"Come see me again," Motown said.
Jake ran.
15
Having been committed to, and subsequently released from, an adolescent psychiatric institute, pulling up to Detroit's first precinct always set Jake’s teeth on edge. No doubt they would cuff him and tell him his release was some kind of experiment.
We wouldn't really let someone like you walk the streets, would we?
The parking lot was mostly filled with police cruisers punctuated by the random unmarked sedan. The ten-story building was nearly one hundred years old, designed by the famed Architect of Detroit, Albert Kahn. The station's front was a facade of drab concrete stretching blandly into the sky. It was so colorless Jake felt like he was standing in Oz, looking back at Kansas.
He walked through the doors into the scent of commercial grade floor cleaner. With the number of bums, pukers, and bleeders coming through Jake imagined cleanup was a round-the-clock gig.
His first obstacle was the metal detector. A high-end model compared to the unit at Dover. He checked his pockets for change, dropped his watch and keys on the conveyer belt, and passed through. He never knew if a sound was made, but no lights flashed and no one freaked out, so he swept up his belongings and kept on moving.
Across from the intake desk there were two hookers slouched on a bench wearing kid-sized articles of clothing. "My friend thinks you're cute," the first one told Jake. Her friend was sleeping, more likely passed out. Give them bail and a few hours’ sleep and they'd be off patrolling some casino floor, taking turns telling gamblers their friend thinks he's cute.
The intake officer's hair was pinned back severely, revealing a serious face and tense jaw muscles. Her name tag read Dorcy.
"I have an appointment with Sergeant Dan," Jake said. "My name is Jacob Duke."
Dorcy’s eyes thinned out. She picked up the phone and dialed a number. Jake read her half of the conversation, which amounted to her speaking his name followed by a series of quick affirmatives. She hung up and pointed toward the elevators. "The sergeant's office is on the-"
Jake turned away from her, already knowing the way. He took the elevator to the tenth floor and stepped out to find Sergeant Dan standing outside his office door, his muscular arms folded over his chest. The sergeant's eyes were bright within his craggy mug, and he was sporting the kind of smile you couldn't jackhammer from his face.
A smile for the son of his favorite girl.
"Jacob," he said, opening his arms with upturned palms. As Jake got within range, Dan yanked him in and gave him a hug.
Sergeant Dan led Jake into his office and offered a chair. Jake sat. Dan went around behind his desk. The office was dimly lit by overhead fluorescent lights. The wood paneling screamed 1960s remodel and no thoughts about the situation since. Likely there was no budget for such thoughts.
"Another dicey client?" Sergeant Dan said. He was under the impression that Jake occasionally needed help with background checks not because he was bound to wishes that decided people's fates, but because Jake's mother had told Dan she wanted to ensure Jake was dealing with stand-up citizens before doing thousands of dollars of nonrefundable tattoo work on them.
Jake nodded and chewed at the corner of his mouth. "Thanks for helping me out. It means a lot."
The sergeant waved Jake off and pushed a notepad and pen toward him.
Jake checked his phone for the license plate number and wrote it down.
Dan picked up the notepad and the desk phone, said a few words, waited, spoke the letters and numbers on the pad, and then hung up. His smile dropped a little. He clasped his hands together over his stomach and leaned back in his chair. He looked down, did one thumb twiddle, looked back up. "How is she?"
"She's great," Jake said.
"On the phone she sounded stressed."
Jake looked at the wall. There was an old photo of Dan, young and lean with those same powerful arms. He was posing with his fists held high, sporting boxing shorts and no shirt. The caption beneath read, Gold Gloves, and beneath that, Light Heavyweight Champion. Jake looked back at Dan. He'd grown old since the photo, a bit thicker across the belt and wider across the face, but the boxer's body was still there. His eyes were kind. He was a worker, a protector, and everything else a good man should be. How his mother was incapable of loving this man, Jake would never know. "Work," he said. "You know how it goes."
Sergeant Dan nodded. He smirked. "Did I ever tell you about the time your mother lost you at the zoo?"
Only a dozen times. "What happened, again?"
Sergeant Dan beamed. "Oh, she was good at losing track of you, my boy. Supermarkets, the zoo, you name it."
"Sounds just like her."
"You were just a little guy. This was before I made detective. I was driving a beat and happened to be in the area. It was just dumb luck." He looked off. His smile faded again.
Jake imagined Sergeant Dan was thinking of his mother, helpless and stubborn, needing the police to help her find her boy but not needing Sergeant Dan for a damn thing, otherwise. He called their meeting dumb luck, but back then he must have thought it was kismet.
"You got the nine-one-one dispatch?" Jake said.
"I did," Dan said, still looking off.
"And you found me by the monkey house, right?"
"Right."
Jake let the story fall. The events that followed were familiar. Dan asked Jake's mother on a date. They went to dinner at a little hole in the wall a block off Woodward, the kind of place only cops know has the best ravioli. She ate with him, feeling she at least owed him that for helping find her son, but there was nothing more to work with from her side.
"You should go see her some time," Jake said.
Sergeant Dan turned to him. "Think so?"
"Absolutely. Bring her dinner. She never has time to cook."
"You think she'd be okay with that?"
Jake smiled. "One way to find out."
Sergeant Dan contemplated. "I've got this Ghost Mother case right now, but maybe I can find some time."
"Any leads yet?"
Sergeant Dan shook his head. "He's meticulous as hell. Not a print to be found, not a clue."
"Why do they call him Ghost Mother?"
Sergeant Dan smirked. He glanced at the door. "This makes the papers," he said, returning his gaze to Jake. "I'll know it was you."
Jake made a zipped-lips gesture and then crossed his heart.
"He's had three victims we know of so far, including this latest one, Davidovich. Each one has been tucked into their bed with their pillows fluffed and arranged neatly. A uniform at the second victim's house said, 'Tucks them in like a mother and then he's a ghost.' The name stuck."
"Creepy."
"He'll slip up. We'll get him."
"Is it true he's only killing people who are already on their death beds? Assisted suicide, like what's his name?"
"Kevorkian?"
"Yeah."
"No," Dan said. "That was only the first. Guy was bed-ridden with stage four pancreatic cancer. The next two have been people recovering. They were... well, I've probably already said more than I should."
"Fair enough."
"Down to business then," Dan said, rearranging a few things on his desk. He put his elbows down on a calendar nearly as big as the desktop. It was overrun with blue, black, and red ink. "This client of yours?"
"He just seems like a low-life," Jake said. Again, he chewed at the corner of his mouth. "Says he's from out near Wixom. Contacted me through my website. He's looking for a bald eagle back piece." Jake brought up his hands and sized an imaginary tattoo.
"The whole back?" Dan said.
Jake nodded.
"Wouldn't that hurt like the dickens?"
"Yep."
Sergeant Dan looked over Jake's shoulder and reached out his hand.
A uniformed officer appeared next to Jake's chair, handed Dan a manila folder, and then left.
Sergeant Dan put on his reading glasses
. He opened the folder and began reading the sheet.
Jake sensed difficult information. His body began trembling. He clutched his hands together beneath the desk, shifted in his chair.
Sergeant Dan shook his head. His lips formed a small O as though he were whistling.
"How's it look, doc?"
Sergeant Dan tilted down the folder and looked at Jake over top of his glasses. "Your client is a naughty boy."
Jake pulled a strained face.
Dan picked the folder back up and started reading out loud, making sure Jake could see his lips. "Let's see here. Mister Darnell Collins. We've got grand theft auto, extortion, a list of misdemeanors, and domestic abuse." He flipped a page and looked at Jake. "This guy shouldn't even be walking the streets. Must be a lenient judge up there in … " he checked the sheet again, " … Wixom."
Jake's body heat ticked up a couple degrees. He tucked his quivering hands beneath his thighs.
Sergeant Dan continued to read the contents of the folder to himself, shaking his head, and then he said, "Wait a second. I know this guy."
"How's that?"
"I mean, I don’t know him, but I know of him. You’re probably too young to remember, but this guy, Collins, as a kid, was a national story. He tried to save his mom from burning to death in a house fire. Wasn’t able to save her, if I recall correctly, but he was burned up pretty bad and the spotlight was put on his family after that. It was discovered that his dad had gone missing. Probably still missing to this day."
"Was he ever a suspect?"
"The kid?"
"Yeah."
"Don’t think so," Dan said. "From what I remember the dad was the town drunk and not much of a provider. It was the mother that ruled, and with an iron fist at that. Religious nut. She was laid up after some accident. Broke her back, I think. They were farmers—no—sharecroppers. I don't think the boys in blue up there in Wixom put in too much effort in finding the dad." He handed Jake the folder. "In any case, if I were you I wouldn't go anywhere near this guy."
16
The back door to Ray's Barbershop was propped open with a stand-up fan pulling air through the building. Ray was seated in the chair nearest the door reading a book on an e-reader while men were getting cuts and jawing with each other in the remaining chairs. Jake parked in the alley and walked past the door, waving to Ray as he went by.
Ray nodded in reply.
A few days after Jake opened Hear No Evil for business he went over to Ray's for a cut. The black barbershop was an intimidating place for a white boy like Jake, but a shrink at Dover once told him if something seems scary he should walk toward it—he'd likely find there's nothing to fear. The men in the shop were loud and boisterous—and make no mistake, if you stepped incorrectly they would burn you down—but Ray's was a happy, rib-rubbing place filled with hardworking men spending time with their feet kicked up. Ray himself was a Detroit lifer. A local business owner and proud of his city. He was happy to no longer be adjacent to an abandoned bakery, even if the building now occupied a tattoo parlor.
Ray also knew sign language. Said he had a thing for a deaf girl when he was growing up and had picked up the basics just so he could ask her down to the ice cream shop in their neighborhood. When the girl said no, he had to go back and learn some more signs to ask her why she wouldn't go with him. He didn’t understand her second, more complicated reply but he memorized her moves, took them home, and figured out that she said, "I’m not a novelty."
He went back again and signed to her, "I don’t think you’re a novelty. I think you’re beautiful."
After that she agreed to go out with him.
A year later the two were still dating and Ray was fluent in American sign language. The girl's name was Tasha, and she would one day be Ray's wife, but she was killed by a stray bullet in a drive-by shooting shortly after Ray slid a quarter carat diamond on her finger. He’s been a bachelor for the thirty-odd years since.
"Sure you don't want to turn it back into a bakery?" Ray signed to Jake as he left the barbershop that day, sporting a new haircut.
"I can't bake," Jake signed, and then spoke, "but I can tattoo a flaming skull like nobody's business."
"All right then," Ray said, and went back to sweeping up hair.
Now Jake went into his shop and up to his apartment. He sat on the edge of the bed and read the rap sheet on Darnell Collins. He was no expert, but the man's criminal record was as bad as he'd ever seen. Collins had served relatively little jail time for all his transgressions. Lots of probation and community service, though Jake doubted any of it was monitored. Maybe he had a judge in his pocket? Maybe his childhood issues bought him leniency with the police in Wixom?
Jake scanned the crime descriptions for a place to start, a way to gain additional information on Mr. Collins. Walking up to his front door wearing a smile didn't seem like the way.
Bingo. Collins's first and fourth arrests were made at Eddie’s bar just outside of Dover. The first for involvement in a bar fight, resulting in an assault and battery charge. The second after he parked a stolen vehicle in the lot and went inside.
Jake stuffed the rap sheet into a duffel bag along with some extra clothes and a couple Powerbars. Enough to keep him going should he end up having to tail Collins and sit on him for a while.
Jake also packed his handgun. A Glock 23, .40 caliber. The official service weapon of countless police forces and the FBI. Sergeant Dan had recommended the weapon, saying Jake should accept no substitutes, though he wondered why he should want a gun. Jake told him it would be kept at the shop, and only removed from its safe when necessary. Considering the section of town where Jake's shop was located, Sergeant Dan accepted that, albeit begrudgingly. Of course, getting a gun was a sticky issue for a convicted murderer fresh out of the nuthouse, but Sergeant Dan’s recommendation also came with black market contacts.
Jake got online and checked his appointment calendar. Two tattoos were scheduled for the week. The first was a consistent client who he’d canceled on before. He was sure the guy would be okay with being pushed out to the following week if necessary. The second appointment was a new client. He wanted a large pin-up on his thigh. If Jake lost the business, he could accept it. He emailed both clients, asking to reschedule.
There was a reply from Sally Myers (Brewster) on Facebook. She had accepted his friend request and sent back a message.
Hi, Jake. I hope you're well. What's up?
Jake typed a reply.
I know this will sound weird, but can you still draw?
Before Jake left the apartment, he placed a hand on his water pitcher. It was cold and eternally vibrating. He looked out the window to find his horizon was still at a reasonable distance. A few hundred miles out, but closing. Where it presently stood he could surely travel back out to Wixom, maybe even across lake Michigan and as far as Milwaukee. In the opposite direction he could probably make it to Pittsburgh, which was good, but it could be better. Over the course of a week without a granted wish it would tighten considerably. Certainly it would close across the lake, across most of the state, and start to press the issue in Wixom.
He picked up the water pitcher. Light as a feather, the goddamn thing. In a couple days it would weigh a hundred pounds. By the end of a week he'd be unable to move it.
Jake went downstairs and locked up.
He crossed the alley and popped his head into Ray's shop.
Ray looked up from his e-reader and then came over. He nodded at Jake’s duffel bag and signed, "Headed out?"
The two men had a running rule where Ray looked after Jake’s shop while he was away and Jake looked after Ray’s each night after Ray closed the doors and went home. Jake's watch was more a formality since he'd never hear any break-ins to begin with.
"Maybe a couple days," Jake said.
"I'll keep an eye on the place," Ray signed.
"Thank you," Jake said, and offered his hand to shake.
Ray took Jake’s hand and shoo
k it. After a moment Jake tried to let go, but Ray held on. He looked into Jake’s eyes, gripping his hand like a vise.
"Everything okay?" Jake said.
"You need a haircut," Ray said. "Come see me when you get back."
17
An ordinary house in an ordinary neighborhood seems more sinister after a murder has taken place inside. The siding is the same, the brick, the paint, the windows, and the doors, but the soul of the place has changed. Corrupted. Every step is a trip hazard, every shadow hides a fiend, every scent raises suspicion. Death lingers like humidity.
Sergeant Dan MacDonald stooped as he walked beneath the X-mark of yellow and black crime scene taped across the open front door of the Davidovich house. The techs had come through and dusted every surface, lifted every print, tweezed every fiber.
The coroner took away the body.
MacDonald was the third homicide detective to come through now, after Showalter and Harris. The sergeant trusted his team and sincerely believed they were the best the city had to offer, but the case nagged at him, brought him the sleepless nights of wondering how to stop a serial killer from taking further lives. Besides, it was their last chance to examine the house before they released Dimitri Davidovich from custody and sent him home, effectively closing the crime scene.
Dimitri had been the prime suspect for a couple hours after the incident, but it didn't last. Three different Kroger employees placed him in the store at the time of Jana's death, cementing his alibi. He was buying food to blend for his poor wife to eat. Bananas and spinach and peanut butter. Never mind that the guy's terrified 911 call would convince any sane person he was innocent.
That wasn't to say Dimitri was absolutely ruled out, but for Sergeant MacDonald Ghost Mother's calling card was too much to ignore.
The detective moved slowly through the home's small kitchen. Formica countertops with gold specks and stainless steel end-caps. An espresso machine with a bean grinder next to it. A plaque above the sink with cursive script, 'Our Happy Place.' Subway tile backsplash. A trash can filled with used gauze and bandage tape. Pus and blood on the things in there. Ointment smeared on paper towels. There was a wooden table that seated four, but it was pressed against the wall and only had three chairs around it. Where was the fourth?
The Stonefly Series, Book 1 Page 10
