by TG Wolff
Yablonski opened a folder and laid out mug shots, one by one, of the murder victims.
McCormick picked up the picture of Mathias Jose Martinez. “He looks familiar. Maybe.” He shook his head. “That feels like forever ago.”
Yablonski leaned forward. “If you don’t mind me saying, it looks to me like you’re having trouble coping with your sister’s death.”
McCormick laughed. A nervous, anxiety-filled little chortle that said it all.
“The two of you were close?”
“She was my baby sister. She lived with me while she was going to college. When I saw what kind of guy Reese was, I begged her to come back. She did for a while, but she said she wanted to give her baby a chance at a family. I let her go. Everything in me said it was the wrong thing to do. I didn’t listen.”
“Have you talked to someone?”
“Who? A counselor? No. I work. That’s how I cope. I take care of business. One task at a time. No matter how hard. No matter how distasteful.”
Another twenty minutes confirmed that McCormick did one thing: work. Every day in question, McCormick was working. Asked if he’d heard about the heads, no time for news, he was working.
That didn’t ring for Yablonski and he let Cruz know it. Every media outlet splashed the last head for a day or two. He wanted to dive deeper on McCormick and Cruz gave him the green light.
For himself, McCormick’s words followed Cruz all the way home. I work. That’s how I cope. It was how Cruz himself had coped with his recovery. Once his body had healed to the point where it could keep up with his mind, he had to keep it occupied. Work was what he had, what he was good at.
It didn’t feel like a bad thing. So why when McCormick said the identical thing, did it sound like a rationalization? Why did it feel it was using an unhealthy tool to solve an unhealthy problem? Cruz realized he didn’t know enough about grief to know what was reasonable and what was abnormal.
As the day shift was coming to an end, he placed a call.
“Is there a problem?” Bollier’s voice was calm, clinical even.
“Of course, there is a problem and I need your help.”
“Where are you? I’m one foot out the door.”
Cruz stopped pacing. “Why?” Then it struck him. “No, Oscar, not that kind of problem. This one is for work.” He had laid out the theory to his sponsor. “I interviewed my first profiled suspect today. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what McCormick gave me. I need to consult with someone who understands grief. Do you have any friends I can meet?”
“Dr. Edna Rogozinski. I’ll make a call.”
“I appreciate it.” He knew Oscar would have the connections he needed.
“I missed our dinner last night. First one we’ve missed in a while. How was Easter?”
Cruz made time to talk, having the conversation they missed the night before. Work continued to be volatile for Bollier. The strain in his voice was at odds with the matter-of-fact words. Before he could press it, Bollier asked about Aurora and meeting the family. Cruz recounted the debacle while his friend howled with laughter. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself at my expense. Now, I need to get something to eat before I head to the meeting.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re going. I worry about you. You take too much on yourself, you know that, right?”
“I do not.” The defense was automatic. “I’m a detective. This is my job.”
“That’s right. It’s your job. Not your life.”
Tuesday, April 3
Dr. Edna Rogozinski was in Oscar Bollier’s graduating class at Case Western Reserve University nearly thirty years before. She maintained an office above several store fronts, close to Bollier’s favorite restaurant on Cedar Avenue. The waiting room had a desk but not a receptionist. Just a sign that read: The doctor will see you shortly.
Sitting, Cruz did what the modern professional did while waiting for a meeting. He worked on his phone. The last of the lab reports came in on Bear McKinley. It had become the norm: no stray DNA, no fingerprints, nothing to give direction to his hunt.
Some days it felt like all he was good for was waiting for the next body.
“Detective De La Cruz.” A short woman with big blue eyes and cherry red lips stood in the doorway. She dressed like a fashionable grandmother in clothes that were stylish but high on comfort.
He stood. “Dr. Rogozinski. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Please call me Edna. Any friend of Oscar’s is a friend of mine.” She led him into her office where the themes of calm and comfortable continued. “Oscar said you wanted to know about the grieving process.” With the wave of a hand, she directed him to a couch that wouldn’t look half bad in his house.
“Specifically, I am interested in the standard ways people manage grief and when grief tips over to become…something else.”
“Interesting words you used. ‘Standard’ and ‘manage.’ Study has shown there is a process, but inside process are individual people, each of whom has their custom version of standard and managing.”
“Did Oscar tell you about the cases I’m working on?”
“He did, and I’ve read some, but I would like to hear about from you.”
Cruz struggled with where to begin. He eschewed chronological order and led, instead, with the victims. They were the key to unlock this mystery. Once he began talking, he didn’t end for a long time. As he relayed the information, bits and pieces arose from the reports, witness statements, his own research, and found a place in hypothesis. He was up then, moving around the limited space.
“I see where you are going,” she said. “There are indicators or yellow flags, to be sure, but there isn’t a strict set of rules for determining who will come through the grieving process and be able to live productively again and who will not. I’ve been reading, reading a lot actually. I came across a concept that just won’t leave me alone. Altered reality.” She rose, then crossed to her bookcase and selected a text book. “The concept is that an individual is living by a set of rules different from the rest of us.” She didn’t sneer exactly but distaste showed on her face as she flipped through the pages. “Living next to us, but not with us.”
“You don’t buy it?”
“It’s a matter of degrees, I suppose. If a woman puts on a dress, looks in the mirror and thinks it is attractive, but the rest of us find it hideous, is she in an altered reality? If a man writes a book, is turned down by a hundred publishers, and he keeps submitting, is he crazy or persistent? These are simple examples, but do you see my concern? Taken on the surface, you could accuse everyone of living in an altered reality.”
“But then, maybe we all are a little crazy.” His fingers went to his scars as he considered how little black-and-white there was. “Can grief lead to an altered state?”
“In and of itself, it would be a rare occurrence, in my experience, but coupled with a mental health condition or susceptibility, the trauma created by the inciting incident could accelerate a decline. When I use the word ‘decline,’ I use it to refer to the mental state from our clinical point of view. From the patient’s point of view, it is only reality—unaltered. Each day is perfectly normal.”
He spun to face the doctor, his tongue sharpened by frustration. “The suspect is killing drug dealers and mounting their severed heads Vlad the Impaler-style around Cleveland. I don’t mean to be crude, Doctor, but I don’t fucking understand a normal that embraces that.”
Likely he wasn’t the first person to spit venom in the room as she ignored all but the message. “Punishment is an obvious starting point,” she said,” but it doesn’t work for me. From what you have shared, I would have expected more damage to the faces. That being said, we do not have the bodies, which could direct us down a different path.” She tapped her finger against her cheek. “Warning is stronger. Perhaps he uses the heads as a no trespassing sign of a sort.”
No Trespassing. That rang for Cruz. “Would that point to the suspect
being part of the illegal drug culture.”
“It is certainly a possibility. It doesn’t fit with the altered reality theory, though.”
He explained his inner-ring hypothesis and summarized his interview with McCormick. “I’ve taken hours of training on interviewing, but this didn’t follow the rules. It’s the old Catch-22. If you admit you’re crazy, then you must not be because crazy people don’t know they’re crazy.” He rubbed the spot between his brows. “McCormick wasn’t crazy. He was heartbroken.”
“Is there a difference?”
“One kills.”
“Which, Detective?”
He shook his head, not willing to chase the rabbit any further. “How will I know him when I see him?”
“Based on what you have said, your suspect likely does not view himself as a criminal, so you shouldn’t expect him to act as a criminal. You only hide when someone is chasing you.” A delicate bell chimed. “I’m sorry, Detective, my next appointment is waiting.”
He stood, offering his card and his hand. “I appreciate you squeezing me in. I hope you’ll let me call on you again, if I need to.”
Dr. Edna took a card from her desk and wrote on the back. “Absolutely. Here is my cell. Call any time. Good luck, Detective.”
A cup of coffee and two cheeseburgers later, Cruz sat on the edge of a weight bench, watching Deirdre “Dee Dee” Reynolds pound out deadlifts in the weight room of Fire Station 1. The thirty-one-year-old EMT was ripped and that made him feel guilty about the cheeseburgers.
Five-foot nine inches tall. He didn’t try to gauge her weight. She wore skin-tight black Lycra boy-shorts and a tank top with a floral pattern that raced down either side. She was a strawberry blonde with a trimmed close cut that could also be called boy.
“No point wasting your time,” she said. “Ask your questions.”
“What are you training for?” It wasn’t the question Cruz was supposed to ask but was the one at the front of the line.
“Regional cross-fit competition in three weeks. I took third last year. That bitch is mine this year. The tire flip got me. But I’m ready now. I can throw hundred-and-fifty pounds like it was a bag of dog food.”
He didn’t doubt it, watching the way her muscles bunched, then lengthened. “You lost your partner last summer.”
“The fucking junkie stabbed Stephan.” She stood tall then dropped the weights. They fell with a crash of metal, bouncing on the rubber mat. “We responded to an overdose call. The guy was unconscious one minute and slicing my partner to ribbons the next. It’s all in the report. Why are you asking me about it now?”
“Were you and Stephan close?”
“We were partners.” Her face tightened, revealing the depth of the relationship.
“Were you lovers?”
She snorted. “Stephan was gay. He kept is private life private, except with me. He was the brother I never had.”
“Your file noted you were written up for refusing to serve a patient.”
Reynolds walked to the wall where a water bottle and towel waited. She retrieved both. “He was blitzed on coke and threatened to cut my tits off if I treated the cut on his head. I may not have big tits, but they’re mine. He touched his head, figured out he was bleeding and changed his mind. I did not accommodate him.”
“Your file said you were referred for counseling.”
Reynolds took two hearty gulps of water. “I was, and I went. That was the only thing good to come out of that mess. It gave me clarity, you know? Helped me work through my feelings, to see the world in a different light. I didn’t know it at the time. It took months for me to realize what I had to do.”
Cruz raised a brow. “What did you have to do?”
“Set priorities. I took this job to help people. What happened couldn’t stop me from doing that, or the bad guys would have won. They had me keep a journal to puzzle through it all. I did. Still do. You’ll be in it tomorrow.”
“Do you recognize any of these men?” Cruz laid the victim photos out over the work bench.
“I see a lot of faces, Detective, just like you.” She went to the bench and took her time looking them over.
He watched her reaction. She took a good ten seconds with each photo, picking them up for a closer view. A few times her brows went up, only to fall away into a frown with a disgruntled little grunt.
“These could be a hundred guys. Some of them look familiar, but I couldn’t tell you from where. What’s the connection?”
“Have you followed the Drug Head murders?” He hated using the term, which had become the way the community referred to the victims.
“I hear things.”
“I’m looking for connections. Connections between Stephan and any of the victims.”
“Wrong tree, Detective. Stephan’s drug of choice was nicotine. He’d just made the switch to e-cigs, trying to cut down on the tar. His only connection to addicts and pushers was through the job.”
Cruz sat at his desk writing notes of his interview. The ambient sound that was the pulse of the department faded and he was one of few left standing.
Yablonski stepped in, pulling his jacket on. “Cruzie, shut that damn thing down. I’m hungry, thirsty, and want to see my lady.”
He looked to the book on mental health he wanted to read and the file he needed review for Wednesday. “I should—”
“Seriously, put it away. That girlfriend of yours isn’t going to be throwing darts alone for very long.”
Aurora’s long legs and inviting smile went IMAX on his mind. He shoved away from his desk so hard he hit the wall behind him. Again. “I’m the only one she throws darts with, and she damn well knows it.”
Minutes later, he bull-rushed into the bar to find her on her toes, helping a SWAT officer with his aim. A dart was in her hand, with his wrapped around it.
“It’s about the feel,” Aurora said, moving her arm back and forth in preparation to throw. “Feel it?”
“Oh yeah, I’m feeling it,” the burly officer said.
“Aurora!” Cruz snapped out her name. She jumped, planted the dart in the SWAT’s free hand, then turned in the direction of her name. She stood there, a tall, cool drink in painted on jeans and heels. He was a thirsty man.
“There you are.” Her mouth was upturned, inviting him to kiss her silky lips. “I thought maybe you forgot about me.”
“Impossible.” He wrapped her in his arms, tipping her back until she clung to his strength, kissing her until she forgot they were in public.
Wednesday, April 4
“Cruz. In here.” Commander Montoya stepped out of his office long enough to issue the order, then disappeared.
Leaving his second cup of the day on his desk, Cruz went into his supervisor’s office.
“I read your report on McKinley. Is it at a dead end?”
He wanted to deny it, but it was there in print. Every lead run to a dry and dusty ground. “I have a theory I am working parallel to the organized drug angle.” He laid it out, including the interviews with two profiled victims.
“You think one of them is our suspect?” Montoya sounded intrigued but not sold.
“That’s what I’m trying to determine. I had to try something different. Someone did this. Someone knows or saw something. Narcotics isn’t picking anything up on the street. If somebody was doing this to stake their claim, they’d be taking credit. That’s not happening.”
“What is happening,” Montoya interrupted, “is an urban war for territory. I need you back. We’re spread too thin to have one of our best out of rotation.”
The off-handed compliment bounced around Cruz’s head like a pinball, setting off lights and bells. It wasn’t supposed to matter—the job was about the job—but damn it felt good.
“I understand, Commander. I had planned to conduct three more interviews today. I’d like to see those through.”
“That’s fine, but I can’t guarantee the time. You’re next up.”
Cruz was so
lo as the rolling hills of the eastern suburbs raced by the window. Yablonski was back with narcotics. Neither was happy with the reassignments, but it was to be expected. For all the work they were doing, they weren’t getting a lot done.
Something about this inner circle theory rang with him. He wasn’t going to let it die. He would work it during the second forty, if he had to. Nights and weekends.
He hit the turn signal and exited the highway, hoping this next interview led to progress.
Anthony “Tony” Gentile, twenty-four, worked as a carpenter for a major construction company. It took a few calls to find out where Tony was that day. The construction site was forty-five minutes west of Cleveland. Gentile was rigged high above the river below, muscling wood boards into place. The superintendent spoke to him. Gentile looked to where he stood next to the unmarked police car. Methodically, efficiently, he returned to solid earth and approached them.
Though still early April, his olive skin of his thick forearms was darkened. “I heard you’re looking for me.”
“Detective Jesus De La Cruz.” He held out his identification. “I understand you lost your brother last summer in a drug-related incident.”
Surprise showed on Gentile’s face. “Yeah. My little brother Joey, Joseph.”
“The report said your brother was allegedly buying an illegal substance when gunfire broke out.”
“That’s what they told us.” Anger started to rise. Gentile’s words became short, clipped.
“Were you aware Joseph used?”
Tony shrugged it off. “It was just normal teenage experimenting. He said he and his buddies smoked a few joints now and then. Everybody does it. He sure as hell didn’t deserve to die for it.”
“The man accused of shooting him, D’Andre Lattimore, is in custody.”
“For manslaughter, for fuck’s sake. Lattimore’s claiming self-defense. You tell me how a thirty-year-old man can kill three unarmed teenagers and claim self-defense.”
“The file said they pulled a knife.”
