Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1)

by J. Robert Kennedy

Police Officer Stewart sipped his coffee, enjoying the last few minutes of his 10-63. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, dreaming of the Dominican beach he and his girlfriend would be on next week. Sandy beaches, blue-green water, sunshine. No clouds, no rain. And beaches full of scantily clad women. Life is good! He’d have to watch himself; his girlfriend was the jealous type. He’d never dream of cheating on her, but a guy’s allowed to look, just not touch. That’s what they invented sunglasses for. A squeal of tires startled him and he opened his eyes in time to see a car careening toward him. He tossed his coffee and dropped the car into reverse, hammering on the gas. The car surged backward as the oncoming vehicle continued to gain. He spun the wheel to the right and the squad car jerked to the side, the other car narrowly missing him as it sped past and collided with a nearby light standard. He slammed his brakes on and breathed a sigh of relief, taking a moment to regain his composure. Turning his cherries on, he pulled in behind the car, blocking its escape, then radioed it in. He climbed out and drew his weapon. As he approached the car he saw the occupant asleep on the steering wheel. Fucking drunks! He holstered his weapon and pulled out his nightstick, tapping on the window. Nothing. He tapped again, this time harder. The man stirred and looked at him. “Howdy, Officer!” he waved.

  “Please exit the vehicle, sir.”

  The man nodded, and, with difficulty, opened the door. He swung his legs out and tried to stand, only to be pulled back in by his still clasped seatbelt.

  If this were a movie, it might be funny.

  “Unbuckle your seatbelt, sir.”

  “Jusht a minute.” After a few seconds of fumbling he freed himself and stumbled out, grasping the door for support.

  “How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”

  “Nothing.” He hiccupped.

  “I'll need you to take a breathalyzer test, sir.”

  “I d-don't need that.”

  “Sir, if you refuse to take the test, you can be charged.”

  “Charged for not taking a test?” asked the man. “If I'm going to be charged, it should be for something—”. He paused as if to vomit. “For something good,” he finished. He swung at Stewart, catching him on the chin. Stewart staggered back and drew his weapon, calling for backup. The man stood laughing for a few seconds, then collapsed in a heap, passed out.

  It was warm. Comfortable. Relaxing. Chelsie slowly woke, and it felt wonderful. She opened her eyes, preparing to moan in ecstasy, when the reality of the new world she lived in yanked her mercilessly back to the horror of her new life. She was in the bathtub, her captor stood not five feet away, his head in the medicine cabinet. And he was humming. That same, annoying, droning tune. He straightened as he removed something from the cabinet then flipped the mirrored door closed. Chelsie snapped her eyes shut, praying he hadn’t seen her in the reflection. His humming continued.

  She had been ravenously hungry, and had finally given in, eating half a sandwich. Not even half. But it had proven enough to knock her out within minutes. How long was I out? She knew he waited about an hour before collecting her, and her wet hair suggested he was finished cleaning her, which she thanked God she had been asleep for. Half a sandwich means 90 minutes. She’d know for next time to try a quarter.

  The humming neared and she sensed he had sat on the edge of the tub. He picked up her leg and held it in the air, the water pouring then trickling off her leg, the warmth of it quickly replaced by the relative chill of the room. He rubbed something over the entire exposed surface of her leg. It felt soft, smooth. Skin cream? Something hard ran over her leg, accompanied by a scraping sound. Oh my God, he's shaving my legs! Her instinct demanded she kick out, try to stop him, but she resisted, knowing she had no hope of overpowering him from her current position. Or any position for that matter. She already knew he was too strong. She would need to outwit him somehow. Brains would win this, and that knowledge calmed her. She endured the grooming session, and after a few minutes, was carried into the bedroom, the ritual of toweling her dry and blow-drying her hair hopefully signaling the near end of tonight’s activities.

  She heard him walk into the hall again and then the definite creak of the stairs as he descended. Opening her eyes, she looked around. Deep red with gold gilded wallpaper adorned every wall, the plastered ceiling with deep cove moldings and gold trim, reminded her of her grandmother’s place in Maine. Several expensive looking rugs accented the hardwood flooring, including a dated brown and burgundy afghan directly in front of a large dresser with mirror at the head of the bed. She raised herself up on her elbows and gasped. Her hair was a bright blonde, puffed into an almost eighties style hairdo. What shocked her more was she had worn it this way before, but only at her retro-eighties nights. Could he have seen me at one of those? She continued her search, finding no evidence of a phone or any other means of communication in the room. The window to her right, still covered by heavy drapery, disguised whether it was day or night. She looked again at the photo she had glimpsed last time. It was of a small boy, hugged by what he assumed were his parents, and next to that, a picture of two teenagers on a swing together, an awkward smile on the boy’s face, a look of boredom on the girl’s. Her stomach churned. The girl could have been her.

  A creak on the stairs startled her and she lay back down, closing her eyes. He reentered the room and dressed her in clothes so warm they felt fresh from the dryer. He picked her up and carried her out of the room. Her head lay on his right, turned toward his back. She opened her left eye a sliver, revealing a tight stairwell, as if in an old house. When they reached the bottom, a doorway, clearly to the outside, shoes and several men's jackets in evidence, was tantalizingly close, but impossibly far. He turned and walked down a hallway stretching almost the length of the house, a living room with a phone sitting on a table, made her heart leap as they passed. They entered the kitchen, its modern appliances a drastic contradiction to the obvious age and style of the rest of the house. A cordless phone lay on the kitchen counter, almost within reach. She made note of this, thinking if her arm had been free, she might have been able to grab it, and perhaps hide it somehow from him. Next time. He placed her on the floor, near the kitchen’s far end and she heard him pull the chain, triggering the lowering of the floor. He obviously doesn't get any visitors. A few more minutes and she lay on her mattress, waiting while he collected the water bottle and tray from earlier. Recalling what she had just seen, she built a mental map of the house in her head.

  Clarice Viktora eyed her client, held between two bailiffs, his head lolled on his shoulder, reeking of God knows what. Why do I always get the drunks? She knew why. She was the low “man” on the totem pole, doomed to the shit assignments until a new crop of newbies came aboard, at which point shit would become crap, and with each new crop, she would work her way up, eventually, hopefully, switching to the prosecutor’s office. But this was her first month in the Public Defender's Office, a stepping stone on the ambitious road she had laid out for herself. Her client belched then farted. Oh, that’s nice. She took two steps sideways.

  “How do you plead?”

  Clarice smelt the vomit on her client's breath. He looked at the judge, the look of bewilderment almost comical. He isn’t answering. He opened his mouth, then dropped his head to his chest and snored.

  “Not guilty,” she said.

  “Bail?”

  Thankfully the prosecutor replied before she had to think up some line of BS she didn’t even believe. “Your honor, the plaintiff has refused to identify himself, has no identification, was driving while under the influence in a stolen car, and assaulted an officer. We recommend remand until such time as he can be identified.”

  “Defense?”

  I just want to go to bed. “The defense has no objections to him being held overnight until his identity can be established.”

  “Very well, bail is denied until such time as identity can be established.” The judge swung her gavel, ending the proceedings. Bailiffs l
ed, or dragged, her client toward a holding cell, from which he would be transferred to Rikers. Clarice stifled a yawn as she picked up the folder for the next case. Oh goody, another DUI.

  Aynslee walked slowly toward her office, her now used “go” bag slung over her shoulder, a bag the life of a reporter had her in the habit of always keeping stocked with a change of clothes and toiletries to freshen up with in the station's gym facilities. She had slept at the station on a pull-out couch in her office, too afraid to go home. She couldn’t believe Hayden hadn’t come to protect her. Wasn’t that his job? Maybe if you hadn’t scared him away! She started to reassess their relationship. Maybe I’m reading way too much into this?

  She stepped into her office and found Hayden sitting in a chair in front of her desk.

  Thank God!

  “Where were you?” she asked, the fear from the night before still in her voice. “I slept here all night, I was terrified!”

  He stood up, his hands spread out in apology. “I'm sorry, Miss Kai.” His calm, soothing voice, washed the fear that gripped her away. “I didn't get your message until this morning. What's changed that has you so scared?”

  How could I ever have doubted him? She threw her bag behind the door, and sat down at her desk. She brought up the new video and pointed at the frozen image of the latest victim. “I knew him!”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You knew him? How?”

  “He took the subway with me,” she explained. “I've seen him lots of times.”

  “Did you ever speak to him?”

  “No, I usually just put my iPod on and tune out, but he's hard to miss with those legs. Could it be a coincidence?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said, shaking his head. “But you never spoke to him?”

  “No.”

  He hit a few keys on his phone then showed her a series of photos. “Have you ever seen any of these people before?” He flipped through, Aynslee shaking her head to each one.

  “No, sorry, he’s the only one I recognize.”

  “Okay, I want you to stay in your office today. Don't leave the building until you hear from me.”

  She felt her chest tighten. “Do you think he'll come after me?”

  “No, I know what the connection is between the other victims and I don't see any relation to you.”

  “You know the connection! What is it?” she asked, her reporter instincts kicking back in.

  “Sorry, Miss Kai, I can't tell you that.”

  Worth a try!

  His phone rang and he looked at the call display. “It’s my partner, I have to take this. Stay here until you hear from me, okay?”

  She nodded as he walked out of her office.

  Ian tried to go about his business, but showering with twenty other men made that extremely difficult. He just wanted to survive. Prison was terrifying. And Rikers wasn’t even real prison. He had no idea what he would do when he got to the real thing. Denzel would most likely protect him, until he got himself killed, and then what would he do? Every night he hugged his pillow, crying silently in terror and self pity, until eventually exhaustion would take him. Every waking moment was an exercise in avoidance, of people and situations, but some, like this, were mandatory, and he couldn’t avoid them. He just prayed Denzel wouldn’t start something. Where he avoided eye contact with everyone else, Denzel, showering beside him, defiantly looked about, trying to stare down anyone who would meet his glare.

  “What you lookin' at crackah!” he yelled.

  Ian looked out of the corner of his eye at the man Denzel had challenged, showering about five feet away. The rather slight, white man met Denzel’s gaze then looked away slowly, apparently unconcerned with Denzel's outburst. It’s the small bitches you need to worry about. Ya never know if they’re gonna try and prove they’re tough. Denzel’s words rang through his head as he thumped his chest and looked about as if he had stared down a silverback gorilla.

  The showers cut out and everyone toweled off then dressed. Ian finished buttoning his shirt and began to fold his towel when Denzel elbowed him in the ribs. Ian looked up and saw the man from earlier walking toward them. Denzel stepped forward. Ian noticed the man had his hand in the pocket of his jumper, and reached to warn Denzel. “W-w-wait—”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “For you to die,” the man said in a hoarse whisper. It happened so quickly, Ian never had a chance to finish his sentence. The man pulled his hand from his jumper and lunged toward Denzel, plunging a shiv made from a toothbrush into the side of Denzel's neck. Denzel clutched at the wound in shock, the punctured artery rhythmically spurting blood as he fell to the floor.

  “No!” yelled Ian, jumping toward the man, grabbing at him. The man sidestepped Ian’s awkward attack and flipped him around, grabbing him in a headlock. Ian saw the free hand reach over his head, the shiv, still dripping in his friend’s blood, held high, plunged down and into his stomach then chest, as his attacker repeatedly pierced his body. He threw Ian to the ground next to his friend along with the shiv, then blended with the crowd of prisoners running away.

  Everyone on the boards talked tough, bragged about hacking various company websites, the odd third-world government database, basically, the easy stuff. A few claimed to have hacked the big boys. The Fortune 500’s, first-world government sites, DoD, or the holy grail, M$. Most of it was complete and utter bullshit. When the challenge had been put out there, to hack the police database to get someone out of jail, the usually busy chat room had quickly emptied, leaving him and the challenger, Lonewolf2048. The plan was simple, yet would take skills. Skills he had and was dying to test. Hacking the local stores and restaurants that offended him lacked the challenge he needed, so he had agreed to do his part in the craziest scheme he had ever heard of. The challenger, Lonewolf2048, would get himself arrested, and he, ElfLord666, hacker extraordinaire, would hack the police system and have him released.

  He had waited all night for the call, and it never came. His head dropped into his chest for the umpteenth time this morning, when the phone rang at last.

  “I'm in as a John Doe at Rikers, admitted at two-forty-five a.m. Let's see if you can do your part.”

  “No problem.” His fingers flew over the keyboard as he broke through layer after layer of security. These luddites haven't a clue! Within fifteen minutes he had full access to their system and inserted a record indicating their John Doe should be released immediately, the charges dropped.

  “ElfLord rules!” he yelled, raising his hands in the air.

  “Winston, what's going on down there?” yelled a shrill voice from upstairs.

  “Nothing, mom!” he called, turning back to his computer, erasing all traces of what he had just done. It took a couple of hours, but a message eventually popped on his screen. Lonewolf2048 out of the den. Awesome work! You rule! Winston leaned back, smiled and snagged a handful of Cheezies.

  It turned out to be a wine bar Chelsie worked at. Upscale, snooty, all the staff wearing crisp white shirts and black pants or skirts. Trace made a note to not bother coming here, a beer and shooter girl herself, although perhaps getting sloshed in a classy place might be some fun. With the right guy. She found her thoughts drifting to Eldridge and quickly pushed them to the back of her mind. Relationships with fellow officers never worked out. Who said anything about a relationship?

  A hostess led her to an office in the back where the owner, Yannick Leroux, was tasting several different wines. Fascinated, she watched as he swirled the glass, held it up and examined it, for what she did not know, then sucked it in, his tongue manipulating the wine as he held his mouth slightly open. The odd display wasn’t what shocked her, it was when he leaned over and spat it out into a nearby bucket. Why the hell’s he wasting good booze?

  “How can I help you?” asked Yannick as he stepped around his desk to shake her hand.

  She showed him her badge. “Detective Trace. I'm working on a missing persons case, a Chelsie Birm
ingham, I understand she works for you.”

  The man sat on the edge of his desk. “Chelsie's missing? I didn't know. She wasn’t due to work here until tonight so I figured she was just late.” He turned to the door and yelled, “Cynthia!” A moment later an impossibly skinny girl trotted in.

  “Yes, Mr. Leroux?”

  “When did Chelsie last work, was it Saturday night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who was on security that night?”

  “Denis was.”

  “Get him for me, will you?”

  She nodded and disappeared.

  “You need security here?”

  “Occasionally we have problems, it is a wine bar so a lot of the young, rich snobs like to come here, spend a lot of money and get drunk, then they expect a little something in return for a big tip. Having a guy like this,” Yannick motioned toward a hulking man in the doorway, “cures them of any of those thoughts pretty quickly.” Just as Cynthia was impossibly tiny, Denis was impossibly large, probably six foot six, he had to be over three hundred pounds of muscle. “Denis, this is a detective, she says Chelsie is missing. Did you walk her to the subway on Saturday?”

  Trace watched his reaction to the news closely, the look of surprise and concern on the massive head one of pure innocence.

  “Of course, sir, just like I always do.”

  “Did you see her get on it?”

  “Yes, sir, she was on the phone with her mother, I think, then she got on the subway, I watched until it pulled away.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Yes, sir, I would never let one of the girls leave here unescorted.”

  “Of course you wouldn't.” Yannick waved for Denis to leave, who nodded to Trace then lumbered away. Yannick lowered his voice. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but a heart of gold. He treats every one of these girls like they were his sisters. I don't think he'd lie to me.”

  “Okay, I'll just need to find out what time she left here and I should be done.”

  “No problem, just see Cynthia, she can tell you what time she punched out.”

  Trace nodded and stepped into the hall and almost ran into Cynthia who was holding a piece of paper. “I thought you might need this,” she said, her hand shaking as she handed the paper to Trace. “It’s a copy of her timecard.”

  Trace took the paper from the terrified girl. “Thanks.”

  “Do-do you think we have anything to worry about?” stammered Cynthia. “I mean, whoever took her, could he—?” She stopped, unable to put the words together.

  Trace looked at her short, dark hair. “No, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” She looked at the timecard.

  Time to look at some surveillance footage.

  Eldridge parked in front of the rundown hole that was Jeremiah Lansing's apartment building. As he climbed out of his car, Shakespeare did the same, several cars down, and waved.

  “Hiya, kid!”

  “Hey, Justin. Any sign of him?”

  Shakespeare shook his head as he mounted the front steps, pulling on the railing as he hauled himself up. “Not since I got here.” At the top he stopped and took a deep breath. “I’ve got to get back into shape, this is ridiculous.”

  Eldridge didn’t say anything, it being the first time he had ever heard Shakespeare even hint at exercise, he wasn’t sure what to say. They picked their way through the filth littering the lobby and Eldridge headed for the stairs when Shakespeare gripped his arm.

  “Whoa, where you goin'?”

  “You want to take an elevator in this place?”

  “Hey, if God had meant man to take stairs, he wouldn't have let man invent the elevator,” replied Shakespeare as he pressed the button. The doors opened and he climbed on. “You comin'?”

  Eldridge chuckled and stepped into the elevator with Shakespeare. “Fine. But if we die, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  Shakespeare let out a bellowing laugh, pressing the button for the third floor. Then gasped. The stench of urine and things far worse consumed the air like a rancid soup. They rode in silence to the third floor, neither wanting to admit they were both holding their breath. At long last they arrived and both burst from the elevator, desperate for air.

  Shakespeare looked back at the elevator as the doors closed. “What the fuck was that? I swear I’ve smelt that in the morgue.”

  Eldridge exhaled deeply, trying to rid himself of any of the remaining air. “I think you may be right. When we leave we should check the shaft for a body.”

  He was only half joking.

  “Fuck that, phone in an anonymous tip, just in case you’re right.”

  Shakespeare wasn’t joking.

  Partially recovered, the air in the hallway only slightly better, they approached apartment 308. Eldridge knocked and listened. Nothing. He knocked again, this time louder. “Police officers, we have a warrant to search the premises!” yelled Eldridge. Still no answer.

  “Looks like we go in the old fashioned way,” said Shakespeare, stepping back to take a run at the door.

  Eldridge held out his hand. “I'll go find the super.”

  Shakespeare frowned. “Sure, take all the fun out of the job.”

  Eldridge took the stairs to the first floor and found the door labeled Super. He knocked and waited for a few minutes as sounds of movement and cursing from inside approached. The door flew open and an unkempt man in boxer shorts and a stained wife-beater t-shirt glared at Eldridge.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Detective Eldridge, Homicide.” Eldridge flashed his badge. “I have a warrant to search apartment three-oh-eight.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The man snatched a large ring of keys off the wall and walked out into the hallway toward the elevator.

  “Aren't you going to put some pants on?” asked Eldridge in disgust. The man looked at him as if his shoulder had grown a second head, then shuffled onto the elevator.

  “You comin'?” Eldridge held his breath and rode to the third floor. Shakespeare did a double-take when he saw the Super exit the elevator, the flap in the front of his boxers failing miserably in hiding the man's shame. He unlocked the door and reached to open it when Eldridge stopped him.

  “What’s the layout?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “How many bedrooms?” asked an impatient Shakespeare.

  “It’s a bachelor.”

  Eldridge waved him back. “Ok, we've got it from here.”

  They both drew their weapons and took positions on either side of the door. Eldridge gripped the knob and looked at Shakespeare who held up three fingers and counted down, silently mouthing, “three, two, one,” then pointing at the door.

  Eldridge turned the knob and threw open the door, stepping into the apartment. “Police officers executing a search warrant!” he yelled as he steadily, but cautiously, cleared the entrance, with Shakespeare close behind. With only one room, a bathroom and a small kitchenette, they cleared it within seconds.

  “Would you look at that!” Shakespeare whistled as he looked at one of the main room walls. Dozens of printouts, photos, handwritten notes and timelines were tacked to it, almost every square inch a testament to one man’s obsession.

  “What the hell is that?” asked the Super who had wandered in.

  “Get the fu—”

  Eldridge cut Shakespeare off. “Please wait outside, sir. This is a crime scene.” He accompanied the man out to the hallway and closed the door. When he returned, Shakespeare was standing near the wall, reading some of the material.

  “Know what this reminds me of?”

  Eldridge nodded. “Yeah, working a case.”

  “Exactly. Look at this.” Shakespeare pointed to the upper left and, moving his finger slowly toward the right, following the chain of documents. “This is his search for his sister. Internet searches, hospital records, birth records, it's all here.”

  Eldridge's eye was drawn to a series of photos half way down the wall and po
inted. “See this? It looks like he met her.” A series of photos taken of a young blonde man and a blonde woman, maybe ten years older, were neatly pinned in a row. She had her arm around him and the angle suggested the man had held out his arm to take their picture, as they both smiled broadly.

  “This doesn't look like a meeting that went bad.”

  “No, these are two very happy people.” Eldridge continued looking then stopped. “What the—” He pointed at several clippings of articles about the subway killing. He scanned ahead and found articles about the suspects’ capture followed by a series of eight photos, the first seven he recognized as passengers on the subway, but from their everyday lives, not taken from the video. The eighth was of Aynslee.

  “They look like surveillance photos,” said Shakespeare. “This kid’s been planning this a long time.”

  Eldridge stared at the photo of Aynslee. Why is her photo here?

  Shakespeare reached out and pulled a photo of Jeremiah and his sister off the wall and held it up to a photo from a newspaper clipping showing the subway victim. “Look at this.”

  Eldridge gasped. “Patricia Arnette was Jeremiah Lansing's sister?”

  “No wonder this kid's gone off the handle. You're alone, you find out you've got a long lost sister, and she gets killed right in front of you.”

  “Look at the date.” Eldridge pointed to the timestamp in the corner showing the happy pair.

  “Same day as the attack.”

  “They must have been travelling together after this meeting. My God, he's killing everyone that didn't help his sister!”

  “And he's going to finish it off with himself, I'm willing to bet.”

  Eldridge pointed at Aynslee's photo. “I need to find out why she's on this wall.” He took the photo of Jeremiah and Patricia then headed out the door.

  Eldridge rushed into the infirmary at Rikers, having received a call from his LT about an attack on Denzel Todd, who had died immediately, and Ian Temple, who wasn’t expected to last much longer. He knew he might only have minutes to get a deathbed confession from the boy, and of finding out who had attacked him. He had a hard time believing Jeremiah could kill someone from inside Rikers, but he had proven resourceful so far, and was certainly desperate enough to try anything. He looked around for someone who could direct him to Temple’s room, when the doctor on duty approached him.

  “You here to see Ian Temple?”

  “Yes, is he still alive?”

  “Barely. He's conscious, but you haven't got a lot of time.”

  “Okay, I'll need you as a witness.” Eldridge entered the room where Ian lay on a bed, hooked to numerous machines, his bandaged stomach and chest showing where the shiv had penetrated. “Mr. Temple, I am Detective Eldridge. Has the doctor informed you of your situation?”

  Ian nodded.

  “Then you are aware you are dying?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice extremely weak.

  “Do you know what a death-bed confession is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I'm going to ask you some questions. Did you and Denzel Todd kill Patricia Arnette on the subway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this the man that attacked you?” Eldridge held up the photo of Jeremiah.

  Ian nodded. “Y-yes.”

  “Had you ever seen him before today?”

  “No.”

  “Did you or Mr. Todd have a gun that day?”

  “No, b-but D-Denzel told everyb-body he d-did.”

  “Do you have anything else you want to say?”

  “Just, just that I'm s-sorry I d-didn’t stop him,” said Ian as tears poured from his eyes. “I was sc-scared.”

  Eldridge looked up as a priest arrived to administer the last rites, surprised Ian was Catholic. Moving aside, Eldridge and the doctor watched, heads bowed, as the boy drifted off to sleep, unable to complete the sacrament. The priest continued with the blessing, Ian’s heart monitor beeping erratically, and after a few moments, flat-lining. The doctor stepped forward and turned it off, allowing the priest to finish in silence as the entire ward looked on as a young man, with the wrong friend, paid for his mistake with his life.

  Somber, Eldridge left Rikers Island jail and climbed into his car, sitting for a moment as he collected himself. In his job he had seen death, too much death, but usually he arrived after the fact, the corpse long cold, and almost always someone he had never spoken to. On rare occasions he was there when death took someone, sometimes by his own hand, and that moment, the moment of death, always disturbed him, and would remain something he would never grow accustomed to.

  He sighed and started the car. As he drove to the television studio he left a message for Vinny to check the subway victim's DNA against the hairs found in the SUV, wanting to confirm what he already suspected, and what his killer was already convinced of, that Jeremiah Lansing and Patricia Arnette were half siblings. As he searched for a parking spot at the studio he received the final photo from the subway. It was Aynslee. He ran into the building and pushed his way through the end of day throngs and onto an empty elevator.

 

  Aynslee looked up to see who had opened her door without knocking. Hayden! “Detective Eldridge!” She smiled and rose from her chair. “I'm so happy to see you.” She looked at his face, jaw squared in anger, cheeks slightly flushed. Uh oh, he looks pissed!

  “Care to explain this?” he asked as he held out his phone. She looked at the picture displayed on the tiny display. It was her, but she couldn’t make out any details.

  “What's that?”

  “You were on the subway the night that Patricia Arnette was killed.”

  Aynslee fell back into her chair, the picture of her rushing from the subway, Blackberry to her ear, snapped into focus as a flood of emotions overwhelmed her. Like a movie, those few minutes replayed themselves in her mind, each face becoming clear as if it had happened yesterday.

  “Oh my God,” she exclaimed, gripping the arms of her chair, her knuckles turning white, as the realization dawned on her. “We were all on the subway that night!”

  “Yes.” He seemed to calm down slightly as he showed her a photo of a young man and slightly older woman. “And so was he,” he said, pointing to the man. “Jeremiah Lansing and Patricia Arnette were brother and sister. She was killed the day they met for the first time.”

  “What do you mean first time?”

  “She was given up for adoption before he was born. He searched for years and finally found her. They met that day for the first time. On their way back from that meeting, she was murdered in front of him. He has been killing everyone he can identify from the YouTube video. As of a few minutes ago, he's killed everyone on that tape except for an unidentified senior citizen and yourself. Earlier today he managed to somehow infiltrate Rikers Island and kill Denzel Todd and Ian Temple, the two men who killed his sister.”

  “How—how did he do that?” asked Aynslee, terror gripping her. If he can kill in there, nowhere is safe!

  “We're still working that out, but he's a computer genius and we think he may have used that to somehow get himself in and out.”

  Aynslee's throat went dry and the room closed in around her, Hayden’s voice becoming distant as she became dizzy. She clenched the arms of her chair tighter. Get a grip! She steadied herself and focused on the bottle of water sitting on her desk. She reached forward and took a drink. “He's going to come after me, isn't he?” She couldn’t hide the fear in her voice. And she didn’t care. This was no time to put on an act of false bravado.

  “I think we can be sure of that.”

  “Will you protect me?” she asked, almost embarrassed by how meek it sounded.

  “We will do everything we can. But first I want you to tell me what happened on the subway.”

  Aynslee took a deep breath and closed her eyes, remembering that night on the train. “I was heading home after doing the evening entertainment report. There were maybe a dozen people in the su
bway car with me. I was sending some emails with my BlackBerry, sitting near the back. Two guys got on and they definitely seemed to be on something, or at least that's what it seemed like. Anyway, these two got on and one of them was really loud. He knocked one guy's newspaper, flipped somebody's hat off and then one of them, the loud one, sat down beside the girl—Patricia was it?” Hayden nodded. “—sat down beside Patricia and put his arm around her. She said something like 'Get your hands off me, creep' and then he jumped to his feet and started yelling at her, things like 'what, you think you're too good for me, you're better than me?', that type of thing. So she gets up and tries to go to another car with this other guy that was sitting across from her, but the loud one—”

  “That would be Denzel.”

  “Yes, Denzel, yells 'don't you walk away from me, bitch' and shoves her from behind. She flew forward and hit her head on one of the seatbacks. She fell to the ground and this Denzel guy started to laugh. The guy she was with—”

  “The one in the photo I showed you?”

  “Yes, he yelled at them and that's when this Denzel guy shoves his hand in his pocket and starts making like he's got a gun and yells that he'll shoot anyone who gets in their way. Well, the guy in the photo, I think he fainted because he just collapsed to the floor. Then this Denzel guy said something like 'she's my bitch now and I'll do to her what I want'. Then he kicked her, hard. She screamed and then he started kicking her over and over. I was in shock, I couldn’t believe what was going on, I was so terrified. I didn't know if he had a gun or not. So he keeps kicking her and then tells his friend to kick her as well. His friend,” she paused. “What was his name?”

  “Ian.”

  “Yeah, well it didn't look like he liked what was going on, kind of reluctant, you know? Anyway, he did a few half-hearted kicks and then when the train was coming to the next stop he pulled his friend away, but his friend went back and stomped his boot down as hard as he could on that poor girl's head. I swear I could hear her skull crack. I just knew she was dead. Anyway, I'm embarrassed to say this, but I just ran with everyone else.”

  “You didn't stay to talk to the police?”

  Aynslee dropped her head in shame. “No. I was going to call the next day but then that video hit the Internet and the terrible things people were saying about us, the ones on the subway who didn't help, well, it just made me think that I didn't want to get involved, to be one of those people that everyone was vilifying. Do you understand?”

  She could tell he was no longer angry, his soft, caring features had returned, the face she so yearned to hold in her hands looked at her for a moment before speaking.

  “I understand a little better, now that I've been looking into this further. Due to the lack of witnesses, nobody knew about the threat of a gun. This is an important factor. People have a duty to assist another person in distress, but not if it means putting their own lives at risk. It makes me wonder if Jeremiah even remembers the gun?”

  “This Jeremiah, he's the brother?”

  “Yes, I'm assuming half-brother, but we believe he's our killer.”

  “And that was the first time they had ever met?” Tears filled her eyes. “How sad, no wonder he's gone mad.”

  “And if he fainted, then he's probably ashamed and embarrassed by what happened and blames himself for her death.”

  Aynslee looked at her watch. “Oh my, God, I'm on in half an hour. I need to get ready.”

  “Miss Kai, I need to place you in protective custody immediately.”

  “You'll do no such thing, I have to go to air.”

  “Your life is in danger.”

  “Listen, he's sent a video of every killing to me so far, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the old lady is still alive, right?”

  “We don't know,” he replied. “Perhaps we just haven't found the body yet.”

  “No, we know she's still alive because he hasn't sent me a video yet.”

  He frowned. “Are you willing to bet your life on that?”

  “Yes. I need to go to air.”

  “Not a word about what we've spoken about. He can't know that we know who he is.”

  Aynslee blew a breath out between her lips hard in frustration. “Fine! Now get out of here, I need to get ready.”

  “I'm going to have a squad car out front and an officer shadowing you. They'll be here in about half an hour.”

  “Fine, whatever you feel is necessary, but I need to get ready. And, Detective,” she paused and looked him in the eyes. “Thank you for helping me. I mean, I'm sure you don't have to come down here every time I get one of those videos, you could send someone else or just have me email it to you. I appreciate that you take the time to come and see me.”

  “I'm just doing my job, Miss Kai.”

  She stepped a little closer to him. “Why don't you call me Aynslee, it's my name too.”

  A smile flashed across his face for a moment, but it quickly returned to his usual formal expression. “That wouldn't be appropriate, Miss Kai.”

  Aynslee waved her finger at him. “I'll break through that cold exterior one of these days, Detective.” She detected the corner of his lip curl slightly, revealing a hint of a smile.

  “I'll have those uniforms here shortly, Miss Kai.” And with that he left her standing there, more determined than ever to have him, and even more impressed at the level of confidence she now felt. It must be the new job! Or the look?

  “Oh, Eunice, what to do, what to do!”

  Eunice Henry muttered to herself as she rocked in her chair, knitting yet another scarf for yet another niece or nephew. “There's nothing to worry about, you've got food, you've got water, you've got all the basic necessities of life. You can hold out until Friday.” Her knitting needles clicked together as her skilled hands never dropped a stitch. Frustrated, she tossed her project aside and reached over to check the phone again. And again no dial tone. “Sugarollie double-plum fairy! Darned phone company.”

  She hadn't left her apartment in twelve months. After witnessing the attack on the subway, she had gone straight home, locked the door and hadn't set foot outside since. Anything she needed could be delivered, it was New York after all, and she had family to do the rest. She never answered the door unless she expected someone or recognized them through the peephole. There were times, even just yesterday, when strangers would knock on the door, sometimes insistently, but she would ignore them. Her distrust of people in general overwhelmed her, an all-consuming problem she knew she would never overcome. Not after seeing that poor girl beaten to death on the subway that day.

  But her lifestyle had one flaw. She needed a phone. And today her phone wasn’t working. She couldn’t call anyone to get it fixed nor go out to tell anyone it needed to be fixed. And worst of all, she wasn’t expecting anybody for several days.

  She started at a knock on the door. As usual, she ignored it but became very quiet. They'll go away, they always do. Again the knock.

  “Mrs. Henry, this is Verizon, I'm here to fix your phone!”

  She looked at the door. “Oh my, what to do, what to do?” she whispered to herself. “Well, you have to answer it, you need your phone. But you don't know who he is. How do you know he's actually from the phone company? You could ask to see his ID? Yes, but those could be faked. Well, your phone is out and how would some criminal know that?” She nodded to herself and rocked to her feet. “You're right, how could he know? Coming!” she called.

  Shuffling to the door, she looked through the peephole and saw a young man smiling. Oh, he looks sweet, just like Jamie. She began the long process of unlocking, unbolting and unchaining her myriad of devices aimed at keeping intruders out, and herself in. With one chain remaining, she turned the knob and opened the door. “Can I see some ID, please?” she asked, peering through the narrow opening. The young man stepped back and suddenly kicked the door hard, ripping through the chain and hitting her square in the shoulder. She tumbled backward a
nd landed hard, a searing pain shot through her entire body as the man stormed in and slammed the door behind him. She tried to speak but the pain was so intense, she couldn’t. Having broken her hip once before, she knew she had done it again.

  The man gripped her wrists and hauled her to her feet, sending excruciating jolts of pain up and down her body. She yelped in agony as he carried her and dropped her unceremoniously on her couch. The soft cushions provided little relief, but she managed to see through the pain and focus on her attacker.

  “What do you want?” she cried.

  He held a cell phone in front of her and pressed a button. A video played, a video of that horrible day a year ago, and when it finished, it froze on an image of her, climbing out of her seat. She looked at the cold expression on his face, and she knew why he was here. As he drew a gun and pointed it at her, a strange calm washed over her, a sense of peace, acceptance of her fate. She knew she was going to die, and it was okay.

  “You knew her, didn't you?” He didn’t respond but she could see it in his eyes. “My boy, you must do what you must do. I am truly sorry for what happened to that young girl. I can offer only my age as an excuse, albeit a poor one. I can see you are in pain and if my death brings you some sort of peace, then I am willing to give my life for it. Was she your girlfriend?” Still, no response. “Your sister?” This time she saw a reaction, a slight increase of moisture in his eyes. “That's it, isn't it? She was your sister. I am very sorry, my dear, for your loss. You must have been very close.” Leaning forward, she tried not to wince from the pain. “Tell me, son, is there anything you would like me to tell her?”

  This got a reaction. Her attacker hesitated, a look of uncertainty on his face. “I—” he began then stopped.

  “Yes? It's okay, dear, you can tell me.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “Tell her that I wish I had gotten the chance to know her. That I'm sorry for not helping her.”

  Eunice was a little puzzled by his statement. Gotten the chance? Did he not know his own sister? She smiled gently. “I will tell her, dear, I will tell her.” He raised his gun again, his hand shaking. Eunice closed her eyes, waiting for him to pull the trigger, silently praying. When the shot didn't come, she opened her eyes to see what was wrong.

  He was gone.

  Eldridge arrived at Jeremiah's apartment building and was more than a little stunned to see Shakespeare walking toward his car, having put in what amounted to a full day's work, but something told him they were both taking this case personally. He honked his horn and Shakespeare waved at him, walking toward the car as Eldridge parked.

  “So, why was your lady friend on the wall?” asked Shakespeare as Eldridge rounded the vehicle.

  “She was there that day. Just like the others, she just watched it happen.”

  Shakespeare grunted. “Chances are she's on the list then.”

  “Agreed. There's only her and the old lady left.”

  “Is she in protective custody yet?”

  “She refused. I've got a couple of uniforms on her, though. She should be safe for now since there’s been no video of the old lady yet. If he follows the pattern, he should send that first.”

  “If he follows the pattern. Big chance.”

  “Have you ever tried to convince a reporter not to go to air?”

  “Yeah, like trying to convince Vinny to forget what happened.”

  Eldridge decided not to bite. “Are the lab guys still in there?”

  Shakespeare nodded. “They're still processing, probably going to be awhile. What are you looking for?”

  “Well, this guy’s been working on this for a year now so he might have a lead on who the old lady is. If we can get to her first, she might stand a chance.”

  “Didn't help the last guy.”

  “Yeah, but hopefully no screw-ups this time.”

  Shakespeare nodded and walked toward his car. “Okay, I'm off, there's a Philly melt with my name on it somewhere.”

  Eldridge waved as Shakespeare pulled away. Across the street a small throng of onlookers watched the couple of squad cars plus the CSU vehicle, most likely hoping to catch a glimpse of a dead body. Ever since CSI started airing, the CSU guys had been getting a lot of attention. Eldridge thought half the city expected Garry Sinise to come strolling out and solve the case in forty minutes plus commercials.

  A shock of blonde hair caught Eldridge's eye. He looked closer but didn't see it again. He walked toward the apartment building entrance, all the while keeping his eye on the crowd across from him. Then he saw it again. Just a flash of blonde behind several people. Normally he wouldn't have paid it any mind, there being several blondes in the crowd, but this one stood out. Where everyone was jockeying for position, trying to get a better view, this one was in behind. Eldridge turned and walked toward the crowd when he saw the blonde hair again followed by the face of Jeremiah, looking directly at him. Eldridge, stunned to see his suspect standing maybe fifty feet from him, stopped in his tracks. Jeremiah smiled at him then bolted.

  Eldridge ran as hard as he could, slowly gaining on his suspect, when Jeremiah ducked into an alleyway. He heard the sound of an engine turn over as he rounded the corner, almost running headlong into a small motorcycle as it tore from the alley, Jeremiah perched atop it. Eldridge lunged at him, but Jeremiah ducked over to the other side of the bike and roared onto the street. Spinning around, Eldridge sprinted after him, but it was no use, Jeremiah bobbed and weaved amongst the traffic and quickly left Eldridge gasping for breath in the middle of the road.

  Walking back toward the apartment he phoned in the bike’s description and the direction it was heading, but he knew nothing would come of it; he was long gone. He phoned Shakespeare to let him know what had happened, then met Vinny in the apartment as he catalogued the papers tacked to the wall.

  “Detective! Looks like you've ID'd your killer!”

  “I'd rather have him in a holding cell, but at least we've got a name and face to go with the handiwork. Anything on the location of the old lady amongst all this stuff?”

  Vinny shook his head. “No, haven't really had a chance to go through this stuff in detail. I'm just cataloguing it so we can process it all at the lab.”

  “Okay, have your team keep an eye out for any names or addresses. I need to ID that old woman. And make sure you get a copy of the photo of her sent to me because it looks like he's got a better one than I do, maybe we can air it, get some help from the public.”

  “Will do, detective. By the way, why’d you want me to compare the subway vic’s DNA to the SUV driver? Another hunch?”

  “No, just want to confirm something. Assuming the SUV driver was Jeremiah Lansing, they were apparently half brother and sister.”

  “You're kidding me!”

  “Wish I were. Looks like this all started a year ago. I want you to compare the SUV DNA to some samples from this apartment. It should remove all doubt that Lansing is the killer. I'll bring you up to speed later, right now I've got to check in on a stubborn witness.”

  “Our cute little reporter?” Vinny smiled slyly.

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn't mind checkin' in on her if you know what I mean,” laughed Vinny. “She could read the news to me any day, if you know what I mean. I'd like her to speak into my microph—”

  “I think I've heard enough,” said Eldridge, cutting him off. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

  “Hey, did I say something wrong?” asked Vinny, feigning hurt feelings. “You got something going on with this girl?”

  “Good night, Vinny!”

  “Wouldn't blame ya, she's a hottie!”

  Eldridge smiled as he headed down the stairs.

  As Shakespeare headed off to Brooklyn to get his favorite sandwich, he drove by his old boyhood church. Much to his surprise he found himself going around the block and parking outside. You're here, might as well make it worthwhile. As he climbed from the car he saw Father O'Neil waving to him from the church steps
.

  “Justin! So good to see you!”

  Shakespeare waved half-heartedly. “Hiya, Father, don't get your hopes up, I'm just here on official business.”

  “One can always hope, Justin.” O'Neil entered the church, forcing a reluctant Shakespeare to follow him if he wanted to continue the conversation. As they headed to the rectory O'Neil pointed to the confessionals and looked back at Shakespeare. “You sure?”

  “Nice try, Father, but neither of us have that kind of time.”

  O'Neil laughed and held the door to his office open for the detective. “Now what brings New York's Finest here this evening?”

  'Bout the nicest thing anyone's called me lately. “We searched Jeremiah Lansing's apartment today and have confirmed he's the man we're looking for. We think his sister was beaten to death on the subway about a year ago. That's what started this whole thing off.”

  “My God, that poor boy!” O'Neil sat down in a nearby chair and said a quick, silent prayer. “Were you able to catch Jeremiah without hurting him?”

  “No, my partner spotted him just a little while ago outside of the apartment but he managed to get away on a motorcycle.”

  “Is Detective Eldridge okay?”

  “Oh yeah, that kid can take care of himself. But now that we've confirmed Jeremiah is the killer, I need you to be careful, Father.”

  “Why should I have anything to worry about?”

  “He knows he can't go home now, so he'll be looking for other safe havens. He feels safe here so he may come back.”

  “And I'll welcome him with open arms. If he comes here, I'm sure I can convince him to turn himself in.”

  “He might not even be looking for you,” replied Shakespeare. “Listen Father, he's been coming here and helping out for years. That means he knows the place. He could hole up somewhere here and not even tell you. You or one of your staff could just stumble upon him and he's dangerous.”

  “I can't believe he would hurt me.”

  “Would you have believed yesterday that he could kill ten people?”

  “I put my fate in God's hands, Justin. It is my duty to help Jeremiah, and I will.”

  Shakespeare rose from his seat. “Just call me, Father, if he comes here, don't try and be a hero.”

  O'Neil laughed. “Not a hero, son, just a man of the cloth.”

  “Yeah, well just be careful, Father, that cloth isn’t bulletproof and I'd hate to see anything happen to you.”

  O'Neil draped his arm across Shakespeare's shoulder and led him back toward the church entrance. “I'm an old man, Justin. If God decides I can serve him better by his side, then he will take me. If not, then I will be fine. Either way, it is out of our hands.”

  Shakespeare didn't put much stock in religion, but he did respect Father O'Neil and had many fond memories of him from his younger days, before his job had jaded him to the point where he had lost his faith. Decades of seeing the worst in people had made him question how any God could let people the likes of what he dealt with on a daily basis be born. Over time, he just stopped believing. He figured as long as he kept his head down and out of trouble, Saint Peter would let him past those pearly gates even if he had a deathbed conversion back to the side of the believers. “Just watch your back, Father.”

  “I will, I will, don't you worry about me. Now off with you, I've got to close up.” Shakespeare headed to his car and looked back to see O'Neil shut the heavy church doors.

  That bastard better not touch him.

  His stomach grumbled and his mouth watered as he pictured a toasted Philly melt sandwich, smothered in sautéed onions with a side of au jus gravy. He pressed a little harder on the accelerator.

  Eldridge sat in the viewing booth he had been shown to when he arrived at the television studios, watching the live newscast taping. He had to admit to himself it was kind of exhilarating to be behind the scenes, seeing how it was all done. And despite himself he couldn’t take his eyes off Aynslee. She was quite attractive, and seeing her in her element, very good at her job. Delivering an update on the murders, he was pleased to see she didn't reveal any of their conversation, simply rehashed already known details. The broadcast closed with the typical casual banter between the various on-air personalities, followed by Aynslee saying goodnight to her audience.

  “And we're clear!” he heard someone yell. He watched as Aynslee stretched in her chair then got up and tossed good-natured jabs back and forth with her co-workers. She spotted him in the booth and waved, a huge smile on her face. He was surprised at how good it made him feel. You got something going on with this girl? He could hear Vinny's voice in his head. Can't get involved with a witness. He smiled back.

  Aynslee rushed into the booth and before Eldridge could stop her, she had given him a quick hug. Catching a waft of the scent from her hair, he found himself almost reaching around to return the hug but he recovered in time and instead coughed. She let go and stepped back. “So, what did you think?”

  Eldridge looked about him at the rapidly emptying control room. “Very impressive.”

  “Sooo, how was I?” she asked, fishing for a compliment in none too subtle a manner.

  Eldridge had to smile. “You were fine, Miss Kai, very professional.”

  She playfully slapped his arm. “Oh, do stop, you'll embarrass me. Now, how can I help you?”

  “I'm here to escort you home.”

  “But, Detective, we haven't even been on a date yet!” she said as she took his arm and led him toward her office. “First, we should have dinner, then we can see where the evening leads.”

  “Aaah,” was all Eldridge managed. Aynslee let go of his arm and laughed.

  “You need to work on your sense of humor a little bit, Detective, if you're going to take me home, even if it is to just be my bodyguard. Remember, Kevin did fall for Whitney in the end.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Bodyguard, Kevin Costner, Whitney Houston?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Eldridge. He had no clue what she was talking about.

  “It's a love story with guns,” explained Aynslee as she gathered her things. “You'd love it.”

  “I'm sure I would,” replied Eldridge as they headed to the elevators where Aynslee was accosted by several of her coworkers trying to convince her to join them for drinks, but a quick look at Eldridge's expression put the kibosh on that idea. As they approached the entrance, Eldridge waved over the two uniforms still parked out front. Leaving Aynslee with them, he looked around, inspected his car, and, satisfied, motioned for the officers to bring her out. In less than a minute, the two-car motorcade was underway, the squad car trailing behind them, making sure they weren't followed.

  “Do you really think I'm in danger?”

  “Absolutely, however you haven't received what we assume is the final video, so I believe we have time before he acts.”

  “And the old lady, any idea who she is?”

  “Not yet, but we're going through all of the stuff that was found in his apartment. Hopefully we'll find a name or address.”

  Aynslee tossed her head back against the seat in frustration. “Ooh, I hate this!”

  Eldridge looked in his rearview mirror then over at her. “Don't worry, you're in good hands.”

  Looking back at him she smiled. “I know.” Eldridge looked back at the road ahead and said nothing. “Detective, can I ask you something? And you have to answer truthfully, I am a marked woman after all.” Eldridge nodded, knowing where this was going. “You're not gay, are you?”

  Ok, wasn’t expecting that. “Ah, no.”

  “Do you find me attractive?”

  Eldridge paused before answering, then, without making eye contact, he said, “Yes.”

  The smile on Aynslee’s face made it clear to him that was the answer she was hoping to hear. “Okay then, it must be my personality. There's something about me you don't like.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I've been practically throwing
myself at you these past few days and you've been, like, completely ignoring me.”

  Eldridge didn't say anything.

  “Like now.”

  He was on duty. Doing his job. He wasn’t required to respond, but he felt he had to. “I can't get involved with a witness, especially one under my protection.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, but when this is all over, promise me one thing?”

  “What?”

  “Coffee. At least one coffee together, just you and me, no talk about this case, and let's just see if there's something there. If there isn't, we drink our coffees quickly, if there is, we order refills. And if we're lucky, we both order refills.”

  Despite himself Eldridge was finding it hard to keep the wall up. He found something about her voice intoxicating, as if he could listen to her talk all night and never get tired of hearing it. Perhaps that's why she's a news anchor? He hadn't realized it, but he had already said, “Fine.” This appeared to satisfy her and she drew quiet for a minute, humming a tune he didn't recognize.

  “Here's my apartment just up on the right.” Eldridge parked behind a squad car already waiting and exited the vehicle, carefully scanning his surroundings.

  “Can I have your keys, Miss Kai,” he asked, leaning in the passenger side window.

  She handed them over. “Nine-C.”

  The trailing squad car pulled in directly behind and its occupants joined him as the two officers already waiting trotted from the building’s lobby and approached the group. Eldridge eyed the traffic, watching for any cars parking unexpectedly. “Status?” he asked, still watching the traffic.

  One of the officers from the lobby replied. “We've done a thorough search, all exits seem secure, the security systems are working and the security company has been told to send any alarms to us immediately.”

  “Good work. I'll want one of you in the car, and one at the entrance inside,” said Eldridge, pointing to the two officers already on scene. “I want you two in eye contact at all times.” He handed them a photo of Jeremiah. “This is our suspect. He's proven very resourceful and has been known to wear disguises. He is armed and has already killed over ten people.” He handed the keys to an officer from the trailing car. “Nine-C, check it out, make sure it's clear. If everything is okay, one of you come back down and we'll proceed.” They nodded and ran inside. A few minutes later one returned and waved from the lobby the all clear. Eldridge opened the door and helped Aynslee out, ushering her into the building and directly into an elevator the officer had blocked open with his nightstick. Silence ruled as they ascended to the ninth floor, everyone tense. The doors opened and Eldridge cautiously poked his head out, looking both ways. The other officer, halfway down the hallway, holding open the door to Aynslee’s apartment, waved. Eldridge, one hand on Aynslee’s back, the other holding her elbow, marched her toward the apartment then inside. Eldridge heard Aynslee breathe a sigh of relief as the apartment door closed behind them.

  “My God, that was intense. I don't think I realized how scared I was.” She kicked off her shoes and sat down on her couch as Eldridge searched the apartment, including closets and under furniture, satisfying himself it was empty. He returned to the living room to find Aynslee waiting.

  “I'll be leaving one officer outside your door. If you need anything, they're just outside.” Aynslee nodded and walked with him to the door as he spoke to his two officers. “I want one of you at the door, the other a rover. Check out the hallways, stairwells, everything. Alternate between the four of you as necessary, I'll have you relieved at the end of your shift. Make sure you don't leave this door for anything, even a piss break.” The men nodded and left to take their posts. He turned to Aynslee. “Again, if you need anything, please call one of the officers. They will accompany you to your office in the morning when you're ready. I will see you tomorrow.”

  She gripped his arm as he was about to head out the door. Leaning in, she gave him a soft peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Hayden.”

  Not trusting himself to make eye contact, he paused then stepped out into the hallway. “Good night, Miss Kai. Lock the door behind me.” She nodded and did a small wave to him as she closed the door.

  Chelsie was ravenous when the food and water arrived. She sat back on her mattress and eyed the sandwich. Picking it apart, she surveyed the ingredients, a generous helping of smoked meat, Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mustard, set between two halves of what looked like a homemade sourdough roll. She had to admit the sandwich looked delicious. But which ingredient is drugged? It had to be the mustard. It was the easiest. She scraped as much off as she could with her finger and rinsed it in the water hole. Tearing the sandwich in two, she disposed of the second half. Just in case it isn't the mustard. Starving, she practically inhaled the sandwich, afterward leaning her back against the wall. Within minutes her eyes drooped. It's not the mustard.

  She awoke, lying in the now familiar bed, but this time with something pressing her into the soft mattress. It took only moments for her to realize what was happening. Her captor’s hot, sweaty flesh was pressed against her naked body, his breath heavy in her ear as he thrust at her, his hands gripping her buttocks as he tried to penetrate her with a non-existent erection. She smiled inwardly, both satisfied and relieved at this turn of events. His feeble attempts continued for several more minutes, his groans of pleasure, sounding more and more forced, eventually turning into growls of frustration.

  Then he stopped and lay perfectly still on top of her, the only movement that of his heaving chest as he caught his breath. After a few moments, she felt him shake, the sounds of sobs filled her ear, a hot splash of a tear on her shoulder, as he broke down and cried. “This still isn't right,” he whispered in her ear. Is he talking to me? He sniffed and pushed himself up, removing the now uncomfortable weight. The bed rocked as he climbed off and she heard the sounds of clothes being put on nearby. “This still isn't right!” he said, this time louder. “She not right, she's not the same.” What is he talking about? I'm not the same as what? The girl in the picture? “No, she won't do.”

  Now fear set in. If she wouldn't do, did that mean he no longer had any use for her? He continued to mutter as he left the room. You have to get out of here. Now! She heard the creak of the stairs, and as quietly as she could, she crawled from the bed and tip-toed to the window. Opening the drapes, her heart sank as she found it boarded over. She tiptoed to the doorway, fearful with each step the old floors would give her away. Gingerly, she crept down the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing, trying to prevent the stairs from creaking. As she neared the bottom she saw the doorway and freedom. She stole a glance down the hall and saw a bright light shining from the kitchen doorway, cutting into the darkness. She heard him moving around, continuing to mutter, as he did something in the kitchen, a kitchen thankfully out of her line of sight, and therefore, she out of his. She stepped to the door, flipped the deadbolt and removed the chain. Turning the knob, she felt the door start to open in her hand. Her heart raced. A final glance back to make sure she was still alone and she slowly pulled the door open.

  A chime beeped three times from behind her. She spun around and saw a security panel on the wall, a red light indicating the door she had just opened. The noise in the kitchen stopped, but only for a moment. She heard footsteps then her captor charge from the kitchen. She threw the door open and ran headlong into a screen door. Screaming, she pushed at it and then, seeing the clasp, fumbled with it. “Help! Help me!” she cried repeatedly, hoping someone would hear her, the darkened street mere feet away, houses on the other side, some with lights on, urging her forward. She threw her weight against the door and the clasp gave way. She shoved the door aside, the pounding of footsteps right behind her now. Hurtling herself from the house she ran onto a porch then down several steps to a stone path. She heard him hit the screen door as it bounced back at him. Running as fast as her bare feet could take her, she raced to an opening in a thick hedge surrounding the property, t
hen was hit hard from behind. She smacked the ground, her attacker on top of her, her naked body scraping against the walkway, the rough stones tearing at her flesh. She rolled over as he lost his grip and looked up to see the face of the man from the subway glaring down at her, his fist cocked over his shoulder.

  Chelsie awoke to a curious sensation. Darkness surrounded her, and she felt cold. Very cold. She lay naked on something soft and moist. It wasn’t a mattress, it wasn’t the basement floor, she wasn’t sure what it was. She tried to reach out but found her hands bound in front of her. She heard what sounded like a sob from somewhere above her. She looked up and saw what appeared to be the night sky, then something blocked the shaft of light, falling toward her, spreading out as it neared. The bulk of it hit her stomach, taking the wind out of her, the rest sprayed over her flesh, cool and damp. Looking up she heard the sound of a shovel hitting dirt followed by another pile sailing into the hole she lay in. Oh my God! He’s burying me alive! “Help!” she screamed, but it was no use, her mouth taped shut, her hands and wrists bound, she struggled to free herself from her bindings. Shovelful after shovelful hit her, each one slowly immobilizing her further, soon leaving her unable to move her legs, then her upper body.

  A pile hit her face and she snorted hard, trying to clear the dirt from her nose, exhausting the air in her lungs. She sucked against the tape, trying to force precious oxygen through, to no avail. She shook her head, attempting to rid herself of the dirt. She opened her eyes and again another pile fell on her face. She shook it off but was hit by another, then another. She tried to hold her breath, but it was no use. Her heart beat harder and harder and she felt the pressure as her body demanded she take a breath. Finally giving in, she took a deep breath through her nose, sucking the dirt into her nasal passages, immediately clogging her airways. The musty scent crept into her throat as she sucked more and more in, desperate for air. Her heart thumped in her chest and she began to feel lightheaded. Bright lights streaked all around her like a Fourth of July fireworks display, despite her eyes being firmly shut. As she slowly passed out, her gasps became less and less frequent, until, at long last, they stopped.

 

  ELEVEN