The good part of his life was over, and like every retiree, he only got nostalgia, booze, and a pair of willing ears to fool around with.
“I wasn’t fit for field duty anymore. The brass tried to push retirement on me, but the new SSA kid backed me up and gave me the desk. Something’s better than nothing.”
“Oh. That’s nice of him.”
“The SSA is Conor.” A smile twitched in the corner of Ethan’s mouth.
“He did?” Gabriel said. “Agent Lyons didn’t strike me as very empathetic.”
He had trouble imagining Conor helping anyone.
“I know he seems arrogant sometimes, but he is a good guy. Your team found Mr. Bunny while Conor’s team had no idea where to even begin looking. He’s a bad sport, is all.” Ethan laughed. “By the way, you shouldn’t have punched him.”
“For that, he got me suspended.” Gabriel darted a look at Madeline. Snitch.
“That’s nothing. He’ll see you go to prison. Trust me.”
“I ain’t apologizing.”
“Your grave.” Ethan shrugged. “All right, back to the topic at hand. What’s my desk experience have to do with your investigation?”
Gabriel told him what he’d told Steve, minus the part about Noah’s letter.
“So we have a serial killer on the loose?”
“Yes.”
“With your rep, I believe you. But where do I play a role in this?”
“You are one of the senior agents that organized and prepared reports of complaints we received in our legal attachés,” Madeline said. “So you have access to murder cases registered there against American Caucasians.”
“Not anymore.”
“I know, but I have no one to ask for help. The new guy, fucking Greg.” Madeline rolled her eyes. “He’s scared of Conor. He won’t search the archives behind his back.”
“Smart man.”
“All we’re asking is if any… um… foreign PD wanted our help to find an American who committed a murder in their country. How hard can that be?”
Ethan smiled. “You’d be surprised to learn how many Americans get involved in horrible shit outside our borders. I wouldn’t even know where to start. You do understand that what you’re asking from me is preposterous, right? I can’t know them all by heart.”
“Not all,” Gabriel said. “Let me give you an example. Do you remember a murder case in South Korea? A restaurant owner was cut up like an octopus?”
“Good Lord Almighty, I do. Nasty shit.”
“Exactly. I’m looking for oddities that stand out like that. My idea is, if our guy is reckless and ballsy enough to go to the other side of the world and murder someone, then that can’t be his first kill, can it?”
“No, perhaps somewhere closer first.”
“I completely agree. So, do you remember anything macabre, like Seoul? Anything before 2018?”
Gabriel knew Noah had begun his spree in 2018. He couldn’t have afforded time for anyone when he himself was busy murdering people. So he must have coached this killer before he started his work.
Ethan looked clueless.
“I know it’s hard to distinguish the murders, Ethan. But the person I’m looking for is a lone wolf with no bosses, no subordinates, and no apparent motive. And the victims would be innocent civilians. Simply put, an American serial killer with international ambitions.”
“You’re giving me a specific time period. You’re telling me you know the killer is certainly a white American. How do you know so much?”
“I’m sorry, Ethan. I can’t give out my sources.”
Madeline’s eyes shrunk as irritation crept into them.
“Fine. I won’t ask,” Ethan said. “So, in essence you need me to find cases that are not gang, or money, or drug-related, and with no suspects or motives?”
Gabriel nodded.
“I think that would be fairly easy to find.”
“Great,” Madeline and Gabriel said, at the same time.
Ethan rubbed the shoulder with the bullet wound.
“But I need time,” he said to Madeline. “Have to pull some old strings.” He turned to Gabriel. “Leave your card. I’ll call you in a few hours.”
* * *
Madeline dropped Gabriel at his doorstep and borrowed the Kawasaki, promising to return it before nightfall. He let her take it even though she was a stranger, because she’d helped him big time. And he didn’t think an FBI agent would swindle him.
With his new prospect, Han’s flight manifests, on which he had spent most of his waking hours of the last two weeks, seemed drab. But he ordered a pizza and went to work on them.
Three hours later, his phone lit up and he answered it on the second ring.
“Please say you have something.”
“I do,” Ethan said.
Finally.
“Police from other countries approach the FBI with caution. They won’t bring a case to us and implicate our citizens if they aren’t sure.”
“Yeah, I see your point. Looking like the CIA doesn’t help, either.”
“It doesn’t.” Ethan chuckled. “In gang-related crimes, the cops from these countries usually come to us with the perp’s name and an extradition request. The case itself wouldn’t be a mystery, not in the true sense. So, when we get something as serious as a murder allegation, and they point their fingers at an American, but without any suspect, they stand out.”
“We get complaints like that?”
“We do. After you left, I called my contact at the Bureau, who shall remain nameless. We worked over the phone and searched the records, and dug up two homicides.”
Gabriel held his breath.
“They’re unique because, one, there are no suspects and no motives. Two, an American is blamed. And three, they are ruthless and outrageous, even by the standards of terrorists and cartels. Last, and I can’t stress this enough, the victims aren’t criminals or related to criminals. They’re good and clean. Just normal people with no reason to have been murdered horribly. Unless, of course, they’re the victims of a serial killer.”
Gabriel’s skin felt cold, and the hair on it stood.
“Okay. Here it goes…” Ethan shared the horrific details of the two murders.
When he finished, Gabriel knew he had the right cases.
“Germany and Canada, huh?” Gabriel said.
“Yup.”
“What did those cops say in their complaints?”
“I don’t remember them verbatim. German police said that according to their witnesses, the murderer was a native English speaker with a cowboy accent.”
“Wait a minute. We have people who know what he looks like? How he sounds?” Gabriel felt like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Yeah. Already requested the sketch.”
“That’s great. What about Canada?”
“They found a car recorded in a CCTV video, American registered, near the victim’s house around the time of his murder. The plates were stolen.”
“Why didn’t the FBI pursue these cases? Aren’t they international incidents?”
“Precisely for that reason. If we look into these murders, it would appear that we accept their theory of an American being the culprit. Bureaucrats don’t want that. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t even launch an investigation.”
“The police files?”
“I will try to get them if you want. You’re on to something sinister here, Chase. I support your assertion. My guy believes these murders were committed by a single perp, and they are linked.”
“Because the Germans and Canadians suspect an American?”
“Not just that. There’s more.”
“What?”
“It seems like your boy is fond of taking something to remember his victims by.”
“Trophies. That’s great.”
Gabriel already knew this tidbit, because Noah had told him that in his letter. But now it was official. They could link the victims to the killer when
they found him.
“Yeah. The coroners found a certain body part of the victims missing.”
Gabriel shuddered. A psycho who takes body parts as trophies.
“Which body part?”
Ethan’s voice tremored. “The sick bastard takes their hearts.”
Chapter 22
June 9, 2017. 12:31 P.M.
Like Shane had said, Tyrel’s old criminal record was the only thing that could put him in danger. After deciding he needed help, Tyrel had searched the Internet and located a criminal lawyer in The Bronx. The lawyer had said he would file for expungement ASAP, and let Tyrel know when it was done.
Now Tyrel was back in his apartment, which had cost him an arm and a leg to rent out, but would have cost next to nothing in Apex. He tossed and turned in bed, but the sound of distant sirens and two drunkards arguing outside had nothing to do with his insomnia.
Tyrel had successfully dealt with his big problem, but his little problem had ballooned and nagged him restless. He wasn’t able to control the craving gnawing at his peace—the craving to kill someone. It had never grown this powerful before because usually he’d begin stalking his next prey as soon as the urge started to nibble. But he couldn’t indulge, not in NYC, nor its vicinity. Everywhere was busy and crowded. There were few slaughterhouses, and they were all in bustling neighborhoods. So planning an abduction here would involve too many moving parts, and therefore would be too cumbersome to execute.
His phone vibrated. A text from Lloyd informing him that he was done for the day, like he did every evening before going home. Tyrel felt blessed for having Lloyd to take care of the ranch, but he didn’t feel the world in general was blessed. God had forsaken it long ago. Tyrel had ample examples to prove his point.
Earlier that day, as he was coming out of the lawyer’s office, he was handed a leaflet by a hippie pamphleteer, titled Animal Rights, from PETA. He knew them for who they were—fearless rapporteurs.
After he boarded the subway, he pulled out his phone and typed in the web address from the pamphlet. Many things on PETA’s website disturbed him, but what truly unnerved him was the undercover footage.
He knew cows and pigs were mistreated in slaughterhouses. But he never knew lobsters were dismembered alive, that monkeys in labs were electrocuted by cattle prods, or that elephants in circuses were whipped to their bones. His eyes welled up when he watched a video showing lambs tortured for wool. Hot rings were pressed around their scrota, their penises and tails snipped, and wool plucked from their skin, not clipped. All without anesthesia, making them scream in unimaginable pain.
Two videos disturbed him and left him sniffling on the train. Now that he had seen them, it was his responsibility to fight and get justice served. Or die trying.
The first video’s title was Kiss of Judas 2.0. It showed a bullring in Spain, where a poor bull was being stabbed and killed by a mob. Too petrified to stop and catch a breath, the bull stampeded around in confusion. Scared, bleeding, and weak, the timid bull finally fell, and hundreds of locals and tourists jeered and threw beer cans at it.
The matador was a Canadian, one of the best bull killers in Spain. Apparently the tough bull had refused to die, and he had to plunge a sword into its back six times to finish it off. He kissed the bull on its snout as its legs finally stopped scuffing about and making divots on the ground. In an interview, the matador said he kissed the slain bull because it was the toughest bastard he’d fought in his career.
Fighter bulls were abused, kept in dark rooms for days, before they were released into bright arenas. Lynching a disoriented animal was in no way an impartial contest. Naming this degrading public execution a fight didn’t do justice to the actual events unfolding in the jamboree. In this regard, the term bullfighter was a misnomer, wasn’t it? The title pusillanimous slayer of innocent and incapacitated herbivores would be more appropriate.
The next video that rankled Tyrel was from a crocodile farm somewhere in Taiwan. The reptiles’ mouths were tied, and they were cut at the back of their heads, creating small openings. Then cold rods were jammed into their spines as their body convulsed in agony. That these unfortunate victims weren’t allowed to bellow while they had metal shoved down their bodies made it harder to watch. And then they were skinned alive. Tyrel squeezed his eyes and peeked through the narrow slits.
According to a reptile specialist, the crocodiles were hardy boys and wouldn’t die for a long time after being skinned, writhing in pain for hours at times.
They were murdered to make bags, and the owner of that famous handbag brand resided in Germany. While researching that billion-dollar company, Tyrel found some demoralizing complaints raised against them.
Pregnant cows were slaughtered, and the live fetuses were yanked out, the umbilical cords ripped off, killing them. Then their soft, slimy skin covered in placental blood was flayed. The result of this atrocity was the costliest and smoothest leather on the market—slink leather.
Really? All this incomprehensible torment so someone could carry condoms or lipsticks in an expensive wallet? Tyrel threw up in his mouth, despising the arrogance of our species and the bloodcurdling things we do because evolution gave us opposable thumbs and some magic in the brain to make fire.
Fervid, Tyrel sprang up from the bed. He knew what needed to be done. As a master of tyrannicide, he loved to fantasize about hurting bullies. He had to kill these two, regardless of the obstacles he would need to overcome—the first being the borders he had to cross.
He couldn’t smuggle their skulls or leg meat into the country, but fuck that. He’d instigated this crusade for animals. He would do these with no gain for himself. Except for collecting the debtors’ hearts. That was the ritual, and it couldn’t be left out.
Since it was the first time he’d planned to go global, he decided to get the debtor closest to him to see how it felt to work outside his comfort zone, testing the waters.
He grabbed his phone and opened the web browser. In under an hour, he found where the cowardly matador lived. Tyrel would take a long drive north that weekend and learn the grounds.
He put the phone on the bedside table, lay in bed and closed his eyes, but he knew he wasn’t going to sleep that night. He couldn’t wait to see how the bull fighter would fare against someone who could actually fight back.
Chapter 23
September 17, 2017. 01:12 P.M.
Lufthansa’s in-flight vegan meal was delicious. The first course contained a chickpea medley, spinach, and peppers. The next had brown rice, potatoes, and corn. And Tyrel chased them all off with Jägermeister.
Bored with a playlist he’d been listening to for the past eight hours, Tyrel opened a fruit salad box. Two toothpicks poking out from freshly cut watermelon dices triggered intimate memories. His mind traveled to Canada, to the project that had gone far better than anticipated.
A month ago, he’d driven to Ottawa and parked in front of the matador’s house. A name plaque on the entrance wall read Gerald Tremblay and Bullfighter under it. Tyrel hawked and spat on the galling metal, clomped in and knocked on the door.
The coward seemed happy behind the chained door when Tyrel introduced himself as a fan. Gerald was famous in Spain, but not in the US. Just as soon as the chain came loose, Tyrel kicked the door in and pounced on his prey. In three punches, Gerald crumpled to the floor, face down. Tyrel stomped him on the back of his head. His forehead thumped on the floor, and he blacked out.
What a fighter.
Tyrel gagged the unconscious man and undressed him. Then he dragged a chair from the dining table and positioned it beside Gerald. He climbed up on the chair, jumped as high as he could, and all two hundred pounds landed on Gerald’s calf.
The beast awoke with a howl.
Tyrel lifted his leg from the splintered bones under his heel. He got up on the chair again and repeated the maneuver, pulverizing Gerald’s other leg bone.
Knowing Gerald wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, Tyrel jogged out
side and brought in his tools—three pairs of javelins, his impromptu replacement for banderillas, which weren’t readily available to buy. For fun, Tyrel jabbed Gerald’s ear with the metal spear. When he tried to crawl away in pain, Tyrel dislocated his shoulders, rendering Gerald’s arms useless, too. He felt warm listening to the muffled screams for mercy.
With Herculean effort, Tyrel thrusted the first pair of javelins into the back of Gerald’s thighs. He pierced the next pair through Gerald’s back, near the kidneys, and drilled the final two between his shoulder blades. The shrieking behind the gag saturated in drool became noisier on the third javelin. But from then on, it gradually weakened.
Tyrel moved back, stood akimbo, and regarded the six javelins erected on Gerald’s body. He was proud of himself, but he wasn’t done, not by a long shot. He went out to his car again and brought in a satchel holding more devices of atonement.
After the last installment of the punishment, Gerald’s body didn’t twitch anymore. Maybe it finally understood that the cost of energy spent on convulsing wasn’t worth the possibility of escaping. The gurgling breaths on the blood pooled under Gerald’s face became feeble, signaling Tyrel to start his final act.
He took a cleaver and a Bowie knife from the satchel, carved Gerald’s heart out from his back, and put it in a zipper bag. He cooked it later with a portable electric stove and ate it in a highway motel.
Now all the bulls killed by that monster could rest in peace.
* * *
Though his quarry resided in Munich, Tyrel had booked a room in Berlin. He was in a foreign land, but the rule he followed back home still applied here—never get someone close to where you are staying.
He checked into a hotel near the airport, took a hot bath, changed into tourist garb—a pair of shorts and a T-shirt—and went out. In under twenty minutes, a taxi took him to Berlin’s railway station, which had an impossible-to-pronounce name. He boarded the train to Munich at 4:00 p.m. sharp. The super-fast locomotive, named the ICE Sprinter, would reach his three-hundred-fifty-mile distant destination in just four hours. The Sprinter took off, and soon the world outside the cold window was flickering past at a 180 mph.
Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own Page 13
