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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “I really think you should listen to the paramedics, Miss Kai.” Hayden! His voice sang out from behind her. She looked around and noticed the back of the ambulance was open, and they had not left her office building. He was standing at the bumper, looking at her. The sincerity in his voice almost made her agree. Anything for you! Gritting her teeth to hide the pain, she lifted herself off the stretcher.

  “Ma’am, you really should let us take you to the hospital.”

  She shook her head and immediately regretted it. “No, I'm okay. Thank you for your help.” Hayden helped her out of the ambulance, frowning, but saying nothing. She headed toward the studio entrance, Hayden following, the grimace on her face the sole outward indication of the discomfort she was in. On the elevator, she leaned into the corner and gripped both railings, her eyes focused on the floor. “Who attacked me?” she asked, not making eye contact.

  “Don’t know yet,” he replied as he punched the button for her floor. “He had no ID on him. I had him taken to booking, hopefully we’ll put a name to him shortly.”

  Aynslee gave a single nod, afraid to disturb the delicate equilibrium she had managed to establish. She knew she wasn’t fooling him, but she wasn’t willing to admit how horrible she felt. Her head throbbed, spun at the slightest movement, and she was still shaken from the terrifying experience of being assaulted by a complete stranger. She wanted to burst into tears and let the fear and frustration out. She wanted to be held.

  “You're sure you're okay, Miss Kai?”

  “Yes.” Hold me!

  He nodded. “Very well.”

  The elevator doors opened and they walked toward her office, coworkers popping their heads over their dividers asking if she was okay, most having already heard what had happened on the street below. She ignored them all, determined to reach her office without collapsing again, desperately hoping none of the drama queens came running from their desks to give her a motherly hug. Finally in the sanctuary of her office, she sank into her chair and rested her head against the back, using the swivel in its base to bring Hayden into her line of sight.

  He stood at the side of her desk, looking at her. “Your message said you got another video?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm glad you decided to cooperate with the investigation.”

  “I promised to let you know, but I still get the exclusive,” she replied as she logged into her computer. “This is airing tonight.”

  He stepped around the desk and leaned over her shoulder. “I would expect nothing less.”

  His mouth so close to her ear, his hot breath on her neck sent shivers down her spine, her pain forgotten. She caught a slight waft of his aftershave and inhaled through her nose, taking in every bit of his scent she could without making it too obvious. She had read about pheromones and his were working overtime on her. Oh, God, I've got to ask him out!

  The video appeared on the screen, confusing at first, the image dark and the view shifting rapidly like a chase scene in Cloverfield. “He must be crawling in the air ducts. We're pretty sure that's where the shots came from,” his gentle yet strong voice whispered in her ear. The image stabilized somewhat as it brightened and the killer stopped moving. The video showed an angle from above and ahead of the bed, the intended victim attached to various sensors below. He pointed toward the camera as the barrel of a pistol entered the view. There were five shots, the last two hitting their target in the chest. The image went dark again and bounced around as the shooter backed up. It ended with an intense flash of light. “That must have been the explosion at the end.” He handed her his card with his email address. “Forward this to me. I'll also have the techs come down and try to trace the email again.” He stepped back around the desk.

  Aynslee dug deep for some courage. “Detective Eldridge?”

  He turned to face her. “Yes?”

  “Would you, ah, like to get some coffee some time?” Her cheeks flushed. She felt like a school girl.

  “I don't think that would be appropriate, Miss Kai,” he replied. “You're a witness in an active investigation.”

  “Of course.” Aynslee, her mind reeling for a way out of the embarrassment, said, “Maybe when this is done?” That wasn’t it.

  “Perhaps,” he said as he left the office.

  Perhaps? Why not, “Yes! I'd love to!” Aynslee slumped in her chair, her head hitting the back. She winced. Maybe I should have gone to the hospital.

  Detective Justin Shakespeare climbed into his car, keys in one hand, a dozen Krispy Kreme's in the other. He had over three decades on the force and only a few years left until he could retire with a full pension. Once a good cop, he himself would be the first to admit the last five years of his career were a joke. In his mid-forties he had inexplicably begun to gain weight, and as any self-respecting cop would tell you, you only go to a doctor if you've been shot. Twice. But he finally got concerned enough he at last went. Diabetes. He had tried everything to lose weight, to no avail, but he hadn't given up. Exercise, proper diet, medication, relaxation techniques, he had tried them all, but his blood sugar continued out of control, the weight continued its relentless march up.

  And it was the diabetes that had sent his career into a spiral. Five years ago he had worked a crime scene for almost ten hours, going through the evidence collected with Vinny Fantino's crew and his former partner. With time of the essence, he rushed a weapon they found over to ballistics. On the way his blood sugar dropped, the now familiar yet still terrifying feeling of disorientation setting in. He knew if he didn't act quickly he could end up in a coma so he pulled over and grabbed a quick sandwich in a deli.

  It had all taken less than fifteen minutes, but those precious few minutes were long enough to not only save his own life, but also for someone to steal the gun from his car. Disoriented from his hypoglycemic episode, he had left the evidence bag in plain sight, the car not only unlocked, but the windows down as well. Too ashamed of why he had pulled over, he told people he was hungry and had stopped to eat. He made no mention of his diabetes, and because of it, there was now no love lost between him and Vinny. Vinny had taken him to task in front of the entire precinct and the case was nearly lost. Fortunately Vinny's team came up with other evidence, but not before humiliating Shakespeare in public.

  And that's when he stopped caring.

  He knew people made fun of him behind his back, he knew his young partner had no respect for him, and he knew he was dying. After trying everything, he had given up and decided to enjoy his last few years by eating. He didn't have any family so he didn't feel guilty about leaving anyone behind, but deep down he was ashamed. He felt like a failure not only in his personal life but his professional life as well. But over the past few months he had begun to feel differently. He had met a girl. A great girl. A girl who loved him for who he was, warts and all, and it had made him want to live again. She had a great teenaged son who he had taken to, and they were talking about moving in together. He was even tossing around the idea of working out again. He eyed the donuts on the passenger seat of his car. But not today. With his personal life perhaps on the mend, he wondered if it wasn’t time to try and salvage what was left of his self-respect in his professional life. He had heard the kid had caught an interesting case and decided perhaps it was time to give him a hand. If he'll take it.

  While en route to the precinct, another photo arrived from the subway video, this one of a clearly terrified Ibrahim Jamar. On a hunch, Eldridge headed to the lab and found Frank alone, listening to Korn at full volume as he pecked away at a keyboard, his head nodding with the beat. “Hey, Frank!” he shouted, trying to be heard over the din of Twisted Transistor. The only response was a banging of the head. Eldridge stepped into Frank’s field of vision, waving his arms, causing Frank to jump. He quickly hit the pause button on his keyboard.

  “Sorry, Detective, just rockin’ out. How can I help you?”

  Eldridge plunked himself into a nearby chair. “Gotta a question for you.�
�

  “Shoot.”

  “Can you pull up the video from the subway and play it for me?”

  “Sure thing.” Frank used his right leg to propel the chair across the room to another computer. A few keystrokes later he had the image displayed on a large monitor mounted to the wall. Eldridge watched, keeping an eye out specifically for Ibrahim Jamar, but other than a couple of quick flashes of him in the background, there was nothing more.

  Eldridge leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “What was the best still of Ibrahim Jamar you were able to get from this video?”

  “You mean without running it through the NASA algorithms?”

  Eldridge nodded.

  Frank opened a folder on the computer showing several thumbnails of the passengers. He displayed three photos on the screen. “These are the best I could get.”

  Eldridge looked at them and shook his head. “There's no way you could recognize him from that.”

  “No, it doesn't look likely. Too much pixelization,” agreed Frank.

  “Then how the hell is our killer identifying the passengers?”

  Frank shrugged his shoulders. “No idea, but it can't be from the video.”

  Eldridge headed from the lab and returned to his desk. If he's not using the video, then he has to be identifying them in some other way. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes for a moment. He heard a groan from across his desk. Opening his eyes, he saw Shakespeare pour himself into his chair, his portly frame surging over and under the arms.

  “Hey, kid, how's it goin'?” Eldridge watched as his partner opened a box of Krispy Kremes, his right hand poised over the warm, glazed donuts, three fingers twitching as if tapping out a tune on a piano, then like a hunter after its prey, his hand darted in and clutched one of the donuts, leaving Eldridge to wonder what made the decision so hard in the first place since they were all the same. Shakespeare polished off the donut in seconds and began the long process of sucking the glaze off his fingers.

  Eldridge looked away in disgust. Does he chew? “Fine, just working on those video murders.”

  “Where're you at?”

  “Just trying to figure out how he's identifying his victims.” Eldridge leaned forward and set his elbows on his desk, crossing his arms. “They seem to all have been on the subway last year when the Arnette woman was beaten to death.”

  “Right.” Shakespeare turned his attention to his index finger. “Wasn’t there a video?”

  “Yeah, but I looked at it and there's no way you can recognize one of the victims. He's sitting way in the back, he's almost a blur.”

  Shakespeare's index finger exited his mouth with a pop. “Maybe he's not using the video.”

  “Then what would he be using?”

  “Well, if I were somebody looking at life in prison or worse, I'd—” He paused for a moment to lick his thumb. “—be looking to maybe get rid of some witnesses.”

  “Hmmm, maybe,” said Eldridge. “But they've got these guys pretty much dead to rights.”

  “Yeah, but you know who has witness lists besides the DA?” asked Shakespeare as he decided upon which donut to inhale next. “Defense attorneys.”

  Eldridge wasn’t sure. “It's a long shot.”

  “Want me to check it out?”

  Eldridge nearly choked. “You want to check it out?”

  “Sure, why not?” Shakespeare finished off another donut. “I haven't been to Rikers in a while. I'll go see the two perps and see if I can persuade them to come clean.”

  “They'll never see you without their attorney.”

  “Actually, I heard they just fired their attorney last week. Might be time they got a new one.”

  Eldridge raised his hands. “I don't wanna hear about it.” He knew Shakespeare was going to pull something. “Just let me know if you find out anything. I’m heading to Interrogation One if anyone needs me.” Shakespeare grunted an acknowledgement, his mouth full of his latest victim.

  Eldridge headed down to holding and opened the interrogation room door, the tired, disheveled man sitting at the table looked up at him, a hint of defiance remaining, his two days growth of facial hair betraying the fact his problems went far beyond this afternoon’s events. He had refused to cooperate on scene, but once taken downtown to be booked for assault, he had quickly changed his tune. Fingerprints usually get the innocent to talk. When Eldridge heard who the man was, he told them to wait before filing the charges, and had him placed in an interrogation room instead. It had been a few hours of waiting for the man, which Eldridge fully expected to have pissed him off, but it was better than Rikers, and possibly the State Penn.

  “Mr. Coverdale, I'm Detective Eldridge, Homicide.” Tammera Coverdale's father, Hugh Coverdale, glowered at him. “I'd like to ask you a few questions about your daughter.”

  Coverdale’s anger, seething below the surface for hours without release, burst forth. “It's about goddamned time!” he yelled. “Do you realize that nobody has asked us any questions since the day you guys found her?”

  Eldridge remained calm, letting the man vent, and sat in a chair across the table from him. “I'm sorry, sir. I've recently taken over the case as part of a larger investigation. Your daughter is one of at least four people that have been murdered recently by, we believe, the same perpetrator.”

  “Four?” This news trimmed Coverdale's sails. “You mean it wasn’t some drunk who did this?”

  Eldridge shook his head. “No, it definitely wasn’t the man discovered with your daughter's body. We believe your daughter's death is in relation to the subway murder last year.”

  Eldridge watched Coverdale process this new information for a moment. Finally, the father sighed, the fight in him gone.

  “She was supposed to testify in a few weeks.” He leaned forward, placed his head in his hands and pulled at his hair. “I encouraged her to testify. Practically insisted.” He looked up at Eldridge, tears welled in his eyes. “Do you think she was killed because of me?”

  Eldridge lowered his voice and leaned toward the distraught man. “Sir, four people connected with the subway that night have been killed so far, with videos taken of all of the murders. One of them we didn’t even know was on the subway until after his death. I don’t think it would have mattered.” He doubted this new information would help how the man felt now, but in time, he would come to realize it wasn’t his fault. “Has your daughter said anything about any threats recently?”

  Coverdale shook his head. “No, but I'm not the one to ask. She tells her mother everything.”

  Eldridge nodded. “I'll be by to question her later. But for now, as far as you know, your daughter hasn't had anything unusual happen to her, nobody following her, threatening her, hang-up phone calls, nothing out of the ordinary?”

  “Nothing she's told me.”

  “Okay, thank you, Mr. Coverdale.” Eldridge rose and opened the door.

  “What happens to me now?” asked Coverdale.

  Eldridge turned back to face him. “That depends if Miss Kai decides to press charges.” Eldridge closed the door behind him, leaving Coverdale to dwell on what might happen to him next. Eldridge did feel sympathy for the man, his daughter killed and her murder played out for everyone to see as if a form of entertainment. He hoped Aynslee wouldn't press charges, but he'd have to wait and see what kind of woman she truly was.

  Trace stood in front of Chelsie’s apartment door and knocked again. She cocked an ear, trying to catch any telltale sound from inside. Nothing. She eyed the key to Chelsie’s apartment the parents had given to her. If it weren’t for this key, she wouldn’t have been surprised to find the girl holed up in her apartment, eating a tub of cookie dough ice cream, mourning a breakup with the one true love of her life, a breakup that would leave her alone and miserable for eternity. She knew what young heartbreak was like. Not much better than adult heartbreak, except you know it will happen again.

  But the key changed everything. The parents had already visi
ted half a dozen times over the past days, so she knew what she was going to find. She slipped the key in the keyhole and turned. The tumblers clicked, and she turned the knob, pushing the door open. “NYPD, is anyone here!” she called, knowing full well there would be no answer. She stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind her. Her hand on the gun at her hip, she slowly entered, carefully examining every corner, every cavity, anywhere a person, or a body, might be hiding.

  No smell, so if she’s dead, the body isn’t here.

  She looked for a freezer, but found none.

  She stepped into the apartment’s lone bedroom and found it too empty, the usual mess of a young girl’s life strewn about, toiletries and makeup cluttering the bathroom’s vanity and countertop. No evidence whatsoever that she had packed anything for a trip. Her life was still here, untouched. She checked the laundry and found casual clothes near the top, but no evidence of the type of clothes her parents’ had said Chelsie wore for her job. She checked out the floor, then the living area. Nothing. And there was no purse in sight, except a nice Gucci knockoff in the closet, empty. Probably for her nights on the town.

  Trace stood in the center of the apartment, hands on her hips, her trained eye taking everything in. She definitely didn’t make it home from work. She spotted a note on the kitchen counter and hurried toward it, momentarily excited it might be a clue, the emotion proving fleeting as it turned out to be from the parents. “Please call, we're worried sick! Mom & Dad.”

  She continued her search, but found nothing. No evidence of a boyfriend, no diary, no personal papers. A few bottles of beer in the well-stocked fridge told her she didn't have a drinking problem; there were no signs of drug paraphernalia. A few framed photos on the end tables and nightstands in her bedroom, all of her and her parents, did nothing to indicate anyone special in her life. The only thing setting it apart from any other single girl's apartment was the sheer volume of books. Chelsie appeared to be an avid reader of both fiction and non-fiction, mostly medical related.