning over and patting the back pockets of the dead man. Finding what she wanted, she pulled the wallet from the right, back pocket and opened it quickly. A gold badge glinted at her and she smiled now, fingers working fast to disengage the badge from the leather fold. She finally did, throwing the wallet down carelessly on top of the dead man. With a last look at the body of the man that had caused so much pain and suffering in her life, she whirled around and soon was lost in the shadows, gone as silently as she had come, her presence never noticed. The wind whispered softly, swirling the snow about the body and the head, the dead man’s eyes staring at empty space.
Across the street, a shadow moved swiftly and the black cat appeared, head held high, nose quivering as it took the scent of fresh blood in the air. The black shadow that was the cat stood still for a moment and then, as silently as it had come, it disappeared.
January 13, 1995 Chicago, IL
6:00 a.m.
The irritating sound of a telephone ringing woke him from a pleasant dream. He reached for it, his eyes glancing at the clock on the stand, wondering what the hell had happened now for someone to be calling this early, six in the morning. He had gone to bed less than three hours before and now someone was disturbing him. ‘But that’s police work for you’, he thought dourly, sighing deeply. Probably one of the reasons he wasn’t married anymore nor had a live-in girlfriend, he thought again, breathing the cold air of the apartment, trying his best to rid his head of the cobwebs in his brain. The wife was gone after just two years of marriage, tired of coming home to an empty bed and a man that lived in an incredibly ugly world. She had been a pediatric nurse and couldn’t relate to his work, to the dark world he inhabited during the long hours spent tracking some murderer. He was thirty-two years old, with over ten years on the force, the last six working murders and serious crimes in Zone Four of the metropolitan Chicago area.
Lt. Joshua Turner put the phone to his ear, sighing deeply. It had to be bad news for sure, he thought, since as head of the detective division for violent crimes in Zone Four, his phone didn’t ring this early for nothing. And it was bad, a lot worse than anything he could have imagined.
“Yeah…” he said, his hand reaching for the cigarette pack on the night stand. “What the hell is it”? He listened to the voice on the other end and his body stiffened, all vestige of sleep now gone, feeling his stomach churn with every word coming from the duty sergeant.
His face paled at the news and he threw his tall, lanky body out of the covers, his hand lighting the cigarette, inhaling the harsh smoke deeply into his lungs.
He ran his fingers through his short, black hair as he listened to the words coming from the other end of the line.
“Hell…I’ll be right there”, he said, about to hang up the phone, stopping in midair as the thought occurred to him that he was going to need help with this one. “Get…Miller and Thompson on the way too,” he said, shaking his head slowly at the news, dropping the phone down after getting a grunt from the desk sergeant. A cop was dead, murdered in a most gruesome way according to the report and he felt a slight shiver run through him.
“Hell of a way to start a day”, he said softly, heading for the bathroom. He was ready in minutes, pulling jeans and a sweatshirt on, his black overcoat and hiking shoes on his feet, a .45 caliber Glock pistol on the small of his back. He was out the door quickly, making it to the murder scene in record time despite the snow falling, stopping briefly on the way for a cup of scalding black coffee from an all night drive through. His mind was centered on the dead cop, pulling on the scant information that he had on the man. Officer Claude Dunbar was an old hand and he had known him for years, not closely, but he knew the man was married, a couple of boys away in college somewhere and close to retirement. For what he knew of the guy, he was not the most lovable individual in the neighborhood, but he wasn’t the type either that created a lot of problems for the Department. Now he was dead, making Turner wonder who wanted Dunbar out of the way and why; especially the why of the murder. Those were questions that would have to be answered sooner or later if the killer was going to be apprehended.
He parked his car behind a couple of regular units, stepping out of it, his boots crunching on the fresh snow and ice. He walked fast, tripping on a pile of snow, spilling some of the precious hot coffee in his hand onto the ground. He cursed softly as he regained his balance, glancing at the sky, feeling the wetness of the snow flakes on his face and he shook his head. The weather forecast was not good for the next few days. It was supposed to snow, with cold temperatures in the low teens again. He loved Chicago, loved the smell and the pace of it, but he still hated the cold and the lousy weather in winter. He hated the cold wind that blew with such intensity that it took your breath away on occasion.
