Splintered (2 page)

What a clusterfuck that had been. Carrie—Granite’s girlfriend—was nice enough, and Hutch was sure she was just trying to be helpful. Hell, her friend, umm… he couldn’t remember her name, was nice enough too. But friends should not let friends set them up on blind dates. Not if they wanted to remain friends. However, as soon as Granite learned Hutch was gay, he didn’t try a second time.

“Okay, let me rephrase it. You’re never wrong about a case,” Hutch amended. He pulled opened the car door and raised a brow at Granite. “Look, you go play nice with Dr. Coroner, find out what you can, and I’ll see you back at the hotel.” Hutch slid behind the wheel.

Granite opened the passenger door and stuck his head in. “You’re not staying? Why the hell do I have to talk to him? They called you, not me,” he complained.

“Because I have a three o’clock meeting with Jefferson’s finest. Why should I have all the fun of dealing with these yahoos?” He gave Granite a dismissive wave.

“Great, now we’re even sharing yahoos,” Granite muttered before slamming the car door and stomping back to the crime scene.

There was still plenty they weren’t sharing, but Hutch didn’t see any need in pointing it out. He grabbed his shades and slipped them on, then started the car and headed back to the hotel.

“S
PECIAL
A
GENT
Todd Hutchinson,” he said by way of greeting to the young dark-haired woman standing behind the counter.

She took his badge and studied it, then lifted her blue eyes up at him and batted her lashes, literally batted her eyes and gave him a come-hither grin. Guess in a town this small, the dating pool was rather slim. He did his best to keep his features neutral, but more than likely it came across as bored.

“Good afternoon, Special Agent Hutchinson,” she drawled and handed him back his badge. “They are waiting for you in the conference room.” She pointed one of her long, painted claws toward the hall behind her.

He muttered his thanks and made his way down the hall. Ten sets of eyes turned toward him when he walked into the room.

“Good, we can get started. Have a seat,” the captain ordered.

There hadn’t been time for the receptionist to have announced him, but it wasn’t hard for them to guess who he was. The boring dark suit and the fact that he was holding up his badge was a dead giveaway. Hutch slid into a chair at one of the tables at the back of the room. He’d never liked having anyone at his back. Hutch drummed his fingers against the fake wood tabletop as he ran a critical eye over the men around him.

The captain, who kind of reminded him of an older Bill Murray, ran down the list of facts Hutch had already gathered at the crime scene. The captain’s tone sounded disinterested, or maybe that was just the way he always sounded. As he rambled on, Hutch realized the former was correct, and it pissed him off. There had been three murders in the past two months, and no one seemed particularly concerned. He had a sneaking suspicion the only reason he and his team had been called in the first place was due to criticism from the media after the first two murders, not out of any real inclination to solve the crimes.

“Look, Cap. Those guys put themselves at risk by doing those unnatural things,” an officer at the front said as he waved a hand, his voice dripping with disgust. “I don’t see how we’re going to save them from each other.”

The officer sitting directly in front of Hutch leaned over to the officer sitting to his left and mumbled, “I’m not working overtime for a couple dead faggots.” But aloud he only said, “Harris is right—they put themselves at risk.”

“Good riddance,” another muttered under his breath.

Hutch was having a difficult time remaining silent as the officers threw around their homophobic bullshit. In fact, he was fucking seething. He wanted nothing more than to put his fist upside their idiotic heads, but he’d learned a long time ago to keep his mouth shut, watch, and listen. It did absolutely no good to engage idiots. No matter how appealing the idea, going Rambo on their asses wouldn’t help him solve the case.

It was obvious a couple of dead “faggots” wasn’t on the list of priorities for some members of the department. Hutch couldn’t tell if the captain or the lieutenant had overhead the exchange, but the smirk on the lieutenant’s face, made it likely he had. Although he didn’t respond, too smart to have it put on record, bastard probably harbored the same homophobic ideologies. Hutch’s attention kept shifting back to one officer who was sitting at the other end of his table. The young officer, late twenties to early thirties, flinched with each offensive remark. No one was saying anything of real importance, so it gave Hutch plenty of time to study the cop. He sat rigidly, back ramrod straight, hands folded on the table. He kept his eyes low, but Hutch could tell by the thoughtful expression on his face that he was taking in everything around him. By the end of the meeting, Hutch hadn’t decided if the man—who he later learned was Sergeant Struk—was gay, an open-minded ally, or had some information he wasn’t sharing. Whatever it was, Hutch planned to find out.

B
ACK
AT
the hotel, Hutch sat in a cheap faux leather chair and stared at lifeless wide brown eyes from the glossy eight-by-ten photo. The young Asian male had been identified as Akira Kimura, who had been reported missing by his roommate the day prior to the discovery of his body. Akira was an openly gay male who attended community college during the day and worked as a go-go dancer at the Torch at night to help pay tuition. The Torch wasn’t natty for the rich and flamboyant, like Hard Candy or the Purple Moon, but it was a decent enough place. At least the Torch was a step up from Ram Rod or some of the other sleazier joints on the Gideon strip.

“What the hell happened to you, and how did you get so far away from home?” Hutch asked the man in the photo.

He set the picture aside and picked up the preliminary autopsy report to study once again. The ligature marks he could easily dismiss as a bondage game gone wrong. He’d read enough cases and witnessed some scenes firsthand that he knew it wasn’t unheard of for Dom/sub games to go bad. A couple would check out a website or read an erotic story, ignore the warnings, and instead of getting the rush of orgasm, the “Dom” got prison time and the “sub” got a one-way ticket to the morgue. Considering the state of Akira Kimura’s body and mutilated genitalia, though, it was highly doubtful this was a consensual role-play game gone wrong.

Akira’s vocal cords showed signs of severe inflammation and swelling, normally seen in prolonged screaming. The perp obviously either lived in a rural area where the homes were isolated or he had one hell of a soundproofing system. The amount of torture the young man endured over approximately three to five days also gave credence to that theory. This guy—Hutch was sure he was looking for a male—had some seriously warped views of sexuality. It was also quite possible he had at least one accomplice, possibly more. Hutch would need more facts before he could answer that question for sure.

He threw the report on the table, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed the throb that had begun in his temples. Too bad he couldn’t rub the lifeless brown eyes from his brain. Those eyes would be haunting him for a while.

“Check this out,” Granite said as he threw a file on the table in front of Hutch, pulling him from his thoughts.

He glanced at the manila folder but didn’t reach out to take it. “I’ve already seen the report. They didn’t find anything.” He arched a brow at Granite. “You know, gloating isn’t one of your more endearing qualities.”

“Oh, right, that would be one of yours. Just look at the file.” Granite pulled up a chair and sat next to Hutch. From the sullen expression on his face, Hutch was relatively sure he wasn’t going to like what he was about to see.

Hesitantly he picked up the file and studied its contents. A map of Chicago and the outlying areas, dotted with numerous red, yellow, and green dots caught his attention, and his pulse began to race as realization set in. “This can’t be what I think it is. There has to be at least ten green markers.”

“Twelve to be exact,” Granite corrected. “The yellow dots are another possible five cases. I haven’t confirmed them yet, but my gut tells me they belong to our guy.”

Hutch’s brows rose as he gawked at Granite incredulously. “You mean to tell me we have a possible seventeen dead attributed to one man and we’re just now getting wind of it?”

“Given the fact they tend to all be”—Granite made the universal symbol for quotation marks—“queers, hustlers, or homeless, it doesn’t surprise me at all. Factor in that we’re dealing with eight different jurisdictions, and I’d say it’s a miracle we got called in at all.”

Rage began to brew in the pit of Hutch’s gut. His hands curled into fists around the map as he struggled to keep his anger under control. What the hell was wrong with people? Nobody deserved to die as Akira had, and the way those fucking cops had behaved earlier…
Jesus!
The bile worked its way up from his gut to burn his throat. It was times like these Hutch was truly ashamed to be associated with the law enforcement community, a profession where closed-minded, bigoted assholes not only ran rampant, but in some cases were actually encouraged by the upper brass.
Fuck them
. If they wouldn’t do their goddamn jobs and solve these cases, then he sure as hell would.

He forced down the execrable thoughts and struggled to focus on the case. “Why these men? What do we know about them?” Hutch asked and rubbed his tired eyes.

“Byte’s working on finding a common trait. He’s still in the process of compiling a complete dossier on each vic. He should have it about complete.” Granite twirled his pen as he spoke. “What I do know so far is each man was tortured and his genitals mutilated. Also, they are all small in stature and openly gay. Race, age, and economics don’t seem to play a role in his chosen targets.”

Granite tossed his pen aside and went to the small minibar. He brought back to the table two glasses of ice and a bottle of bourbon.

He continued speaking as he poured them each a drink and handed one to Hutch. “From the reports I have, they all frequented one gay club or another. Which is like saying they’re all from Chicago. It doesn’t mean shit. Per capita, Chicago has more gays than any other city. A large percentage of whom, I might add, also frequent nightclubs, and they didn’t end up on a stainless steel slab.”

Hutch swirled the dark amber fluid in his glass before taking a healthy swig. He could only hope that Byte could give them some kind of lead, something they could work with, since at the moment he was coming up blank. Finding one man, and his gut was telling him it was a lone perp they were looking for, in a city the size of Chicago was like the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Byte, like Granite, was brilliant. There wasn’t a computer system on the planet that was secure enough when Byte wanted information. Andrew “Byte” Caswell, in a word, was tenacious. He was hard as hell to understand too—although he spoke perfect English. When Byte started rambling about byte-codes, binary numbers, and volatile data, it was as if the man was possessed and speaking in tongues. However, what he could do with a computer was awe-inspiring, and his knowledge of computer forensics was invaluable.

If Granite was the poster child for the Goth Nation, then Byte was the GQ King. Dark Armani and Versace suits were his calling card. He was always impeccably dressed, hair cut and styled, not a single strand out of place. It described him even when relaxing. His dark hair and nearly black eyes combined with his deep olive skin gave him an exotic flare. Add in his aristocratic air, and there wasn’t a woman or man alive who could withstand his charms. At well over six foot and built like a linebacker, one would never believe the geekish, shy disposition that lay beneath.

Hutch downed his drink and threw the file back on the table. “I’m gonna go shower off the stink of Jefferson’s finest,” he informed Granite as he pushed up out of his chair. As he headed to the bathroom, he tossed over his shoulder, “Tell Byte to stop stroking his hard drive and get his ass back here. I have a feeling this guy is going to be adding to the data soon.”

The stink wasn’t the only thing Hutch needed to scrub away. Too bad a little soap and water couldn’t wash away the images of wide dead eyes and geographical maps from his brain, nor was it going to do a damn bit of good to cleanse him of his anger.

Chapter 2

“K
ASEY
M
URRAY
?”

“Who wants to know?” asked the young man warily as he peeked out the crack in the door.

“I’m Agent Hutchinson,” Hutch responded, holding up his badge, and then nodded toward his partner. “This is Agent Green. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Kasey opened the door farther. “I’ve already told the police all I know.”

“Yes, sir, but we’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions,” Hutch informed him. “Do you mind if we come in?”