by TG Wolff
The low, gray skies and heavy raindrops forewarned of the day coming. Cruz personally notified the next of kin. The stories of these men’s lives were important to the people who loved them and to an unknowing group of people who would be the next targets. Because there would be more.
The suspect had escalated.
The rules were changing.
Grief had so many faces. Two had been expecting the visit. Maybe not that particular day, but there had been little expectation that the end would come naturally. Cruz had been able to collect a few names, a few tips.
He had been chased out of one house, accused of failing to do his job and of turning his back on people of color. It always confused Cruz, who looked at his own sun-kissed brown hands that would never be mistaken for white. He supposed the slur was leveled at the generic you—or in this case, the entire Cleveland Division of Police. Yet what did the general public actually know or understand of the Cleveland police? Snippets. Sensational ten second lead-ins designed to make you turn on the news, or buy a newspaper, or like a post. Three-week coverage on poor outcomes, losses. Three-second coverage of successes, victories.
As he was smarting from the sting of one woman’s grief, he drowned in another’s who begged him for justice for her brother. The acrid loss of the loved one was made unbearable by the fact that only the head had been found. He left the home of Drew Martin’s sister aching for her. She’d wept silent tears for the brother who had braided her hair as a child and slept in her bed when storms gave her nightmares.
The afternoon was brutal in a completely different manner. The first hour was spent in front of the board he’d created, then taken down when the trail when cold and other priorities had risen, then put up and so on and so forth. This time it was out to stay until this business was done.
The little they had learned since the first discovery in November was posted for all to see. There were so many connections between the victims it looked like a black web had been cast over the board. In the center was a silhouette of a man, surrounded by but not connected to the web.
Not yet.
Cruz added the image of Frankie Pelletier to the board, connecting her to the suspect with a red line. Yablonski stormed into the room, his gaze intent on the board.
“I spoke with the pastor, Father Kevin O’Byrne. The church hosts what the pastor called a Souper Bowl every Sunday night. A pot-luck dinner with Bible study. Last night’s began on time at six-thirty and broke up around eight-forty-five. The doors were locked, and he was back in the rectory by nine.”
“That’s cutting it close. The fax was stamped eight-thirty.”
“The machine is one of those all-in-one fax-scan-print devices. The jobs report indicated a one page was printed the minute before the fax was sent. The original was not to be found. None of the computers had been accessed. Probably it was printed from a USB drive. Crime scene collected five sets of prints from the machine, but it’s in a church office.”
“He knew a lot about that church. You don’t just happen across a machine that can print and fax in a church office on a Sunday night. I want the names and addresses of everyone at the Souper Bowl. Odds are he’s familiar to someone at the church.” Cruz went to the section of the board holding a map of Cleveland. The locations of the victim recoveries were marked with blue dots and flagged with the victim’s name and date discovered. Orange dots signified other key locations: the pet store where Mayes worked, the Parker home, the garage where Kroc and company were taken from, the home where Kroc was found. Cruz added a dot for St. Artemis.
“He’s all over the city. I don’t see a pattern.”
Montoya stepped out of his office, pulling on his jacket. “Cruz, Yablonski, let’s go.”
The meeting in the chief’s office kicked up a notch on the intensity level. Narcotics Commander Traylor Deere leaned on the faux wood table, pointing at the map of Cleveland. “We’re seeing a complete shift in the drug market. Every other corner is empty.”
Montoya snorted. “You sound like that’s a bad thing.”
“It’s unstable. So far, damage has been limited to players and property. But that’s been our good luck. It’s not going to last. Sooner or later somebody’s kid is going to die for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Montoya raised his brows, acquiescing. “What do you think these latest deaths will do?”
“Rinada matters. We were investigating his connections to Mexico. He was bigger than just Cleveland. We’ll see how the syndicate responds. For now, I’m expecting there’ll be a shortage.”
“I want to engage with the remaining leaders,” Cruz said. “Follow my thinking on this. We have established a strong connection between the victims. A focused connection, given the suspect did not dispense of Kroc when he had the opportunity. We haven’t found a connection between the victims to a common person, or place, or thing for that matter. But it’s there. The guys on the street are our best chance of putting the pieces together on this suspect.”
“The FBI concurs with your thoughts,” Special Agent Bishop said. “When this is solved, people in the underground drug community are going to look at each other and wonder how it could have been Bob or José or Deonte or whatever. Not just someone they knew, but someone they trusted.”
Deere chewed on his bottom lip as he considered. “My guys will talk to their informants.”
Yablonski stepped up. “Cruz and I can do some drive-bys.”
“We gotta try something,” Montoya said. “He’s drawing a fricking circle around our city.”
“The note the reporter received, assuming it is from the suspect, provides significant insight into the suspect’s altered reality.” Chen stood as he spoke to the growing number of people gathered around the chief’s conference table. “We see clearly that the suspect sees himself as an instrument of justice, not as a criminal. A man with duty and honor, protecting his home.”
Cruz flashed back to the conversation with Dr. Edna Rogozinski. “A no trespassing sign.”
Montoya leaned into the conversation. “Does this mean the suspect is a native Clevelander?”
Chen shrugged. “Perhaps, but he could also be someone who feels a deep connection to the city. Maybe an immigrant who was persecuted in his country of origin, or someone who came here for schooling and settled. The suspect has clearly identified with the city itself.”
Ramsey interrupted. “How do you explain the reporter?”
“Perhaps he sees his mission as failing in some manner. The later lines are practically a call to arms. Metaphorically, if not literally. The use of a reporter, in my opinion, is somewhat obvious, but also traditional. A reporter would get the message out. Other options, such as self-posting to social media, could accomplish a similar thing, but leave digital footprints.”
Yablonski lifted a finger. “Maybe the suspect isn’t comfortable using social media. He faxed the note to Ms. Pelletier. It’s not exactly cutting-edge technology. It was easy to trace, the freaking number was printed on the top. He just got lucky he wasn’t seen.”
“Or wasn’t noticed. Just like when he stood on the sides of the interstates.” Cruz rubbed his face, wiping away the fog settling in. “We’re chasing the Invisible Man.”
Ramsey stood, signally the end of the meeting. “I have a press conference to prepare for. What I want to know is…is this going to escalate further, Doctor?”
Chen pointed to the printed text of the message. “There is no reason to expect otherwise. He clearly feels his work is unfinished.”
Cruz left the chief’s office, headed for the coffee. Yablonski at his side.
“If Chen said the word ‘clearly’ one more time, I was clearly going to show him what a size thirteen could do to a MD, PhD, M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E.” Yablonski went for the candy machine, fed in a fiver and called for two Snickers.
“I hadn’t even noticed until you said that. Man, now I’m going to hear it every time. You suck.”
“Just sharing the love.” Yablonski tore into the first sugar stick. “Speaking of love, you still going to Becky’s tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if now’s the time for throwing darts.”
“Screw the darts. I’m proposing, remember? I’d like my best man there.”
Cruz choked, and it wasn’t on his coffee. “Best man.”
“Well, you’ll have to audition for the part, but I happen to know you have a sweet victory dance. What do you say?”
“Yeah. Hell, yeah, man. I’d be proud to stand for you.”
Yablonski smiled, relaxed. “Wanna see the ring?” He dug into his pocket. The black velvet box opened to a round diamond sparkling up from a flat mounting. “It won’t catch. When she wears latex gloves. See, the mounting is all smooth, so the glove will slide on and off with no problem.”
Cruz whistled in appreciation. “You’re carrying it with you?”
“Well, you know. I was afraid I might forget it.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to lose it?”
Yablonski glared at him and snapped the box shut. “Well, I wasn’t until you said that. Shit. Where can I put this? I’ll run it home.”
“No time. Press conference.”
“Shit. Shit. Here. You hold it.”
Cruz put his hands up. “Why me?”
“You’re the best man. It’s your job to hold the ring.”
“The wedding rings. On your wedding day.”
“Tomayto tomahto. Take it.”
And so, Cruz walked into the press conference with a bulge in his pocket that had nothing to do with being happy to be there.
The chief handled the press conference with his usual polish. Cruz stood straight, adorning the stage as did the Yablonski, Chen, and the others involved in the case. Even Special Agent Bishop attended, strategically squelching any speculation on the FBI’s support of the Cleveland police. Chin up, shoulders straight, neutral expression. They all wore it like a uniform.
The minute he was released, Cruz hurried back to his empty office. Information had begun flowing in. Initial findings from the medical examiner and the lab. The same blade was used on this weekend’s victims as was used on the prior victims. The cuts were equally clean. Toxicology indicated sleep medication in the victims in high amounts.
“Bingo,” Cruz said. The toxicology on Officer Nick Kroc wasn’t back yet. There was a way around that. Twenty minutes later, he knocked on the partially opened door of Nick Kroc’s hospital room.
“Come on in,” Kroc called. “Cruz. I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Brought you dinner.” He set the brown paper bag on the tray.
Kroc wasn’t polite about digging in, but he was appreciative. His eyes rolled back, his mouth full of the pork shoulder sandwich. “’Opital ood ucks.”
“Understatement,” Cruz said, glad he’d spend the ten minutes and ten dollars on the sandwich and onion rings. “When you getting out of here?”
“Not soon enough.” He paused to finish the mouthful. “Docs aren’t too happy with the circulation in my feet. I’m pushing the rehab though. Already been here too long.” He took another bite.
“You up for a few questions?”
“Not going nowhere. Yet.”
Cruz pulled the guest chair closer to the bed and sat. “Preliminary tox came back on the men you met with. All had high levels of prescription sleep medication.”
“I thought they were just stoned. They had little twelve-ounce bottles of Mountain Dew. I sipped one. Dew ain’t my soda of choice, but I wanted to make a good impression.”
“You didn’t eat or drink anything else with them?”
“No.”
“The suspect got to Rinada or one of his men. He took a risk with drugging the soda. What if they didn’t all drink it?”
“Wouldn’t he have scoped that out? Provided the drink of choice? Probably there was a backup plan.”
“Yeah,” Cruz said, pacing the small room. “Yeah, he would have. This suspect is smart and patient. You must have surprised the hell out of him.”
“For which I am eternally grateful.” Kroc paused for a moment, then attacked the sandwich with a refreshed vigor.
Cruz missed his Monday night meeting, and he didn’t like it. Sobriety for him was like riding a bike. He had to practice it regularly, so he didn’t fall on his ass. There were other AA meetings in the city, but this one was his. He knew every face and the story behind it. But tonight, he would be looking at a different face. Three hours in a car doing a ride-along while Yablonski worked followed by too many minutes of emails had Cruz numb from the eyes down when he crossed the threshold of his home. He walked in the door, kicked his shoes off, walked up the three steps to the main floor, dropped his jacket on the floor, walked up the stairs to the second floor discarding his shirt, undershirt, belt, and pants. His socks and underwear were dropped next to the bed. Then he slid beneath the warm sheets and curled around his hot-blooded woman.
Aurora turned automatically, wrapping her arms around him. “What time is it?”
“It’s late, baby. It’s already tomorrow.”
“Hmmph. Glad you’re home.”
“Me, too.”
Tuesday, May 15
Cruz woke on a gasping breath. The life was being choked out of him. Instincts surfaced, and his hands went defensively to the warm…soft…arms? Hair, silky and fragrant, blinded him. “Aurora. Can’t breathe.”
“Sorry.” She giggled, not sounding at all sorry, but released him.
“What time is it?”
“Six-thirty. I need to get going.”
“You’re awful perky today. Why’s that?”
“Because I have you.” She straddled him, kissing him until he was awake and hungry for her.
He anchored her body against his, rolling his hips against her. “Hmm. And I have something for you. Why don’t you slip those panties off?”
She rolled her pelvis, grinding against him. “I can’t, Detective, I’ll be late.”
“I’ll write you a note.”
She laughed, kissing him in a lazy, sultry manner that made him forget his own name. Then she ruthlessly climbed off him, slipping out of his hands. “Let’s do something together tonight. Just us.”
Cruz grabbed her hand. “I want to do something right now. Just us.”
“I’m serious, Zeus. You’ve been working for two days straight. You need to take a break.” She paused briefly. “I heard about your case.”
Cruz groaned and rolled away from her.
“You can talk to me, you know. I may not understand all the police lingo, but I’ll understand enough. I’m not stupid.”
He lifted his head to gape at her and then narrowed his eyes. “Who called you that?”
“No one,” she sat on the edge of the bed. “I know I’m not the smartest person in the world. I struggled for Bs and Cs in school, but I can draw and I’m good with kids and I can be a good partner to you.”
Rolling back, he stroked her cheek, soothing her self-doubt. “You are a good partner. I never imagined having someone in my life like you.”
“I love you.” She turned her head and kissed his palm.
“Back at you.”
All the radio stations, all the morning television programming, all the newspapers headlined the case. Cruz listened to the television as he dressed. Aurora had picked up after his striptease. His shoes and belt were back in the closet. His jacket hung from a doorknob. He silenced the noise in his house, then in his head and read his daily meditation.
In the car, he channel-surfed from the college stations through talk radio to morning drive-time shows. The DJs hinted at the public’s response, ranging from shocked, to curious, to outrage, to jazzed.
A collection of newspapers waited on his desk. The Torso Murders Redux. Drug Heads Ring City. Cleveland’s Bloody Necklace.
“Some of them are pretty creative,” Yablonski said.
Cruz looked over a summary report fr
om the department managing the tipline. “The hotline is warming up.”
“The hotline isn’t the only thing. One of the families is planning a protest for today.”
“Which one?”
“Mayes.”
Cruz pictured Mrs. Mayes and her grief-stricken countenance. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks it’s her righteous neighbor.”
Yablonski pointed to the screen. “It’s going viral. A couple churches are jumping on board.”
“Do they have a point?”
Yablonski snorted. “We suck, and they can do our jobs better than we can. Isn’t that always the point? Oh, yeah, and we hate everyone and want them in jail. We get off on it.”
“I better make sure the chief and commander know about this.” There went the first hours of his morning.
While satisfying a crazy jonesing for his missed second and third cups of coffee, Cruz’s cell rang. “Miss Pelletier, what’s new this morning?”
“Same ol’, same ol’. Do you know how Nicholas is doing?”
“He’s recovering. He’s a good man and we need him back.”
“Back? Like he’s a cop? He doesn’t look like a cop. Is he undercover?”
He couldn’t believe he made such a stupid, idiotic, stupid, fucking mistake. “You keep this to yourself. He’s still under.”
Frankie was quiet, and Cruz was afraid that sharp mind was working through the machinations. “Is that why the suspect let him go? It wasn’t just that he wasn’t selling or using drugs, but that he was fighting them, just like our crusader is?”
“God, please do not call the suspect a crusader. He is a killer, short and simple. Not a fucking superhero.” Crap, he just used the f-word with a witness who was also a reporter. He had to keep it together.
Undeterred by the lecture, she continued with her line of thinking. “The point is the suspect may have a sort of kinship with Nicholas. Maybe you can use that to draw him out.”
“Nicholas may lose his use feet because of the son of a bitch.” Exaggeration? Maybe. Maybe not.
