by C. M. Sutter
We left Lutz’s office as he lifted the phone’s receiver to make the calls. I planned to get back to Charlotte’s journal, and Frank would work with the rest of our team on talking to friends and acquaintances of Jill and Mitch Blass.
It was after ten when I got up, stretched, and walked to our cafeteria’s vending machine to buy a sweet roll. It would hit the spot with that fresh pot of coffee Kip had just made.
My phone rang as I got back to my desk. “Detective McCord speaking.”
“Jesse, it’s Lutz. Abrams called and said his patrol officers just followed Blass to a storage unit. He’s in there now, and I gave the orders to have them detain him. You and I will meet Patrol there and search the unit since it was us that he lied to.”
I pushed back my chair and slipped on my shoulder holster with the phone still wedged between my cheek and shoulder, then I told Lutz I was ready to go whenever he was.
“Meet me in the hallway. I’ll drive.”
At ten fifteen, we pulled out of our lot and turned west on Fifty-First Street. Once we hit South Ashland Avenue, we would head north to the multi-unit storage facility on the lower west side. According to my phone, it would take fifteen minutes to get there.
I turned my head toward Lutz as he drove. “I wonder if he’s always had that storage space or if he just rented it.”
“Doesn’t matter. What does is if we locate his guns and knives there. We can easily find out from the company when he rented the space. My question is why he rented storage space so far from his house. You’d think in this city, there would be storage units every mile or so.”
I had to agree. “One would think, and he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do if we find those weapons.”
Lutz cranked the wheel right as he turned in to the storage facility’s driveway. The closed gate prevented us from going more than fifty feet into the lot.
I grabbed the car’s door handle. “I’ll have them open the gate and tell us which row his unit is in.”
I climbed out and headed for the office. Inside, I explained the situation yet knew full well that a patrol unit was already somewhere beyond the gate. I was sure the office staff was aware of what was going on.
With my badge facing the man behind the counter, I told him we needed them to open the gate immediately so we could pass through. The man pressed the button, and as I looked over my shoulder, I saw and heard the gate creak open. I thanked him, told him to stay put, and ran to the cruiser.
“Let’s go.” I hopped inside. “His unit is number fourteen in row C. The guy at the counter said he’d already let a patrol car through.”
Lutz turned left, continued past two rows to our right, then turned at the third row. Halfway down, we saw the patrol car and Mitch Blass’s vehicle. Lutz pulled the cruiser around to the front of Mitch’s car, blocked it in, and killed the engine. We climbed out and approached the officers.
“Tillson, Foxworthy.”
“Detective McCord, Commander Lutz. Mr. Blass is in the back seat of the squad car.”
I lowered my head and looked through the window then opened the door. “What’s in that storage unit? Are we going to find the guns you said you sold years back?”
“You don’t have a warrant to search my storage unit!”
Lutz chimed in. “That warrant we presented you with yesterday covers all your belongings—in your house, your vehicle, or anywhere else we deem to be suspicious in nature. Plus, we have probable cause.”
Mitch snarled at Lutz. “Go to hell.”
“Not today, buddy, so sit tight.”
With Mitch locked in the squad car, the four of us began searching the one-car-sized unit. We were looking for a container long enough to hold rifles and a shotgun. If we found it, we would tear apart the space and look for knives. Ten minutes into our search, I spotted the most likely container buried beneath a half dozen boxes. A large plastic tote sat in the back corner of the storage unit, and those other boxes were probably there to conceal it.
I jerked my head toward it. “If the guns are here, they have to be in that tote. Nothing else is large enough to hold them.”
We made our way through the piled-up junk, the old broken-down lawn mowers and bicycles that had seen better days. It was apparent that Mitch Blass wasn’t one to throw away anything and probably had had that unit for years. Why he’d suddenly found the need to go there seemed suspicious, and that tote looked new compared to the rest of the junk within the four walls.
Moving things aside, we made a path to the back of the unit and began unloading the boxes that sat on the tote. It took only a few minutes, and we reached the lid.
I looked at the guys. “Boss, you want to do the honors?”
“Damn straight I do.” Lutz lifted the lid, and inside were two rifles and a shotgun.
“Son of a bitch. Just like we expected. Read him his rights and take him to a holding cell. We’ll deal with his ass later.”
Foxworthy and Tillson left with Mitch in tow. Lutz made another call, that time to Frank’s desk phone. “Mills, we need you at the storage facility. You and Jesse can tear the unit apart and look for knives. We’ve already found the guns in a tote.”
Chapter 27
As soon as Frank arrived at the storage facility, Lutz headed back to the station. We had our work cut out for us with the multitude of boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling. Bins, buckets, and barrels of miscellaneous junk that we would have to dig through filled the sixteen-by-twenty-four-foot space.
Frank eyed the room. “Damn, this is going to be an all-day project.”
“Unless we find the knives right away.” I pulled out my phone and did an online search of field dressing knives. “If he didn’t buy them individually, field knives normally come in a box as a set.”
Frank rubbed his brow. “And if luck was on our side, that box would have knives written across it.”
We had to work our way through the mess with some type of plan.
“Let’s start at the front, look through each box and container, and then set everything we’ve looked through outside by the cruiser. After we get through the entire garage, or once we find the knives, we’ll move everything back in. At least that way, we’ll have room to search.”
By the time we reached the halfway point, it was closing in on noon. Worry was setting in. If we didn’t find those knives, the only thing Mitch would be guilty of was lying to us, and that was likely so that we wouldn’t confiscate his guns.
Frank shook his head. “I don’t know, Jesse. This isn’t looking good.”
I folded my arms over my chest and took a seat on a box. “Maybe they’re farther back near where the tote was.”
“Maybe, or maybe he doesn’t have any knives at all.”
“He has to if he really is a deer hunter. We’ll find them. Why don’t you go get us some lunch while I keep looking? I’m starving and could use something to drink too. It’s dusty as hell in here.” I pulled a twenty out of my pocket and handed it to Frank. “Lunch is on me, buddy, but bring back something good.”
I watched as Frank drove away, then I got back to work. We had no proof that Mitch had stashed the knives in the garage space, but his lack of common sense gave me the gut feeling that he had. If Mitch was guilty of wrongdoing and had half a brain, he would have buried those guns and knives far from each other and under the cover of darkness. Most of all, they would be somewhere that we couldn’t easily search. I continued on and looked through four more boxes, but I found nothing. Frank was back fifteen minutes later with the standard fare—burgers, fries, and sodas. We took a short break, ate, then got back at it. I wanted to be out of that dusty, dimly lit, and possibly mouse-infested space sooner rather than later.
We had pushed all of the boxes to the front of the garage as we went through them. At two o’clock, we stopped and assessed what remained. A final row against the right wall had six boxes left to search. Everything else had been checked, and we’d come up empty.
�
�If we don’t find them in these last few boxes, we’ll have wasted four hours of our day. There’s the chance that Mitch Blass might be smarter than I gave him credit for.”
A half hour later, we’d finished our search of the boxes and hadn’t found a single knife. I kicked the last box out of pure frustration.
“Now we’ve got nothing to hold him on. Lying to us about the location of those guns doesn’t prove he committed a crime. He’ll end up with a slap on the wrist and a hundred-dollar fine at most, damn it.”
Frank shrugged. “We had to check no matter what. Let’s load up those guns, put all this crap back into the garage, and get the hell out of here.”
I grudgingly agreed, and we were done by three o’clock. Before Frank drove out of the gate, I told him to hang on. I wanted to make sure Mitch didn’t have another storage space at the facility. I climbed out of the car, went inside, and asked.
When I returned several minutes later, Frank eyed me. “Well?”
I waved him on. “Nothing. Let’s head back to the precinct.”
My phone rang as Frank made a left onto South Ashland Avenue. “Yep, and they just found the body now? Okay, text me the location. By the way, we didn’t find a single knife in that garage space.” I looked at Frank, who rolled his eyes at me. Lutz was cursing, and it was obvious that Frank heard it through my phone.
“Where to?”
“East Sixty-Ninth Place and South Dorchester. Sounds like a pretty gruesome homicide took place there.”
Frank groaned. “When it rains, it pours.”
When we arrived, Lutz stood outside a modest single-family house, talking to an officer. Two squad cars as well as the forensic van already sat along the curb. Frank snugged our cruiser behind the last patrol car, and we got out and approached Lutz.
“What’s the short version of the murder?”
Bob grumbled. “No short version, only a violent one. DB inside is Jeff Vaskey, the editor for that small-time free Chicago paper, Windy City Coffee Break.”
I frowned. “The paper that advertises local events and has the one-page classifieds section?”
“That’s the one.”
“Manner of death?” Frank asked.
“Who the hell knows? Something big and heavy. The man’s skull is cracked open like an eggshell.”
That wasn’t an image I wanted to linger in my mind. “Sounds like a rage killing. If he’s the editor of that paper, why didn’t anyone wonder where he was this morning?”
Lutz looked around as if seeing which officers were within earshot, then he lowered his voice. “Patrol was called this morning to conduct a welfare check after Mr. Vaskey didn’t show at work or answer his phone. They knocked, rang the bell, and even peeked through the living room window. Nobody answered, and nothing appeared out of place when they looked inside. They left thinking the man wasn’t home. Hours later, they got another call, that time more frantic. Officers returned an hour ago, knocked again, and finally went through the back gate. That’s when they saw the car through the garage window and made a forced entry into the home. They found the man in his bedroom, bludgeoned to death.” Lutz tipped his head toward the house. “Come on. I’ll show you the scene. Forensics is working the bedroom right now, and Don should be here soon.”
Frank and I followed Lutz through the living room then, twenty feet later, made a left into the hallway. The last room on the right was obviously the location. Officers spilled out into the hallway, and the familiar voices of Mike Nordgren and Danny Bradshaw were beyond the door. We excused ourselves, moved past the officers, and entered the bedroom.
“Holy shit.” Frank whistled. “This is probably the most violent murder I’ve ever seen.”
I had to agree—it was definitely overkill, which meant it was likely a rage killing. Blood spatter was everywhere, and the body lay splayed out on the floor near the edge of the bed. The man’s head, mostly crushed, resembled a melon that had been broken open. We could see him only from the back.
Mike reminded us to watch our footing and stay out of the blood as we cautiously approached to get a better look.
“Jesus.”
I shook my head to clear it and took in the rest of the room. The bathroom and hallway were free of blood, and the location of the man’s injuries—on the back of the head—told me he had been hit from behind and that the killer had been lying in wait.
Frank gave us his assessment. “He’s in his boxer shorts, and the bed appears to have been slept in, so it must have happened during the overnight hours.”
That made sense. The blood was already brown and looked to be coagulating. The fact that his colleagues had called for a welfare check that morning also confirmed that Mr. Vaskey had died hours earlier.
Lutz spoke up. “So, the killer broke in while the homeowner was sleeping, sneaked into the bedroom, and then whacked him with a heavy instrument.”
“Not exactly. If that were the case, Mr. Vaskey would still be lying in bed. It was probably the intruder’s intention, though. Say Mr. Vaskey got up to take a leak, the killer was already in the room, so now he had to hide.” I pointed at the back of the open bathroom door. “He likely waited there, and as soon as the homeowner walked out to climb back into bed, he got nailed from behind. What else makes sense? There’s no sign of a struggle. It was a blindside through and through.”
Mike agreed. “Yep, that’s how I see it going down.”
We heard Don excusing himself as he came down the hallway. He entered the already crowded bedroom. “Son of a gun. Killers get sicker and sicker every day. How soon before I can get to work?”
“Another ten minutes should do it for us,” Danny said.
We backed out into the hallway and spoke with Don. I gave him our assessment and the timeline that had been established by the call for a welfare check that morning.
Don nodded. “His body will probably be in full rigor if he was killed during the night. Also, lividity will tell me if the position and location he’s in was where he died.”
I excused myself and stepped outside with the officers. “Anyone start knock and talks?”
“Not yet, sir,” Crawford said.
“Okay, go ahead and get rolling on that. Look for houses that have doorbell cameras too. It’s doubtful that anyone actually witnessed an intruder at that time of night, but a camera might have caught some movement.”
“Roger that, Detective McCord. We’ll keep you posted.”
Chapter 28
Crossing the threshold, I found the commander and Frank standing in the living room. I informed Lutz that I’d sent several officers out to canvass the neighborhood. The house was too small to have a crowd of people in there, anyway.
“Is Blass in a holding cell?” I asked.
“He is for the time being. Maybe later you guys can shake his tree again and see if something different falls out.”
“Besides BS?”
“Yep, besides that. Henry and Shawn are tracking down the previous girlfriends Blass mentioned. There’s a chance that at least one of them wasn’t only previous but could still be current.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said, “and that could be motive.”
Lutz nodded. “So, where are the guns?”
Frank jerked his head toward the front door. “In our trunk.”
“Okay, not a problem. When we get back to the station, you can sign them into the property room, where they’ll sit until we straighten out the Blass mess.”
We returned to the bedroom, where Don was examining the body. Mike dusted the doors for prints while Danny photographed the bathroom.
Lutz stepped a little closer and got Don’s attention. “What can you tell us about the vic?”
“Blood spatters are dry, and the pool under his head is sticky and coagulating. Body is stiff, and the lividity on his underside tells me he’s been in this position for hours.” Don pushed his glove up and looked at his wristwatch. “It’s nearly five o’clock now, so I’d say he’s been dead b
etween twelve and fifteen hours.”
“So at least a few hours before the welfare check was called in?”
“Definitely, and the body temperature confirms that. It’s in the low nineties.”
“Okay, so blunt force trauma is the COD?”
“I’m going out on a limb by speculating since we don’t have a murder weapon, but to connect with a skull with so much force that it was cracked wide open means the perp had to have swung something. I’d say that something was likely a baseball bat. There aren’t any wood splinters that I’ve seen on the victim’s skull or in his hair, so that would lead me to believe it was an aluminum bat.”
Lutz nodded. “Makes sense, and the perp wouldn’t have to be right on top of him either. Less chance of blood spray hitting him.”
Don said he disagreed. “Believe me, the perp didn’t walk away clean. He’s lucky he left under the cover of darkness since I’d venture to say he had plenty of blood spray and brain matter on his clothing and face.”
That image was disgusting, but so were the actions of the killer. Now we had three murders to solve, but this one was definitely the most violent. I hoped the killer’s only beef was with Jeff Vaskey, otherwise there would be more horrific deaths on the horizon.
I wrote down what we knew to be fact. There was no forced entry, so either Jeff opened the door to his killer earlier before he went to bed—meaning the man was an acquaintance that Jeff invited to stay the night—or the killer picked the lock and sneaked in. The house hadn’t been ransacked, so that ruled out robbery, and Jeff was absolutely the target of the killer—that couldn’t be denied. The jury was still out with Charlotte and Jill. Their deaths could have come from opportunistic murderers, and since they were killed in public places rather than in their homes, we didn’t have enough information yet.
“The newspaper he worked at is closed now. Why don’t you two head back, get those guns locked up, and work on Blass. I’ll stick around until the guys leave and the house is secured, and then I want to talk to the officers who canvassed the neighborhood.”
