Shadow Suspect

by Patrick Logan

  “What happened to him?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  Beckett shrugged and pressed his lips together.

  “He spent a number of months in a state psychiatric institution, and then was released. No record of him after that, except that he received a hefty life insurance policy from his mother, being a nurse ‘n all.”

  “How can a nine-year-old boy just go missing?”

  “As far as I can tell, he didn’t ‘go missing’, the police report just ends.”

  Drake mulled this over for a moment, before standing and adding several more pieces of paper to what Detective Henry Yasiv had called Gotti’s family tree.

  “It’s all in the report,” Beckett offered, but Drake was barely listening. “What’s this, by the way? Another butterfly slurry?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s the same stuff, but let me know as soon as you can.”

  “Well it’s definitely a Monarch caterpillar that’s for sure.”

  Drake ignored him and continued adding squares of paper to the board.

  He wrote Martha Slasinsky on one piece of paper, then poised his pen over the other.

  “What was the boy’s name?” he asked absently.

  “Lemme check,” Beckett said, and Drake heard him flipping pages from the police report. “Marcus—Marcus Slasinsky.”

  Drake dropped the pen.

  He had seen that name before. He had seen it just that afternoon, in fact.

  CHAPTER 51

  Drake knocked once then barged into the interrogation room without waiting for a reply.

  Tim startled and looked up at him as he entered, his eyes wide.

  “I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t know what you guys—”

  “What happened to your mother, Tim? Or should I call you Marcus?”

  Tim visibly recoiled.

  “My mother? What does this have to do with my mother? What does any of this have to do with my mother? And who the hell is Marcus?”

  Drake pressed his hands against the table and leaned forward.

  “Marcus Slasinsky—that’s your name, isn’t it?”

  Tim recoiled again, but this time it was different from when Drake had mentioned the man’s mother. There was something else there, something that might have passed for recognition if under other circumstances.

  Drake didn’t know for certain.

  “What are you—” Tim started, but the door to the interrogation room was suddenly flung opened.

  Drake turned to see Chase barge in.

  “Detective Drake, can I speak to you outside for a moment?” she asked, ice in her voice.

  “Just a sec—”

  “Now, Drake.”

  Drake swore and pounded his fist against the table before straightening and heading toward the door. Chase held it for him as he stepped through.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked when the door was finally closed. He tried not to let his frustration leak into his voice, but it was a losing battle.

  “Me?” Chase shot back incredulously. “What the fuck are you doing? I was waiting for you, just like you asked!”

  Drake shook his head.

  “It’s not him,” he stated simply, shaking his head. “Tim’s not the butterfly killer.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Drake quickly recounted what Beckett had told him. Chase listened with earnest, but by the time he finished, she was the one shaking her head.

  “I don’t know what the connection is yet, or if it has anything at all to do with our case, but Tim’s our guy.”

  Drake balked.

  “You don’t know what this has to do with our case? Are you listening to me? The blood from Thomas and Neil and probably Chris’s back is from a woman who died thirty years ago! A woman who was infested with Monarchs! You don’t know what this has to do with our case?” he mocked. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Drake realized that his blood pressure was rising, and with this every one of the wounds suffered at the hands of the thugs outside Veronica’s lair started to throb and ache.

  Chase tilted her head to one side and narrowed her eyes at him.

  “What’s wrong with me? You’re not seeing the facts, Drake. Just calm down… I don’t want to have to remind you that I’m the lead here, that you’re on thin fucking ice as it is without these outbursts.”

  Drake ground his teeth, wishing that he hadn’t opted out of the whiskey at Patty’s Diner.

  He saw red.

  Who the fuck does she think she is? She’s now a replacement for Clay? Well, I’ll tell you what, sister, Clay is fucking irreplaceable. You’re not him; you’re just a two-bit narc from Seattle.

  “Who got to you? Rhodes? Was it Rhodes?” he hissed. “Yeah, I bet it was Rhodes. Well fuck him and fuck you too.”

  Chase’s furious glare suddenly turned to mush and the pain on her face instantly made him regret his words. After all, Chase had been nice to him, the only person that had given a shit about him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his eyes. “I didn’t mean that.”

  Chase took a deep breath before answering.

  “No one got to me,” she said calmly. “And there’s nothing wrong with me—there’s something wrong with you. You’re losing it, unraveling at the seams. This is just like the Skeleton King. Did you see someone there, at Tim’s house? Huh? A black shadow, maybe?” Her words stung him like arrows.

  The truth was, he remembered the rear fence shaking and someone—something—disappearing into the darkness.

  Or did he?

  Did I see someone?

  “No,” he said softly. “Maybe… I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, and that’s the problem: you don’t know. What happened to your gun, Drake? I know sure as hell it isn’t in your car. Did you get drunk and leave it somewhere? Hmm? Let me guess, you don’t know where it is.”

  Drake sighed heavily.

  “It was stolen from my car,” he replied, all conviction gone from his voice.

  “Yeah, I’m sure it was. Go home, Drake. Go home and sleep it off. Get your shit together. I told you once, and I’ll tell you again: you can burn with your fucking sailboat, but I’m not going down with you.”

  Drake swallowed dryly. After a moment, he raised his eyes and leveled them at Chase.

  “Can I just ask him one question?” he said, desperation clinging to his tongue. “Please—just one? You can give me that much, can’t you?”

  Chase grimaced.

  “Fine. But I’m coming with you. And I swear to God if you try anything, I will arrest you for obstruction. Do you understand?”

  Drake nodded and turned back to the interrogation room. He moved to the door, but Chase stepped in front of him at the last moment and pulled it open.

  Inside, Tim looked up again, startled like a fish hoisted from water.

  “I didn’t do it! I didn’t—”

  “Shut up,” Drake spat. “I just want to know one thing: do you have a passport?”

  “A passport?” the man repeated, his face contorting.

  “Yes, a passport. Small book about yea big? Let’s you leave this country?”

  Tim considered this for a moment, not so much racking his brain to determine if he indeed owned a passport, but more likely trying to figure out the hidden meaning behind the query.

  “No,” he replied at last. “I’ve never left the Continental USA. Why?”

  Drake said nothing, but couldn’t help the hint of a smile that formed on his lips. Without another word to Tim Jenkins, he turned toward Chase and the still open interrogation room door.

  As he passed her, he whispered, “Hard to murder a man in Montreal with no passport, isn’t it?”

  Chase scowled, but bit her tongue.

  CHAPTER 52

  Detective Damien Drake was furious as he stormed out of 62nd precinct.

  Furious at Chase, at Sergeant Rhodes, at Tim Jenkins.

  But most of all he was furious
at Clay Cuthbert.

  Why weren’t you wearing your vest, Clay? Why the fuck weren’t you wearing your vest that night?

  Less than ten minutes later, he found himself pulling his Crown Vic into Patty’s 24-hour diner.

  It wasn’t adding up; if Tim was their guy, if he was pissed at Thomas Smith and his family for shutting down the Butterfly Gardens, taking his job away from him, then why did he murder Chris and Neil? How did they fit into the picture? And while in some twisted way the butterflies in the victims’ mouths made sense, what Drake couldn’t understand was the blood. Martha Slasinsky’s blood. What the hell was that all about?

  Drake shook his head. Tim Jenkins wasn’t the Butterfly Killer; he was sure of it. But he also knew that it would be next to impossible to convince Chase otherwise. After all, it was her case, and she knew all about the Skeleton King, about Drake’s reluctance to accept the fact that the man responsible for terrorizing New York City was Peter Kellington—a fucking perverted janitor.

  In a daze, Drake entered the cafe and took his usual seat in the booth opposite the door.

  Broomhilda came by, her patented sneer plastered on her lined face.

  “Key lime?” she asked with something akin to disdain.

  “Fuck the pie,” Drake spat. “Johnny Red, double, neat.”

  The weathered woman nodded and then left to retrieve his drink. Drake was the diner’s only patron until the door chimed and a man in the k-way jacket stormed in. His hood was down, his long brown hair a mess. He strode over with purpose and tossed a piece of paper onto the table between them.

  “You should answer your damn phone,” the man said, frowning.

  Drake looked at him for a moment, before pulling his phone out of his pocket. He must have switched it off after speaking to Beckett. He turned it back on, and set it on the table before picking up the paper.

  “What’s this?” he asked absently.

  “It’s what you asked for. And the Butterfly Killer exclusive better be good, Drake. I went to great lengths and pulled in a lot of favors for this.”

  Drake ignored him and turned his attention to the note. It looked like a draft written on a typewriter, and the date confirmed that this was likely the case: SEPTEMBER 12, 1994.

  The headline read: Boy, 14, bullied into a coma at the Butterfly Gardens.

  “What the hell?” Drake muttered. He looked up at the man across from him, but he only shrugged.

  Drake kept reading.

  It started out as a routine class trip, one that the grade nine students of Deer Valley Academy take every year. A field trip to witness one of the most awe inspiring and beautiful scenes that nature provides, one that videos simply cannot do justice: the start of the Monarch butterfly migration.

  Except this time, when the tens of thousands of butterflies took flight, they left a grisly scene on the ground below. The circumstances that left a boy in a coma and four others—sons of prominent New York businessmen—under investigation are unclear, but teachers and fellow students report that the victim, whose name has not been released, was the constant target of bullies.

  Drake looked up and he waved the paper.

  “That’s it?”

  The man across from him shrugged again.

  “It was an incomplete article. As soon as the editor—Leeds, editor Gentry Leeds back then—saw the draft, he shut it down.”

  “Fuck,” Drake swore.

  “But I did manage to find out the affluent kids’ names.”

  The man was smiling now, and in that moment, Drake knew who they were.

  “Chris, Neil, Tim, and Thomas,” Drake said, no smile on his face.

  “Hmph. I guess you heard this story already. But did you know this one? The name of the boy that was in the coma?”

  Drake shook his head and the man with the long hair threw a second piece of paper on the table.

  There were only two words on this one: Marcus Slasinsky.

  The breath was suddenly sucked out of Drake’s lungs.

  Marcus Slasinsky…

  “Where’s Marcus now?” Drake asked, folding the piece of paper with the name on it and tucking it into his pocket.

  “No idea. You’re the detective, I’m just a reporter.”

  Drake went to grab the other piece of paper, the one with the opening paragraphs of a news story that was never published, when the other man grabbed it first.

  “Naw, I’ll keep this one. Like I said, I pulled in a lot—and I mean a lot—of favors for this. For one tiny nothing article that so far as I can tell never led to anything, somebody spent a shit ton of loot keeping it sealed. The only reason I found it was because Gentry got sick and hasn’t gotten around to clean out his office yet, even though he retired more than six months ago. He’s not coming back anytime soon, and guess who has squatter’s rights?”

  Drake eyed the man’s pocket. He didn’t need the typed page, not really. All he needed was the information in the article. And now he had it. What it all meant, however, he wasn’t completely sure.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Drake nodded.

  “Thanks. Appreciate it,” he said curtly.

  The man titled his head to one side, hair falling over his left eye.

  “It wasn’t a gift, Drake. It was a trade. And remember, you owe me now.”

  And with that the man stood and slid out of the booth.

  “Go home Drake, get some rest. You look like shit.”

  That’s the second time tonight someone’s told me that.

  Drake watched him go and pounded the last of his drink. No sooner had the bell above the door stopped chiming did another sound fill the Diner.

  The sound of Drake’s cell phone ringing.

  He picked it up.

  “Drake,” he said, hoping that his voice didn’t come off half as tired as he felt.

  It’s Chase, telling me to come back, that Tim isn’t their guy. That she needs my help again.

  But it was a male voice that answered.

  “Detective Drake? I think it’s about time you come and see me.”

  “What? Who is this?”

  “It’s Kenneth Smith… and I think we should have a drink tonight. What do you say?”

  CHAPTER 53

  When Chase opened the door to the interrogation room, she felt oddly calm, as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

  She hadn’t meant to snap at Drake the way she had, but the pressure from Sergeant Rhodes and Drake… well, Drake being Drake, had pushed her over the edge.

  But none of that mattered, she realized. What mattered is that she had a suspect to interrogate. And armed with the additional information that Officer Dunbar had provided her right before Drake had burst into the interrogation room, and the high school yearbook, she felt more than confident that Tim Jenkins was involved in both NYC murders.

  So what if he “said” he didn’t have a passport.

  Everything else pointed at him.

  And he very much fit the profile.

  “Tim, I’m—”

  “I didn’t do it!” Tim yelled.

  “Relax, Tim. You aren’t under arrest. I just want to ask you a few questions. I apologize for my partner’s outburst earlier; it was uncalled for. And, as I mentioned to you in the car on the way over here, you are entitled to a lawyer, and you can ask for one at any point during this interview. Do you understand?”

  Tim nodded.

  “I just want to go home,” he pleaded. “This is just a fucked up misunderstanding. There was someone in my house, and he was standing over me, his hands…” he shuddered and for a split second she almost believed him. “And he brought the container and syringe with him. I swear, on my mother’s grave.”

  Chase found the word choice curious considering what Drake had been shouting when he had burst into the room.

  “Is she… alive?” she asked.

  Tim shook his head.

  “No, she died last year. Wh—what does that have to do with anything?”<
br />
  Chase shrugged.

  “Doesn’t matter. I want to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Neil Pritchard and Thomas Smith. Let’s start small. Did you know them?”

  Tim crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Yeah, I knew them both,” his eyes flicked to the high school yearbook that Chase had set down on the table. “I went to school with them.”

  Chase nodded.

  “And what happened? They went on to illustrious careers while you went on to what… work at a minimum wage job at the Gardens?”

  “No, not minimum wage. And I don’t really know what they went on to do.”

  This wasn’t true, and they both knew it.

  “Tim, if you’re going to lie about something as small as this, then we are going to have a problem here.”

  Tim pressed his lips together petulantly for a moment, then slumped in his chair.

  “Fine. I know what they did for a living—shit, everyone does. It was all over the papers. The Butterfly Killer and all that. Do I feel bad? No. Maybe for Neil, but not for Thomas.”

  “Why? Because he ended up with your high school sweetheart? With Clarissa?”

  Tim glared daggers at her and Chase responded by opening the yearbook. She spun it around so that he could see.

  “What? You thought I didn’t know?” she pointed at the photograph of a much younger version of Tim and a Clarissa who looked nearly identical, wrapped in a tight embrace, both wearing formal attire. “It’s all in here, Tim. You loved her, and she got away. Maybe she didn’t like the fact that you were working minimum wage, while Thomas was a junior partner in one of the most powerful law firms in the city. Huh, one that his dad and brother own. Was that it? Was that why she left?”

  Tim scowled at her, his face turning a deep crimson.

  “It’s not minimum wage,” he spat, and Chase knew that she had touched a nerve. “And that’s not why she left me.”

  “Is it because you live in a townhouse in the Bronx? Is that why? Because I’ve been to Clarissa’s home. It’s ridiculous—a mansion. Seriously, you should see it.”

  Tim leered.