Splintered (9 page)

Granite shook his head, his eyes all puffy and red. Seemed like Hutch wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept. Byte, the youngest of them at twenty-nine, looked as if he’d had a full night of sleep. He even had the energy to roll his eyes at Hutch as he took a seat and then yelped when his coffee splashed over the rim and onto his hand. Ha, served the bastard right for rolling his damn eyes.

The three of them sat there in a precaffeine stupor without saying a word. Hutch noted they all looked like something the cat had dragged in, and he felt like the little feline had beaten the hell out of Hutch’s head before dragging his sorry ass home. The java was doing very little to soothe the throb in his temples.

“Hey!” Granite shouted and jumped to his feet. And yeah, that did nothing to ease the throb either.

“What the hell, man?” Hutch grumbled.

“The photos,” Granite said excitedly. He snatched them up from the silent printer and threw them on the table. “Weren’t you looking for some hot guy with pale blue eyes?”

“I didn’t say he was hot, you ass. I only said I think I recognized him. Dipshit here,” Hutch said, stabbing a finger at Byte, “
he
mentioned something about hotness and horny. The sick bastard.”

“Whatever,” Byte retorted and grabbed one of the photos.

Hutch scanned through the countless faces in each photograph. Most were just partials of the crowds, and the few that were full shots were too dark to make out distinguishable features. Discouraged, he went and poured another cup of coffee while he racked his brain, trying to figure out where the hell he knew the kid from, but he kept on coming up blank.

“Did you say the guy had shaggy blond hair and carried a backpack?” Byte asked as he studied one of the photos.

“Yeah. You find something?” Hutch stood behind Byte and looked over his shoulder.

Byte pointed to a blurred image of a man standing off to the side of the crowd leaning against a tree. Hutch squinted to see if he could recognize the guy. It sort of looked like him, same large body style and similar clothing, but he couldn’t say with certainty, the features in the image too distorted.

“Any way you can get this image cleaned up?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Byte replied flippantly.

Hutch slapped him on the back of the head in response and went to have his morning smoke, leaving Byte to do his shitting.

Hutch stepped out on the balcony and took in the view of Lake Michigan spread out before him. Hundreds of twinkling lights from the multitude of anchored boats lit up the water like it was decorated for Christmas. After the scenes of death and mutilation he’d been dealing with lately, he took a moment to enjoy this one. He wanted to soak in the calming effects of the shimmering lights and cool winds and find a little peace and hopefully the strength to continue.

He had just lit up when Granite joined him. “You didn’t sleep last night.”

It wasn’t a question, rather Granite making a statement as he stared at Hutch. Hutch leaned against the railing and shrugged, brought the cigarette to his lips, and took a long draw. He blew the smoke up and watched it swirl around before it was lost to the wind.

“You have got to sleep, Hutch,” Granite said with concern. “You’ll end up sick, and then where the hell will we be?”

“Same place we are now,” Hutch noted wearily. “Nowhere. And what about you? You look like shit. I bet you didn’t sleep a wink either.”

“This isn’t about me,” he grumbled and turned to look out over the lake.

“The hell it isn’t,” Hutch argued. “We’re a team, and if one goes down, we all go down.”

“I don’t know if I can, man,” Granite responded with a shake of his head. “This one’s got me all messed up. So much death and….” Granite ran a hand over his face and shook his head again. “Just too fucking much,” he admitted bitterly. “All the facts keep getting jumbled together.”

Granite was right. The sheer number of victims, eighteen deaths, eighteen crime scenes, numerous officers, jurisdictions, and an untold number of photos and reports was staggering. Somehow they needed to simplify, break it down into manageable bits of information. Organize. But how? He couldn’t concentrate. Trying to grasp bits of information, compare and understand them was difficult through the sludge in his head.

Hutch snubbed out his cigarette and slung an arm over Granite’s shoulder. “C’mon. I think some breakfast, a hard workout, a little time in the sauna to detoxify, and then a nap will do us a world of good. I’ll even rock you to sleep.”

“Yeah, okay. And I promise not to sing.” Granite smiled.

H
UTCH
HAD
been right. Stepping back from the case for a few hours was enough to recharge him. At least he felt as if he could think straight. Grabbing a legal notepad and a pen, Hutch settled into a chair, propped his feet up on the ottoman, and began scratching out his profile.

Male, Caucasian, thirty to forty-five.

Sexual orientation: Closeted homosexual. Homophobic.

Single. Introvert with few friends.

Ritualistic. The ritual is intoxicating.

“Hey, Byte,” Hutch called out. “Are you absolutely sure you can’t find any cases prior to Jared Martin that we could attribute to our guy?”

“Nope,” Byte responded without looking up from his computer. “I know it seems impossible, but even with the incompetence, I think this fucker was as good with his first kill as he is with his eighteenth. He’s organized, meticulous, wouldn’t surprise me if he suffers from some form of OCD.”

Hutch added
OCD?
to his profile and then tapped his pen against the paper. This killer was smart. Very smart. Hutch had never encountered one as well organized and cunning. In his experience, serial killers evolved, learned from their mistakes, and perfected it. Not this one. This one was special. He’d studied, cultivated his technique even before he struck. But what if the killer wasn’t just smart, but also lucky? Hutch jerked upright as it hit him. Maybe they just hadn’t found the bodies of the first.

“What about missing gay men prior to Martin?” Hutch asked hopefully.

“I thought of that too,” Byte admitted. “In 2006 there was a young man who went missing from a gay club. He resurfaced in ’07, however. Apparently he’d gotten hooked on meth and was living and working on the streets.”

“Shit!”

Hutch slumped back in his chair and added
Above-average intelligence, highly organized, possible military or law enforcement background. Superior knowledge of forensics
to his profile.

Hutch then turned his thoughts toward the condition of the victims. The torture could easily be attributed to a sexual sadist, but the mutilation of the victim’s genitalia screamed self-loathing in the killer, almost as is if he were trying to eradicate the offending organ.

Raised in a fanatically religious atmosphere. Likely missing or unknown father in the household. Probable mother also absent or incapable of nurturing. Older relative? Aging grandmother? Aunt?

“Whoa! I got your man,” Byte said excitedly.

Hutch tossed his notepad aside and jumped to his feet. “Our killer?”

“I’m good, but not that fucking good,” Byte chuckled. “Check this out!”

A familiar shaggy-headed man stared back at Hutch through the computer screen. “That’s him! Got a name?”

“Yup.” Byte clicked a few buttons on his laptop, and the stranger’s history popped up on the screen. “Meet Noah Walker. The interesting thing is I cross-referenced his photo with other crime scene photos and found him among the crowd at many of the scenes.”

“How old?”

“He’s twenty-six.”

A bit younger than Hutch would have thought based on the profile, but only by four years. “What about his profession?”

“It says student. Hold on,” Byte muttered, and his hands flew across the keyboard.

Hutch’s pulse began to quicken, and he started to pace. He still couldn’t come up with where he’d seen the kid—the man—before. Why? Why was this guy familiar to him? Where had he seen him before?

“He’s a graduate student,” Byte informed Hutch. “Hey, this is interesting. He’s working on his PhD in psychology. Criminal psychology, to be exact.”

Hutch tossed that fact over in his mind. Was that where he’d seen Noah before? Perhaps at a lecture he’d given? During an interview? He’d once worked a case where the psychiatrist stalked and eventually murdered the object of their delusional love interest. There was a second case where a psychiatrist murdered one of her patients when he refused to return her attentions. Not military or law enforcement, but still smart. He would have studied crime and would have an understanding of forensics. Noah, so far, was fitting the profile Hutch had begun to form.

“What about family history?” Hutch inquired. “Does it say anything about his parents?”

“Whose parents?” Granite asked as he stepped into the room still towel drying his hair.

“Byte found the kid I saw at the crime scene. Turns out he’s not a kid, but a twenty-six-year-old man who’s studying criminal psychiatry.”

Granite raised a brow at Hutch. “You think he’s working this case?”

“Could be, but so far he’s fitting the profile of the killer,” Hutch informed him.

“Here it is,” Byte interrupted. “Noah Walker, born to one Barbara Walker. Father unknown.”

Hutch grabbed a chair and pulled it up close to Byte so he could read the report along with Byte. “I didn’t see his name in any of the reports. Has he been interviewed?”

“Not on any of our cases. Looks like he was born and raised in Joliet, moved to Chicago about six years ago. Oh wait, holy shit,” Byte cursed. “In 1994 he was interviewed by the Joliet police after his mother and sister were killed”—Byte looked over and met Hutch’s gaze—“by the Eastside Strangler. He was eight.”

Hutch’s pulse sped even further as excitement coursed through him. This could be their guy. Weeks without a single lead and finally it looked like they might get a break. “Who took him in after the death of his mom and sister?”

“Maternal grandmother. One Sophia Walker.”

“I want an address,” Hutch demanded as he went to his feet. “Granite, get dressed. We’re going to go talk to this guy.”

“One step ahead of you,” Granite tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared into the bathroom.

“You think this could really be our guy?” Byte asked.

“He certainly fits the profile,” Hutch said as he checked his weapon and then slipped it into his holster and buckled it into place. He grabbed his shoes, sat on the edge of the bed, and laced them up. “Close to the correct age range, Caucasian, smart, knowledge of forensics, absent father, and raised by an older relative. I’d say it’s either one hell of a coincidence, or we may have just gotten a break.”

Byte scribbled the address on a sheet of paper and handed it to Hutch. “Hyde Park area, only about twenty minutes from here.”

“Thanks,” Hutch said, accepting the piece of paper, and then yelled out to Granite, “Stop fucking primping and get your ass out here.”

“You want me to come with?” Byte asked.

Hutch pulled on his sports coat and grabbed his keys and wallet. “Nah. You keep digging. I want to know everything about this guy. Who his friends are, where he hangs out. What he fucking eats for breakfast. I highly doubt he’s going to admit to anything, and given his background, I suspect he’ll lawyer up the instant he discovers who I am and why I’m there.”

“I’m on it,” Byte assured him.

Granite stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and an Insane Clown Posse T-shirt. “Jesus fuck, Granite,” Hutch growled. “Would it kill you to wear a goddamn sports coat once in a while?”

“No problem, boss,” Granite said. He went to the small closet and pulled out a red plaid suit coat and shrugged it on. “Better?” he asked.

“Why do I even bother?” Hutch grumbled and headed out the door.

“Don’t know,” Granite chuckled. “You’d think you’d be used to my superior fashion sense by now. In fact, I would have thought I’d have been able to teach you a thing or two about it after this many years.”

“Fuck you,” Hutch growled.

“Not going to happen,” Granite shot back as he hurried to catch up with Hutch, checking his weapon as he moved. “But I’ll be more than willing to stuff you as full as a hoarder fills their house.”

Hutch pressed the button on the elevator, then turned to Granite, who was grinning smugly. “Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. That was totally lame.”

“Bullshit, it was fucking brilliant,” Granite said confidently. “Have you ever been in the house of someone with a severe hoarding disorder?”

“No, and to be honest, I’ll be glad when you run out of cheesy lines.”

“Not going to happen,” Granite assured him. “I’m always thinking of ways to fill your ass.”

“You think about my ass all the time?” Hutch asked with one brow raised. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. “You realize if you admit that, no one is going to believe you’re straight. Hell, I’m beginning to question it.” Hutch stepped into the elevator.

“I’m only gay for you, baby,” Granite said slyly and waggled his brows.

“Oh good Lord.” Hutch chuckled. “Here,” he said and handed Granite Noah’s address. “Plug this—”

“You want me to plug you?”

The elevator door opened on the ground floor, and Hutch whapped Granite on the back of the head before stepping out. “How about concentrating on something other than my ass for a minute?”

Granite gave a wolf whistle. “Kind of hard to concentrate when you have such a fine ass like that.”

Hutch pulled his jacket down over his ass and flipped Granite off. Granite laughed good-naturedly, but Hutch had no doubt Granite was just teasing him and was already thinking of plugging the address into his phone rather than plugging Hutch’s ass.

Chapter 9