Jack Daniels Six Pack (41 page)

I looked. Benedict was licking a large mound of white powder out of his palm.

“I’m testing the purity,” Benedict said. His beard was dusty with sugar.

Colin went to the door and held it open.

“Y’all can go now.”

“Colin . . .”

“I know my rights. If I tell you to go, you got to go.”

“We want to help you, Colin.”

“Yeah, right.”

I handed him my card. He took it, reluctantly.

“If a police officer stole your cell phone, you can file a formal complaint. You can help us get this guy.”

“Whatever.”

We left the apartment.

“Jesus, Herb. Real professional.”

“I couldn’t help it. I haven’t had anything sweet in over a week. Once I had that little taste, I couldn’t stop.”

He drove his point home by upending the remainder of the bag into his mouth.

“Do you know how many carbs are in that?”

“I don’t care. It’s like an orgy on my tongue.”

“During the orgy, did you manage to pick up on what Colin said?”

He nodded, his face turning somber.

The perp had access to my handcuffs, to the county morgue, and to Colin’s cell phone.

All signs pointed to the killer being a cop.

Unfortunately, this did little to narrow it down. Chicago had a police force of over seventeen thousand. I had eight hundred working out of my district, plus cops from the other districts came and went on a daily basis. So did cops from out of town, Feds, lawyers, and government officials.

Benedict seemed to sense my thoughts. “Maybe we’ll be able to narrow it down once we go through the complete phone log.”

“Who’s Colin’s carrier?”

“FoneCo. They want a subpoena before they release his records.”

“We can swing by the courthouse.”

Benedict probed his goatee with his tongue, seeking out stray calories.

“Should we put a team on Colin?”

I considered it. If Colin saw cops hanging around, he might freak out and try to run. Plus, who could I trust to put on him? What if I accidentally sent the killer?

“No. We should talk to the assistant State’s Attorney first. Colin’s court case is coming up.”

I didn’t like driving away knowing that Colin was hiding something, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Coming to him with a deal might loosen his tongue.

“I hope it’s not a bad cop, Jack.”

Me too. If cops were viewed as the enemy, the tenuous balance of power could shift. Laws would be broken out of contempt. Authority wouldn’t be acknowledged. Police officers might even be attacked, or worse.

I closed my eyes, and tried not to think about rioting.

“We’re probably wrong, Herb. It’s probably not a cop at all.”

But deep down, I knew we were right.

CHAPTER 13

He watches them get into the sports car and pull away. That bitch Daniels, and her fat-ass partner, Herb Benedict.

He climbs out of his car and walks toward Colin Andrews’s apartment.

He expected them to eventually find Andrews, but not this quickly.

No matter. He’ll just jump ahead in the plan a little.

There’s an empty plastic soda bottle next to the security door. He snatches it up and enters the building.

It’s hot. Dark. He pulls a pair of latex gloves out of his front pocket, and they make a snapping sound. They’re tight on his large, sweaty hands.

He has a slight headache, but the aspirin is keeping it under control. He’s here for business, not pleasure.

But his arousal is apparent.

He knocks on Andrews’s door.

“Chicago Police Department.”

Silence. He knocks again.

“Open the door, this is the police.”

“You ain’t getting in without a warrant.”

A male voice. Scared.

“We have a warrant,” the killer lies.

“Slip it under the door.”

He looks left, then right. All clear.

Taking one step back, he sets his shoulder, and then charges the door.

The frame snaps like balsa wood. Colin Andrews sprawls backward, hands clutched to a bleeding nose. The killer enters and shuts the door, shoving it hard so it fits back into the splintered jamb.

“Colin? Who’s there?”

He grins. A woman. He hadn’t expected that.

This is gonna be fun.

Colin is on the floor, scrambling backward, eyes wide as dinner plates.

He considers kicking him, decides he doesn’t want to get blood on his pants, and pulls out his throwaway piece: a 9mm Firestar that he liberated from the evidence locker at the same time he’d taken Colin’s cell phone.

The gun presses against Colin’s forehead.

“Ask her to join the party.”

Colin opens his mouth. No words come out.

He taps him on the skull, hard, with the butt of the gun.

“Get her in here, now.”

The blubbering begins. Colin calls for his mama, voice cracking though the sobs.

Colin’s mother is wearing a T-shirt and jeans. She’s younger than the killer expected. Prettier too.

“Hi, Mama.” He blows her a kiss. “Go sit on the sofa. The three of us are going to have a conversation.”

Mama cops an attitude, hands rising to her hips. “What the—”

“Mama, sit down!” Colin screams at her, blood and tears rolling down his face.

His mother nods, then sits.

“Okay, here’s the dealio.” The cop smiles at his use of street slang. “I’m going to ask some questions. I get answers I like, I go away and never come back. I don’t get answers I like . . .”

He slaps the gun across Colin’s face, knocking him to the floor.

“Do we understand each other?”

He looks at the mother. Her eyes are cold, but she nods.

Colin is hugging the floor like a security blanket, trembling. The killer nudges him with his foot.

“Do you know who I am, Colin?”

Colin stares up. Nods.

“Tell me who I am.”

“When I got brung in, you the one that locked me up.”

“That’s right, Colin. Do you remember what I said to you?”

Colin swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a basketball.

“You told me not to cancel my phone service.”

“Or else?”

“Or else you’d hang my ass from the nearest lamppost.”

“Good, Colin. You remembered. Did you believe me, when I said it?”

“I didn’t cancel the service! I didn’t!”

“I know, Colin. That’s why you’re not swinging from the streetlight out in front. But you did talk to the cops about me, didn’t you?”

Colin shakes his head so fast it’s comical.

“I din’t say nothin’!”

“Are you sure?”

“Jesus, I din’t say nothin’!”

“Get up, go sit next to Mama on the couch.”

Colin pulls himself off the floor, plops down next to his mother. The cop knows he’s broken him. Knows he’s telling the truth.

He checks his watch. There’s still a little time for some fun.

“Is your boy lying to me, Mama?”

She puts an arm around Colin’s shoulders as he cries into his hands.

“Colin don’t tell no lies.”

The killer admires the defiance in her eyes. He becomes even more aroused. “He doesn’t? But Colin deals drugs, doesn’t he?”

She strokes Colin’s head, as if petting a dog.

“I heard him, when those other cops came. He din’t tell them nothin’.”

The cop moves closer to the sofa. He feels ready to burst.

“You seem like a smart lady. If you and your boy want to live through this, you’re gonna have to do something for me. You know what it is?”

Colin’s mama stares at him, nods.

“There’s a condom in my front pocket. Take it out.”

Her hands are hot in his pants.

“Put it on me and get to work, Mama. Make me happy and I’ll spare your life.”

She’s not the best he’s ever had, and the condom limits some of the sensation, but she’s much better than his bitch of a wife.

“Hey, Colin, I think your mama’s done this before. She’s got some good moves.”

A few minutes pass. The only sounds are Colin’s sobs and the killer’s breathing, which gets faster and faster.

“That’s right. Yeah. Good.”

As he nears climax, he places the base of the plastic bottle he’s been holding against the top of the woman’s head. He puts the barrel of the 9mm into the bottle opening.

“That’s it!”

His hips spasm, and at the same moment he fires into the bottle, the slug shooting straight through her forehead, embedding itself in the sofa.

The bottle traps most of the noise, and the sound is no louder than a hand clap.

Colin’s head snaps up, staring as his mother falls away.

“Don’t look so surprised, Colin. You know you can’t trust cops.”

He tosses aside the bottle, now filled with swirling white smoke. Then he picks up a sofa cushion and shoves it into Colin’s face, jamming the gun into the fabric.

Four shots. Colin goes slack.

Condom still on, the killer zips up his pants, picks up the plastic bottle, and leaves the apartment. There’s no one in the hallway, and no one outside.

His headache, happily, is gone.

The cop hops into his car and checks his watch. He’s on his lunch break, and has already used up fifty-five minutes.

He speeds back to the station. After ten blocks, the condom goes out the window. A few blocks later, so does the soda bottle.

On his way back to the district house, the killer stops in front of the Wabash Bridge and pulls over to the curb. Palming the gun, he gets out and walks over to the Chicago River.

No one gives him a second glance as he drops the gun into the greenish water.

When he arrives back at the station, he doesn’t see Benedict’s Camaro in the parking lot. He’s beaten them back.

The cop parks and walks into the building, wondering whom he hates more, Jack or that fat piece-of-shit Herb.

He climbs the stairs, heading for Benedict’s office. His plan, such as it is, is deceptively simple.

He’ll keep killing women and leaving various things belonging to Jack and Herb at the crime scenes.

Eventually, they might get close to figuring it out. When that time comes, he’ll kill them both, making it look like they’ve killed each other.

Then he’ll solve these current murders himself, framing his mortician friend Derrick Rushlo.

Sadly, Derrick won’t make it to trial.

Simple. Effective. And so much fun.

The killer makes sure no one notices as he slips into Herb’s office.

He’s looking for something, anything, that Herb will recognize when he sees it on the next victim. A tie clip, a wrist watch, a picture of his ugly wife . . .

“Here we are.”

In Herb’s desk drawer, he finds a library card. Without hesitating, he picks it up.

“May I help you, Officer?”

His head snaps around. Benedict is walking into the office, holding a large coffee. One of his eyebrows is raised in silent inquiry.

“Hi, Detective Benedict. I was dropping these off for you.”

In one smooth motion he slips the library card into his chest pocket and removes a small bottle of pills. He hands it to Benedict.

“Non-aspirin pain reliever?” Herb reads.

“Remember that bottle I borrowed last month?”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Benedict slaps him on the shoulder, like they’re best buddies.

“Well, back to work,” he says. “TOSAP.”

“That’s what we get paid for.” Herb chuckles. “To Serve and Protect.”

Too bad there’s no one to protect you from me, old man.

Leaving Herb’s office, he bumps into Jack, causing her to spill some coffee.

“Good afternoon, Officer.”

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”

Bitch.

Well, if things go as planned, Herb and Jack won’t be around to irritate him for much longer.

He walks back to his desk, sits down, and takes a deep, full breath.

Close one.

He thinks about Herb Benedict, thinks about killing the man. He’s never killed someone that big before. It might actually be a challenge.

A challenge could be fun.

He decides, when the time comes, he’ll do it hands on. Mano a mano. No gun. No knife. He’ll beat him to death.

As for Lieutenant Daniels . . .

The good lieutenant is tough, and strong. She’ll be good for a whole evening’s entertainment, in his little plastic room on the South Side.

And maybe, if he’s careful, he could make her last the whole weekend.

CHAPTER 14

It took most of the afternoon to set up the surveillance.

After playing catch-the-subpoena at the courthouse, Herb and I managed to get access to the call log from Colin Andrews’s cell phone. There were only three numbers on the list. One was to Davi McCormick’s place, one was to a call girl named Eileen Hutton, and one was to a TracFone owned by someone named John Smith.

Eileen Hutton had a record—she worked for a high-roller escort service similar to Davi’s. A search of her apartment found it empty and without any signs of foul play, and a call to her employer found them worried sick because Eileen had missed her last two dates.

A TracFone was one of those prepaid cell phones that could be bought at drugstores, electronics stores, or on the Internet. They’re a cop’s worst nightmare. It’s simple to set up an anonymous account by using a fake name and then buying phone cards with cash.

We obtained another subpoena and secured the records from the TracFone that the killer had been calling. No calls listed going out, and the only calls coming in were from Colin’s cell.

After talking at length with several people at the phone company, it proved impossible to set up any kind of tracking or tracing of the phone. But we were able to track the prepaid cards being used for minutes. The phone had been bought two months ago at an Osco Drug on Wabash and Columbus. Two weeks after that, a twenty-minute phone card had been purchased at the same place.

According to the recent bill, those minutes were due to expire tomorrow. Which meant a new phone card would have to be purchased, hopefully from the same drugstore.

Since we suspected the killer to be a cop, I was climbing the walls trying to figure out who to put on the surveillance teams. I played the sexism card, and put two teams of three female officers on eight-hour shifts. If the killer was a woman, I might have been blowing the entire stakeout, but I just couldn’t reconcile a woman cutting off someone’s arms.