Jack Daniels Six Pack (63 page)

I cordoned off the route the cameraperson had taken over the lawn to the front door, but the grass didn’t hold any footprints. There were several friction ridges lifted from the knob and steel security plate, but I didn’t have much hope for them. The person with the camera wore gloves.

The real estate agent showed up, a plump woman with a hairspray helmet that looked like it could withstand a three-story fall. She was clearly flustered, and it took her three different keys before she could open the door.

I went in first, my .38 an extension of my hand. The shades were drawn and the house was dark, save for streaks of sunlight peeking through cracks.

All of the previous furniture had been removed, and our footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. A pleasant lemon scent hung in the air, even more revolting than the churros smell. We had the Realtor wait outside, and Herb trailed me through the foyer, the hallway, and over to the basement door.

I experienced a serious feeling of déjà vu, except that it wasn’t déjà vu; I actually
had
been here a few years prior, doing this exact same thing.

It was just as scary the second time.

The basement light had been left on. We took the stairs slowly, stopping every few steps to listen. When I finally reached the bottom I steeled myself, turned the corner, and stared over at the place where the woman’s throat had been cut.

The basement was empty. No body, no chair, not a drop of blood on the floor. I gave the all-clear and the team came in, lugging gear.

I holstered my gun under my jacket and frowned, looking around the basement. It had been finished since my last visit, the bare concrete floor replaced with linoleum tile, the walls paneled in faux wood.

“I got blood.”

Officer Scott Hajek, a short, stout guy with large glasses and a spray bottle of luminol on his belt, pointed a UV light at the ceiling, revealing several glowing droplets. Before I had a chance to postulate if it was left over from Kork’s activities, more droplets were found on the newly tiled floor.

“Lieutenant! We got something upstairs!”

I followed the voice, relieved to be out of the claustrophobic confines of the basement. Benedict kept on my heels, huffing as I took the stairs two at a time.

“In the kitchen!”

Sitting on the kitchen counter, next to a mason jar full of peanuts, was a gingerbread man cookie.

I got a closer look. It was different from the ones Kork had left with his victims, taunting the CPD in notes that he’d never be caught. This one was larger, with eyes made out of raisins and peppermint candy buttons.

Under the cookie was a handwritten note.

The crime scene photographer snapped some shots. “Why a jar of peanuts?” I asked Herb.

Benedict squinted at the jar. “Those aren’t peanuts, Jack.” My breath caught in my throat when I realized what the mason jar contained.

It was filled, to the brim, with dozens of severed human toes.

Chapter 2

T
ECHNICALLY, NO CRIME
has been committed in our district.” Herb and I exchanged a glance.

“We realize that, Captain.”

Captain Bains sat behind his desk, rubbing his thumb and index finger over his gray mustache—a mustache that didn’t match the deep black of his hairpiece.

“There’s not even a body.”

“The Kork case is ours,” I said.

“This isn’t the Kork case. Charles Kork isn’t going to commit any more crimes. This could all be a prank or a hoax.”

I folded my arms, then unfolded them so I didn’t look defensive. “The jar of toes isn’t a hoax.”

Bains leaned forward. “That’s for the Evanston PD to pursue, not us.”

“They asked us to come in on this. And we’ve got nothing else going on.”

The captain indicated some paper on his desk. “There was a body discovered in a transient motel an hour ago, on Webster. Stabbing death of a homeless guy named Steve Jensen.”

“I’ll put Check and Mason on it. I want this one, Captain.”

Herb’s stomach made an unpleasant noise. Bains stood up and gave us his back. He stared out of his window, which offered a lovely view of the garbage in the alley.

“You’ve got forty-eight hours. If you can’t turn up any evidence by then, I’m pulling you.”

More strange sounds from Herb’s stomach. Bains glanced over his shoulder and eyed him.

“Hungry, Sergeant?”

“That’s not my stomach. I think the GoLYTELY is kicking in.”

“Go attend to that.”

Benedict about-faced and waddled to the door, knees pressed together.

After Herb left, I locked eyes with my boss.

“What’s going on, Captain? I usually enjoy some leeway when it comes to picking cases.”

Chicago had five Detective Areas, and I worked as a floater. My reputation allowed it.

Bains didn’t seem swayed by my reputation. He pursed his lips. Not a good sign.

“What aren’t you telling me, Captain?”

“The superintendent has been getting some flack lately about that TV show.”

“TV show?”

“That series with the PI and that fat woman who plays you.”

I mentally groaned. The show, called
Fatal Autonomy,
featured a supporting character based on me. I never watched it, but from what I heard, the series didn’t display the CPD in a good light. Or me either.

“I explained this before, I let them use my name because one of the show’s producers helped out with the Kork case.”

Which had been a mistake. Anything to do with Harry McGlade wound up being a mistake.

“The super doesn’t care. Chicago is buried in crime, and that show makes us look like a bunch of idiots.”

“So what are you saying? The super is pissed at me, so he’s gunning for my job?”

“I’m saying I don’t want you on anything that might make you look foolish, or anything high-profile. This will all go away, but laying low won’t hurt.”

I leaned closer to Bains and dropped my voice an octave.

“How angry is he?”

“If you see him on the street, turn around and run.”

Ouch.

“You have two days to come up with something solid, Jack. And keep the media out of it.”

Bains dismissed me, dispersing the wind I’d had in my sails. Having to worry about job security at my age was a stressor I just didn’t need.

I looked for Herb, heard scary sounds coming from the bathroom, and chose to leave him alone for a while.

Evidence was located on the first floor. I took the elevator. The day guy, Bill, greeted me with a grin. He was old enough to have milked Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. Bill rescued a previous mayor’s family member decades ago, and was allowed to stay on without being forced into retirement. It was a good thing too, because he was the only person who could find anything in the cluttered, unorganized Evidence Room.

“You’re like a shot of Viagra, Miss Jack Daniels. I love the boots. Can I lick your heel?”

“No. I thought men lost interest in sex after turning a hundred.”

Bill winked. “I’m only ninety-eight. But I make love like a man of seventy-five. What are your plans for later?”

“I’m visiting my mother.

” “How is she doing?”

I thought of Mom, the tube in her throat.

“No change.”

“How about afterward? Maybe a little midnight rendezvous? You look like you could use a little TLC.”

Bill hit the nail on the head with that one. It had been months since I’d been with a man. But even though I’d passed my prime, I wasn’t desperate enough to date someone so old he farted dust. Not yet, anyway. Give me another few months and I might consider it.

“I appreciate the offer, Bill, but right now I’m interested in a closed case— 333871-5.”

Bill nodded, tapping his pointy chin. “The Gingerbread Man. Eleven boxes. Anything in particular?”

“I need everything. Sorry. You want some help?”

“Nope. I keep in shape.”

Bill held up his right arm and pulled back the short sleeve, flexing his biceps. There was enough extra skin hanging from that arm to upholster a couch. In a liver spot pattern. I kept that to myself.

Bill scuttled off and lugged the boxes out of storage one at a time. I signed the tags and dug in.

The first two boxes were mostly paperwork, much of it mine. I glanced at a few reports, the memories of the case returning full force. Charles Kork had been a very bad man, torturing women in his basement in Evanston, prolonging their deaths for hours and lovingly capturing it all on videotape.

The third, fourth, and fifth boxes contained personal belongings from his last three victims.

In the sixth box, wrapped in tin foil and sealed in a plastic evidence bag, was the first gingerbread man cookie we’d found. Parts of it were stained black with blood. It had candy hearts for eyes and mouth, three gum drop buttons on the front, and had been lacquered. The one we’d recently found was almost an inch larger, had peppermint swirl buttons and raisin eyes, no mouth. Not the same source.

There were other cookies in other bags, but I didn’t bother opening them. In the seventh box I found what I’d been looking for.

Twelve videotapes.

The chain of evidence tags noted how often they’d been viewed and duplicated, which was often. Each tape had a label, done in Kork’s distinctive handwriting.

Tape #1, “Jerry Dies Slowly.” Tape #6, “Kids Say the Funniest Things When They’re Bleeding.” Tape #11, “T. Metcalf Gets a Surprise.” Tape #12, “Slipping the Knife to the Wife.”

The videos contained graphic footage of Kork murdering his victims. There had been ten of them in all, six women and four children. The task force had identified all but one of the kids.

Seeing the tapes filled me with a dread I normally felt in life or death situations. Herb and I had watched part of #4, “Making Little Belinda Cry.” We could only stand it for two minutes, even with the sound turned off.

I hadn’t been able to forget it, much as I had tried.

After only a small hesitation, I sucked up my courage and pulled out the tapes.

“Would you like a bag?”

I nodded, and Bill produced a plastic Jewel Foods bag from under the counter. I poked through the remaining boxes, taking a handwriting analysis report and some autopsy reports.

In the last box, all by itself, was the murder weapon. A large hunting knife with a jagged edge on the back of the blade. Through the plastic evidence bag, I could see some of Diane Kork’s blood dried on the edge.

I put the knife in the bag with the other things. Then I signed everything out, parried another seduction attempt from Bill, and walked up a few flights of stairs to my office.

Benedict was leaning on my desk, looking deflated.

I patted his shoulder. “Everything come out okay?”

He grimaced. “They should put a warning label on the GoLYTELY, something about violent explosions. I think I just lost ten pounds.”

I gestured at the jug on my desk, still half full of liquid.

“Looks like you have a little bit more to finish.”

Benedict glared at the bottle. “I can’t do it. If I finish that, I’ll have to attach a seat belt to the toilet.”

“Maybe an airbag too.”

I sat down and reached for the door-to-door reports on the top of my inbox. A quick scan gave me the gist.

“Neighbors didn’t see anything.” I tossed the reports onto my desk, annoyed. “Why doesn’t someone ever commit a homicide next to a nosy busybody with some binoculars who spies on people all the time?”

Benedict didn’t answer. He was staring at the bottle of GoLYTELY.

I left him to face his nemesis, and dove into the Realtor’s statement. She’d shown the house to over a hundred people since it went on the market last year. Apparently, the stigma of the previous owner had prevented any sales. No one wanted to dwell where a serial killer once had.

There had been talk of bulldozing it, but Diane Kork had insisted on selling. She inherited it from her ex-husband, shortly after he’d tried to murder her.

Herb’s stomach made a noise. He said, “Gotta go,” and ran for the door.

“You forgot your jug!” I called after him.

I checked my watch, saw it was creeping up on five, and I decided to call it a day. The reports went into my Jewel bag, which I lugged down to my car.

The engine coughed twice, then turned over. The lion’s share of my paycheck went to supporting my aging mother. When Mom had lived in Florida, her condo had cost slightly more than the gross national product of New Zealand.

She’d sold the condo last year, to move in with me. That should have freed up some of my financial obligations, but Mom’s current condition cost even more than her condo had.

Mary Streng was in a coma, and her insurance only covered partial treatment. The condo money was almost gone, and soon the debt monster would come a-calling.

It was a burden I gladly accepted. My father died when I was a kid, but Mom had showered me with enough love to make up for the loss. A former Chicago cop herself, she was more than a mother to me; she was a hero.

And now my hero lay in a coma.

And it was all my fault.

Chapter 3

M
OM RESIDED IN
a long-term acute-care facility called Henderson House, on Chicago’s north side, not too far from my apartment. She was classified PVS—permanent vegetative state, and received artificial hydration and nutrition, though she could breathe without assistance.

I stopped by on the way home.

“Good evening, Ms. Daniels. Would you like to visit your mother?”

The secretary, Julie something or other, already had the phone in her hand to call the nurse station. Normal procedure meant for me to schedule my visits, or to phone ahead of time. That gave the staff time to clean my mother up before I saw her. For what this place cost, relatives tended to get angry if the loved ones they were visiting had a dirty diaper.

“Any change?” I asked when she hung up the phone.

Julie flipped through a chart. “Still Level One on RLA Cognitive functioning. But her Glasgow went up two points. She spontaneously opened her eyes today.”