Copyright July 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-940758-56-5 Paperback
ISBN: 978-1-940758-58-9 EPUB
ISBN: 978-1-940758-57-2 Mobi
Cover Design: Ryan Anderson
Published by:
Intrigue Publishing, LLC
11505 Cherry Tree Crossing Rd. #148
Cheltenham MD 20623-9998
Rave Reviews for Michael A. Black
A fast-paced crime story that has devious crimes, weird scientific experiments, a Canadian twist, and a cross-border romance. Gets you inside the police station to see how the real cops do it. Intriguing, suspenseful, and entertaining right to the end
--John Eldridge, Retired police officer, author of Second Careers for Street Cops
“Detective Roger Colby and his partner Fred Dix prowl the dark heart of the city in pursuit of a serial killer. Michael A. Black knows the city, and knows cops. He also knows how to write a damn fine procedural.”
--Jean Rabe, USA Today bestselling author
“Besides being a page-turner that’s impossible to put down, BLOOD TRAILS has a quality that stands out in all of Black’s police procedurals—and that is the you-are-there, visceral authenticity the city streets.”
--Raymond Benson, author of The Black Stiletto series
When you pick up Blood Trails, you'll be hard pressed to put it down. Expect a wild ride with Mike behind the wheel as Detective Roger Colby pursues a ghastly killer seemingly dredged from the cop's past
Lt. Dave Case, Chicago Police Department and author of Out of Cabrini
Michael A. Black has made a name for himself delivering one sure-handed thriller after another. Blood Trails is no exception. From the riveting opening scene to the satisfying final page, the pace never lets up.
--William Kent Krueger
There’s nothing like a good cop story, and Michael A. Black’s Blood Trails delivers the tension and the thrills that keep us up late. Black writes with the confidence only an experienced law enforcement professional can bring to this thriller
--Camille Munichino, author, the Periodic Table mystery series
In Blood Lines author Michael A. Black takes us on a wild ride from past to present, delivering a plot with more twists and turns than a high-speed chase. A satisfying, engaging journey from start to finish, this latest from former law enforcement officer Black is based on a chilling premise and chock-full of convincing characters that ring true. A hands-down winner of a read!
--Ann Parker, Author, award-winning Silver Rush mystery series
DEDICATION
For my buddy, Dave Case
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are a lot of people to thank for this one. My buddy, first reader, ace writer, and top cop, Dave Case, helped me through the rough first draft and with a lot of the Chicago Police Department things. Retired Vancouver PD Detective, John Eldridge, was an immense help with the Canadian aspects of the story. I called upon a few others as well, too numerous to mention. Any mistakes I made are totally my own. I’d also like to thank Austin Camacho of Intrigue Publishing, for the suggestions and the opportunity, as well as Ms. Melanie Rigney for her editing and suggestions.
Prologue
October 17th, 1987
The last vestiges of fading, late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the streaked window panes, dappling the old, wooden stairway with an occasional, bright speckle. The windows of the narrow landing had been painted shut and the pervasive smell of stale urine was so strong it made Detective Roger Colby cough. His partner, Fred Dix, grinned. “Stinks, don’t it?” he whispered.
Colby nodded, the sweat breaking out on his forehead. The place made him want to disinfect his whole body starting with the soles of his shoes. But they were close now. Real close.
He was dog-tired, which wasn’t good. Tired men make mistakes, but he marveled at Dix’s stamina and resolve. Colby was having trouble keeping up, despite his partner having ten years on him. They’d been working the case of the abducted Swanstrom twins nonstop for the past twenty-four hours and had finally tracked the suspect, Morgan Laird, down to the room in this sleazy S.R.O. flop house. Their adversary was not only Laird, but the ticking clock as well.
For the sake of the twins Colby prayed they weren’t too late. The desk clerk had told them there weren’t any little girls in the room, but he was sure Laird was.
A sudden squeak of the floorboards jarred Colby as they cleared the landing. Dix frowned and pulled out his snub-nosed .38, pointing down the hall.
Room 33.
Colby nodded and took a position on the opposite side of the door, his gun out too. It was a four-inch stainless steel .357 Magnum. “We’re at the top,” he whispered into his radio. It crackled a reply and Colby grimaced. He’d left the volume on too high. Had Laird heard it?
Dix must have thought the same thing. He pounded on the door and announced, “Police! Open up.” Then they both stepped back.
Just as Colby was about to give the bottom half of the door a good kick; a muffled voice came from inside the room. “Hold on, I’m coming.”
Colby and Dix exchanged glances.
Seconds later a myriad of tiny splinters fluttered in a haze of smoke and dust in front of them as a round hole ripped through the cheap wood, right below the number, with an accompanying roar.
“Shotgun!” yelled Dix.
Colby fired a round through the door and kicked it. The door shuddered, but held. He cocked his leg to kick again, just as he faintly heard a rhythmic metallic clacking despite the ringing in his ears from the gunshot.
They exchanged glances and Dix said, “Fire escape.”
Colby yelled into his radio for the back-up officers in the alley below to intercept him.
More shots—pistols, followed by the heavy blasts of the shotgun.
Colby hurled his shoulder against the door and it crumbled inward. The momentum carried him through the portal. He fell heavily on top of the shattered door. Dix raced over him to the window and peered out. The shotgun’s roar sounded from below, then Colby saw his partner firing downward.
“Dammit,” Dix said, grunting.
On his feet now, Colby sprinted across to the window. Laird was running toward one of the open squad cars. Colby aimed and fired. Laird kept running, showing no sign of being hit.
Where the hell were the two containment officers?
A second later he knew as he climbed through the window, his shoes clanging on the metal framework of the fire escape. Fifty feet below, two uniformed coppers lay in the alley, darkening puddles spreading out beneath them, a sawed-off shotgun lying between them. Colby skipped down the steps three at a time, using the handrail for balance. The marked squad-car peeled off toward the street. He could hear Dix’s ragged breath above him. Two more uniforms came running down the alley.
Colby reached the bottom. He ran to the closest fallen comrade. Faint pulse, shallow breathing.
“Jesus, what the
hell happened?” one of the new coppers asked.
“Call for an ambulance,” Colby said.
Dix was next to him now. “Laird stole their squad.”
Colby ran to their unmarked and got behind the wheel. His lungs were burning from exertion. Dix jumped into the passenger side as Colby slammed the car into gear and took off, leaving a trail of burned rubber. The oscillating red-and-blue lights of the stolen squad car bounced down the far end of the alley before disappearing from sight.
Dix jammed the red bubble-light onto the dashboard and plugged it into the cigarette lighter.
“He ain’t going far in that squad,” Dix said. “Too recognizable.” He yelled the pursuit information into his radio, holding the red light down on the dash. “He stole one of the copper’s guns. Looked like a semi-auto.”
Turning onto Vermont Street, they spotted the squad car barreling through the intersection fifty yards ahead, scattering the pedestrians coming from the commuter trains. Colby hit the siren and kept going.
Laird raced toward Western Avenue against the red light and seconds later smashed into a blue Volkswagen, sending the smaller car careening into a vehicle in the next lane. The squad car bounced straight, its front fender a crumpled mass, and kept going. He was a hundred yards ahead of them now, the friction of the metal against the tire emitting a stream of black smoke, the emergency lights on top whirling as he lurched through the tangle of vehicles, bashing some and forcing others onto the sidewalks in desperate avoidance.
Colby followed seconds later, slowing to traverse the maze of smashed cars. They felt the abrupt crunch as one of the cars struck their rear fender.
“Keep going,” Dix shouted. “Don’t stop.”
Colby kept watching the plume of smoke on the road ahead of him. The burning rubber stung his nostrils. They were gaining. Slowly, but they were gaining…maybe sixty yards back now.
“His tire won’t last much longer.” Colby pressed the accelerator to the floor. He saw Laird swing around a stopped mini-van before going under a viaduct.
Thirty more yards to go.
Colby swerved to avoid the stalled van. As the fleeing squad car entered the darkened section of the tunnel, a red flash winked at him from the shadows. Milliseconds later, a bullet smacked against the top of their windshield, the impact causing a web of fanning cracks.
Dix grunted and said, “Hold her steady.” He rolled the passenger side window down and stuck his gun out, resting his hand on the side-view mirror as they entered the tunnel.
Another red flash from Laird’s car. Colby instinctively swerved. This time there was no impact. They bottomed out on a low point in the roadway. Dix fired three rounds, the flashes lighting up the corner of Colby’s peripheral vision. It was impossible to tell where the rounds went, or even if they were close, but he felt better that they were shooting back.
The smoke from Laird’s tire hung heavy and thick in the air. He was less than a hundred feet in front of them.
“Pull up alongside,” Dix said. “I’ll blast him.”
“We need him alive. The twins.”
An oncoming vehicle bore down on them, horn blaring. Colby jerked the wheel, and felt the gut-wrenching scrape as the two cars sideswiped each other. Straightening the wheels, he glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Screw ’em,” Dix said.
Ahead, the road split into a T-intersection, with a trucking storage facility on the right side. To the left, the street dipped under another small viaduct with huge cement pillars.
“Come on,” Dix said. “Get up next to that—”
Before he could finish Laird’s squad begin to skid, turning sideways, then straightening out, before swinging all the way around and crashing through the cyclone fence to the right, in front of the trucking facility. On top of the adjacent viaduct, a slow-moving freight train clattered by.
Colby hit the brakes and controlled his skid, following Laird’s path as best he could, but avoiding the collision with the fence. He and Dix were out of their car as soon as it stopped.
They paused by the ruptured fence. Laird had gone completely through and crashed into the side of the flimsy, sheet-metal building about forty feet ahead. A trail of noxious smoke floated upward from the smoldering tire.
Colby felt for his radio and suddenly realized it was in the car. “Dix,” he called. “Radio this in.”
In the moment it took for his partner to turn his head to reply, a shot rang out and Dix grunted and fell to one knee.
Colby ran to his him.
“You hit?”
Dix grunted again, holding his side. Blood poured through his fingers.
“I’m all right. Get that asshole.”
Colby ran toward the gaping hole in the building made by the squad car. The interior was dark. To go in without backup was suicide. He instinctively reached for his radio again, and felt the empty space on his belt.
Shit, is anything gonna go right today?
At least the building looked deserted.
Another flash brightened the darkness and a bullet whizzed by his head. Crouching, he leveled his gun toward the spot where he’d seen the burst of yellow and fired off three rounds. There was no way he was going to let that bastard escape. To lose him was to lose the last chance they had of ever finding the Swanstrom twins in time. Those two little girls were depending on him.
If they were still alive.
He ducked through the torn metal, gun outstretched, reaching into his pocket for his mini-mag flashlight, and looking for movement in the inky blackness, waiting for another flash, another round.
Instead he heard a scrambling sound and saw a large, overhead door trundling upward. A loading dock. He shone the light in that direction, and Laird jumped under the rising door, against the backdrop of a rapidly darkening sky.
Colby ran toward him but something caught his foot and he went down, his gun discharging onto the floor in front of him, the little flashlight going instantly dark. Cursing as he pushed himself to his feet, he pocketed the mini-mag and moved with a cautious haste toward the big door, which was now fully open. Colby paused at the edge to avoid making himself an easy target.
Laird was already across the street, scrambling up a gravel incline toward the railroad trestle, a blue-steel semi-auto in his right hand.
I got him now, Colby thought. He aimed at Laird’s lower back. The hammer fell as he squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Out of ammo.
Colby flipped the cylinder open with his right thumb as he reached into his pocket with his left hand for his speed-loader. He quickly ejected the spent cartridges and fitted the new bullets into place, twisting the release dial. The bullets fell into the holes and he snapped the cylinder shut.
Laird had already crested the top of the incline, a barely visible dark silhouette against the velvet sky. Colby climbed through the opening and made the four-foot drop to the ground from the back loading dock. He ran full-out across the street and began to scale the gravel hill.
If Laird were up there waiting, Colby knew he’d be an easy target. But if he hesitated, he’d lose him for sure.
The squealing and grinding of the rumbling train obscured Colby’s own ragged breathing. Gasping, clawing, stumbling up the incline, he skinned his knuckles and knees on the sharp gravel, his street shoes slipping with each step. As he neared the top he debated whether to go right over or pause. He elected to prone out on the rough surface, sliding down slightly, allowing only enough space to peer over the edge.
He was surprised to notice how dark it suddenly was. It had been nearing dusk when they’d gone up those stairs in the hotel, but now it seemed almost totally black. Beyond the crest of the hill he saw four sets of parallel railroad tracks, with the train rumbling north on the farthest set. In the ambient light Colby saw Laird running alongside the slow-moving freight about a hundred-and-fifty feet away. His arm snaked out and he caught a rung of the ladder on the side of a boxcar. He pulled himself up and onto the small, grated pla
tform at the front of the car. The train continued its ponderous trek as Laird moved out of sight.
Colby was up and running parallel to the train, jumping over the other tracks as he tried to get next to the space where Laird had disappeared. The cool night air burned his lungs.
A shadow moved on the ground on the other side of the moving train.
Laird had gone between the two boxcars and jumped down on the other side.
The train began to pick up speed.
Colby dropped to his knees and tried to get a fix on Laird’s running legs but it was like looking through a stroboscope with the rapidly moving wheels and hanging wires providing no more than episodic glimpses. No clear shot.
Another set of the large wheels squealed past him. He had no choice. His only chance to catch Laird was to go under the moving train. Colby hesitated for a few seconds, taking pause at the squeal of the massive, rotating wheels. One wrong move, one miscalculation.
Gritting his teeth, Colby lurched forward and rolled under the middle of the passing boxcar, flattening out on the heavy ties and gravel bed. The floor of heavy wood, metal rungs, and dangling wires rumbled above him as he rotated onto his back. A few inches above his face sparks spewed all over and a pungent stench filled his lungs. He stretched out to let the boxcar pass over him, knowing he was a sitting duck if Laird saw him. Colby waited as the next set of massive wheels clacked toward him. Some box-like gear mechanisms with drooping wires looked low enough to snag him. Colby reached up with his free hand, hoping to grab something and be carried along for a few yards, like they did in the movies, to avoid being snared by the wires. But his fingers brushed against a long steel rod and slipped off, covered with a grimy smear.
It’s now or never, he thought, realizing that to hesitate was to risk getting dragged to death or cut in half by the unforgiving wheels. He rolled again, feeling his shoulder bump against the second track, then pushed up and over the smooth rail, landing on a gravel surface.
Seconds later he suppressed a shudder as the lethal wheels squealed by him only inches away.
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