Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  “No, McGlade. I want you to help us catch a murderer. Now sit, and tell us about your investigation of Talon Butterfield.” I forced a tight smile and added, “Please.”

  Harry weighed my sincerity, then sat down.

  “Not much to tell. Nancy pretended to go out of town for the weekend, had me follow him to see what he did. He went barhopping, picked up some little honey, and took her straight back to their place. Did it right on Nancy’s bed. I had to climb the fire escape to take pictures.”

  “And how many times did you see Nancy after that?”

  “I don’t know. Three or four. I think she used me to help get over Talon. I was happy to be of service.”

  “Did you have sexual relations with Nancy Marx?” Herb asked.

  “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Oh yeah, right. I shagged her a few times. In fact, we shared a room the night of the Trainter show.”

  “The Trainter show?”

  “Yeah. That was the first time.”

  “What about the Trainter show?” I asked. What did any of this have to do with the local talk show?

  “When you’re on the show, they give you a free hotel room the night before. Nancy shared her room with me.”

  “Nancy was on The Max Trainter Show?”

  “Sure. She and Theresa both. A show about cheating fiancés. You guys didn’t know this? Some detectives you are.”

  “Think carefully, McGlade. Who else was on that show?”

  “I don’t remember, Jackie. It was five, six months ago. The show was about women who were dumping their men because they cheated on them. There were one or two other girls, I think. It was a wild show, even for Trainter. They had to bleep most of it. Max and I are old beer buddies. I’m the one who persuaded them to go on, dump their guys on TV.”

  “Look at the picture again, McGlade. Was this woman on the show?”

  I showed him the first Jane Doe photo.

  “Are you deaf? I don’t know. You’re showing me a computer enhanced photograph of a dead chick, who I might have seen on a show months ago. I’m not good with faces.” He grinned at me. “So, have you finally forgiven me, Jackie? Maybe we could have a few drinks later.”

  “You’re free to go, McGlade.”

  Harry stood up and brushed his pants. The wrinkles didn’t come out.

  “Just make sure I’m mentioned in your press statement, or I’ll have to bring a lawsuit against this fine police establishment.”

  He shot me with his thumb and index finger, flipped the mirror the bird, and walked out of the door. A second later he walked back in.

  “You got a couple bucks for a cab?”

  I fished in my pocket and came up with some change.

  “Here.” I handed it to him. “Take the bus.”

  “Cold, Jackie. That’s cold.”

  But he took the money and once again left. I’m sure the press was waiting for him outside, and I could only hope he’d make himself look like an idiot in front of them.

  I probably didn’t have to hope too hard.

  “It can’t be this simple,” Benedict stated.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  We went into a conference room down the hall and grabbed a phone. A minute later I was on the horn with the network where The Max Trainter Show was taped. After being bounced around a few times I was put in touch with the technical director, a guy named Ira Herskovitz. Once I’d informed him of the situation, he agreed to send over a dub of the show in question. I told him to send the unedited master. He refused, stating that the master tapes never left the building.

  I was the cop, so I won. A squad car with sirens blaring went to pick it up, and when it arrived twenty minutes later I already had a 3/4’’ videotape recorder set up in my office.

  “Cross your fingers,” I said to Herb.

  I pressed the play button.

  Color bars and tone. A graphic with the show name, date, number, and director. Opening titles. Cue Max.

  Trainter introduced the first guest, Ella. Ella was actually Theresa Metcalf.

  Theresa dumped her fiancé, Johnny Tashing, in front of the studio audience. Tashing had been unaware of the reason he was on the show, and when Theresa confronted him about his affair and tossed her engagement ring in his face, the crowd cheered. Tashing looked destroyed.

  Next was Norma. Norma was our first Jane Doe, no doubt about it. She also dumped her cheating fiancé. He called her several naughty slang terms, and stormed off the stage.

  Third was Laura, aka Nancy Marx. Her fiancé, a guy we guessed was Talon Butterfield, was similarly dumped with much audience applause. Talon grinned a lot and shrugged his shoulders.

  Then Nancy’s new boyfriend was introduced. He came out, gave her roses and a peck on the cheek, and was abruptly attacked by Talon. Talon got in a good smack to the face, but the new man knocked him down with an uppercut before the bouncers separated them.

  The guy with the quick fists was our favorite private detective, Harry McGlade.

  The last guest came on. The fourth woman. The one we hadn’t seen yet. Her name was Brandy, and she was breaking up with her husband because he didn’t come home some nights during the week. She suspected an affair, and couldn’t take it anymore.

  When her husband came out, I paused the tape.

  There, frozen on the screen in midstride, was the Gingerbread Man.

  “That’s our guy.”

  Herb got on the phone with the studio, demanding the real names and addresses of the guests on this show. I let the tape run, watching as Brandy confronted the guy, watching as she dumped him, watching as the other girls on the panel called him names and teased him badly, watching as he picked up his chair, threw it at her, went into a screaming, swearing animal rage and attacked everybody on the set. Four bouncers and three security guards were needed to restrain him, and when he was hauled off the stage, the audience was on its feet cheering.

  “Charles and Diane Kork,” Benedict said. “Address in Evanston. Don’t know if it’s current.”

  I stood up and turned to face the eighteen other people in the room who were huddled around the TV.

  “I need anything we can find on Charles Kork. Criminal record, DMV, phone, credit cards, aliases, everything. I want to know his life story and I want it now.”

  The next twenty minutes were a stampede of activity, phone calls, and computer checks. My team would call out info as it came.

  “Got a record. Two stretches for assault and attempted.”

  “Divorce papers, finalized three months ago.”

  “I have a Diane Kork at an apartment on Goethe.”

  “DMV has a Charles Kork owning a 1992 Jeep.”

  “Evanston address checks out. Kork still seems to be living there.”

  Herb got on the phone again, dialing Diane Kork’s number.

  “Answering machine.”

  “Warrants,” I told him. I played authority figure and divvied up assignments, including picking teams to send to Diane’s place and to the killer’s.

  Sometimes this was how it worked. Tracking countless leads into dead ends, and suddenly it all came together. The end of the road.

  Dr. Mulrooney had talked about something setting our man off. I guess getting dumped on national television qualified as a good triggering event.

  “Kork is on Ashland and Fifty-third,” Herb said. “You want to go there, or Diane’s?”

  “There. Let’s move. I want eight men, full armor, now.”

  The adrenaline was pumping so hard, I didn’t even feel the pain in my leg. Herb and I helped each other into our Kevlar vests, snugging Velcro and adjusting the shoulders. Then we strapped on lapel radios and earpieces and headed for the patrol cars.

  I had four teams coming with me, plus me and Herb. Evanston PD was meeting us there with more men. Herb placed an obligatory call to the Feds, but called the local branch to stall for time—it would take a while to get the message
to Agents Dailey and Coursey, and by then it would all be over.

  In the black and white, siren screaming, Dispatch filled us in on Chuck’s record.

  “He’s thirty-seven years old. Eight arrests in the past nineteen years. Convictions for aggravated sexual assault and attempted murder. Last stretch ended in 1998. Since then he’s been clean.”

  “Not clean. Just careful.”

  The team heading to Diane Kork’s arrived first. She wasn’t home, and her place showed no signs of disturbance.

  I hoped we weren’t too late.

  Three miles from the target we killed lights and sirens. The houses here were one-story one-family dwellings, middle-class income. I was hyper-tuned to my environment, noticing many things at once; the streets were pitted with potholes, the dusk air smelled like leaves, my chest felt confined in the tight vest, Herb had sweat on his forehead.

  This was it.

  Benedict parked behind a row of squad cars, all waiting for his signal.

  “Ready?” he asked me.

  “It’s your show.”

  We got out of the car.

  Suddenly, tearing down the street with much squealing of tires, a black Mustang convertible bypassed the police barricade and bounced over the curb and onto the sidewalk. It screeched to a stop on Charles Kork’s front lawn, digging up four rolls of sod.

  A man in a trench coat, holding what looked like a gallon jug of milk, leaped from the car and ran up to the porch.

  I cleared leather with my .38 and limped in pursuit. Someone with a megaphone yelled, “Freeze! Police!” At ten yards away I dropped into a Weaver stance and kept a bead on the figure.

  “Freeze! Hands in the air!”

  The man put his hands up, still clutching the jug.

  “Turn around! Slowly!”

  I felt my backup fill in behind me. There was a tense pause. Then the man slowly craned his neck around and stared at me.

  “Kinda funny how history repeats itself, huh?”

  Harry McGlade.

  Chapter 39

  WAKE UP, MY LOVE.”

  He slaps his ex-wife across the face, watching the blood rush to her cheek. She whimpers, eyelids fluttering.

  “It’s Charles, honey. Wake up.”

  Diane Kork opens her eyes and stares at the man standing above her. She tries to move but can’t.

  “Charles, what are you—”

  He cuts her off with another cuff to the mouth.

  “You talk too much, Diane. Always talking. Always criticizing. I don’t want to hear it anymore. All I want to hear are your screams.”

  He walks away. Diane lifts her head, looking at what restrains her. Twine. Her ankles and wrists are bound with twine. She’s in her bra and panties, stretched out on a cement floor. Her hands and feet are tied to posts that have been driven through the concrete.

  “I’ve got four tapes.” Her ex-husband is standing off to her right, next to a video camera mounted on a tripod. “That’s four hours. Most women can’t scream anymore after the third hour, but I’ve got high hopes for you. You’ve got such a big mouth.”

  Charles Kork walks to a table and picks up a hunting knife.

  “Charles, please, untie me. This isn’t funny.”

  “You don’t think so? I think it’s high comedy. This is the American Dream, Diane. Killing the woman you married. For four years, I listened to you bitch and nag. And I took it. Why? First of all, because you were a perfect cover. Cops look for loners, not married guys. A single guy gets attention. A married guy is invisible.”

  “Charles—”

  “I’m not finished!” He hits her again. “Do you want to know what I was doing on those nights I never came home? You thought I was cheating on you, right? That’s why you left me.”

  Charles leans over her, gets in her face.

  “I was really out killing people, Diane. Stalking and killing people. Not cheating. Not really, anyway. I may have fucked them before I killed them, but I wouldn’t say I was having any affairs.”

  Diane squeezes her eyes shut. “This isn’t happening.”

  “Was I a bad husband, Diane? I spent time with you. I took you places. We even baked cookies together. Remember?”

  He grabs a lacquered gingerbread man from the table, the last one, and thrusts it before her eyes.

  “Look familiar? I was your perfect little suburban husband. I mowed the lawn. I paid the bills. I went out with your stupid friends and took you to movies and bought you flowers. I kept up my end of the bargain.”

  He bends down and smashes the cookie in her face.

  “And then, out of the blue, you decide to leave me. Leave me! On television, in front of millions of people! Who do you think you are? Nobody leaves me!”

  She’s crying now. “Charles, please—”

  “You don’t get it, Diane. I’ve killed almost thirty people. Your younger sister, who ran off? She didn’t run off. I buried her in a shallow grave in a forest preserve in the suburbs. Sneakers the cat? I broke his goddamn little neck. Haven’t you been watching the news? I’m the Gingerbread Man.”

  Diane’s eyes get wide as Charles kneels beside her. She begins to hyperventilate.

  “We’ve got four hours of tape to fill.” He brushes the tip of the knife over her quivering lips. “Four hours of quality time.”

  “Please, Charles. I’m your wife.”

  The Gingerbread Man cackles. “Till death do us part.”

  His knife enters her flesh.

  Chapter 40

  DAMMIT!” I UNCOCKED MY PISTOL. “Hold your fire!”

  I stormed over to Harry, who was smiling ear to ear.

  “I hope you didn’t scare away the bad guy with all that screaming, Jackie.”

  “Drop the milk and put your hands on your head, McGlade. You’re under arrest.”

  “It’s not milk. It’s filled with concrete.”

  “This isn’t a game, Harry. Now put—”

  Before I had a chance to finish the sentence, McGlade rushed the front door, swinging the milk jug at the knob like he was bowling. The door burst inward, momentum taking McGlade into the house.

  I saw the entire bust fall apart before my eyes, and without even thinking I hobbled in after him.

  “Around the back!” I yelled to whoever was listening. “Cover the perimeter!”

  The house was dark and silent. All the curtains had been drawn. There was a sickly-sweet smell in the air, disinfectant masking something else. Something rotten. I tried a light switch, but it didn’t work.

  “He’s cut the power.” McGlade was halfway down the hall, moving in a crouch. He’d dropped his plastic jug in favor of a .44 Magnum. It was the kind of gun I’d expected Harry to have—big and loud.

  “McGlade, you asshole!” I whispered viciously at his back. “You’re blowing this arrest!”

  “Just say you deputized me.”

  “I’m not Wyatt Earp, McGlade. Now put down—”

  “Hey, Charlie!” he yelled. “You’ve got company!”

  Somebody screamed. A woman.

  “Basement.” Harry rushed through the house opening doors. Closet. Bathroom. Stairway.

  We peered down. The stairs were dark and old, curving slightly so we couldn’t see the bottom.

  Behind us, cops flooded in.

  “Cover me.” McGlade headed down the stairs.

  “We’ve confirmed a woman in the basement,” I said into my lapel mike. “We’re going down.” I followed him, keeping one hand on the railing, trying to keep the weight off my bad leg.

  “Don’t shoot me in the back of the head, Jackie.”

  We made our way down several more steps, the soupy darkness engulfing us. I heard a jingle of keys and tensed, and then a little light went on in Harry’s hand.

  “Key light. Best buck-fifty I ever spent.”

  The basement floor came into view, and the smell wafted over us like a fog.

  “Christ.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “Something dead down here.”


  A noise at the top of the stairs made us turn. Two uniforms.

  “Flashlight!” I whispered.

  They shook their heads. They’d taken off their flashlights when they put on the Kevlar.

  “There’s the circuit breaker.” Harry played the light over a wall near the bottom of the stairs. “Go turn on the electricity. I’ll cover you.”

  I cleared my throat and passed McGlade on the stairs. There was a sound to our left.

  “Help me.”

  A growl followed, and then a heart-wrenching scream.

  I ran for the circuit breaker.

  Chapter 41

  THEY’VE FOUND HIM.

  He has barely started on her, barely even drawn blood, and now it’s all going to end.

  He curses, controlling the urge to cut her head off, forcing himself into action.

  The Gingerbread Man can handle this. It isn’t expected, but he’s planned ahead far enough to foresee this possibility. He puts the knife in his belt, checks his pocket for the lighter, and grabs his gun.

  He hears the front door burst in and he hits the circuit breaker, plunging the house into darkness. Someone yells his name.

  Diane screams. He walks to her in the dark, guided by the flame on his Zippo.

  “Scream again and I shoot you.”

  The gun goes into her mouth to drive his point home. Then he uses the knife to cut her free.

  “Kneel, bitch.”

  She kneels on the concrete floor, whimpering. He flicks his lighter again and finds the master fuse on the floor, running along the back wall.

  Voices.

  Charles listens.

  One is Jack’s.

  Light the fuse and get out of here, he tells himself.

  But Jack is so close.

  Charles wants to see her one more time.

  He goes to his wife and crouches behind her as Jack and someone else descend the stairs.

  One last time, Charles thinks. One last dance.

  Before everything goes boom.

  Chapter 42

  I RUSHED THE CIRCUIT BREAKER, OPENING the panel door and flipping on the main.