Blood Trails

by Michael A. Black

  Colby sipped some of the amber liquid from his glass. “You’re right, partner. I am getting drunk.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Dix let his expression get serious. “What’s eating ya?”

  Colby downed more of the whiskey before answering.

  “I told you about those copycat murders?”

  “Yeah.” Dix narrowed his eyes and waited.

  “There’s been a couple more,” Colby said. “Remember Sally Borders? Benjamin Pike?”

  “Borders? The college coed?” Dix said. “And Pike…he was that male prostitute they found in the alley over on Belmont and Halsted.”

  Colby nodded. His expression looked beaten. He tapped a thick manila envelope on the table in front of him. “This is the file on the new ones. Carbon copies of the old Laird murders.”

  “Damn.”

  “And you wanna know the worst fucking thing about it?” Colby took another sip of his drink. “This new asshole is leaving copies of my book around at crime scenes. My book, that I signed.”

  “No shit?” Dix considered the possibilities.

  “Sounds like he’s taunting you.”

  “And the damn Feds,” Colby said, twirling his glass. “They’re starting that task force I told you about, right?”

  Dix nodded again, his smile eager and earnest looking.

  “They don’t want me in,” Colby said. “Except as a consultant.”

  “A consultant? That’s bullshit. Nobody knows the Laird case better than you.” Dix had to refrain from adding, except for me.

  “It’s too ‘personal,’ they said. Too fucking, in-your-face personal.” Colby slammed his fist down on the table causing his near-empty glass to wobble. “They just invited me by to quiz me about the original case, and collect their little facts so they can do their VICAP bullshit.”

  Dix snorted and took a long pull of his drink, feeling the good burn all the way down. “Ain’t that the thing they used back on that East Coast sniper case? Where they predicted the shooter was an evil white guy in his forties who was mad at the government, and it turned out to be two black guys hell bent on extorting money by creating a wave of terror?’

  Colby nodded. “Dammit, Dix, this is the kind of case I should be working. People are dying out there and this fucker’s taunting me.” He paused and started to take a drink, then stopped. “Leaving my book there…what’s that, if not a message? An invitation?”

  “The Feds won’t budge, huh?” He glanced down at the file on the table between them.

  Colby shook his head, then started to get up. “I gotta take a leak.”

  Dix nodded as he signaled the waitress again. “What are they afraid of? That you might crack the new case and hog all the credit?”

  Colby shrugged, shook his head, and walked toward the men’s room.

  Dix waited until his ex-partner was inside the john. Then he opened the flap of the envelope and dumped the papers into his waiting hand. It was a thick collection of reports, crime scene photos, and notes. A case file. He looked closer. A few of the photos looked startlingly familiar. The copycat file.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the waitress and motioned to her.

  “Hey, sweetie,” he said. “I need a big favor.” He winked and held out a twenty.

  “Anything for you, big guy,” she said, pocketing the bill.

  “You still got that big, old copying machine in the office?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, but Fred gets pissed if we use it.”

  “Grab me a stack of them fliers over on the bar,” Dix said, glancing quickly toward the men’s room. “And hurry up.”

  The waitress raised her eyebrows, went over to the bar, and handed him the stack of papers. Dix jammed them into the folder and stuck it back into the envelope. He then hid the file under his jacket and stood up.

  “Meet me in the back hallway,” he whispered to her. “You’re gonna let me in the office.”

  “I can’t do that,” she said. “I’ll get in trouble.”

  “No you won’t,” Dix said. “It’s police business.” He saw Colby exiting the men’s room and patted her on the ass. “Besides, I got Andrew Jackson’s twin brother waiting for you once I’m done.”

  The waitress compressed her lips and nodded. Colby regarded both of them as he got to the table.

  “I just ordered us another round,” Dix said. “After which, I’m driving your drunken ass home.”

  “I can drive myself,” Colby said. “I’m not drunk.”

  “Fine, you can drive me, then.” Dix laughed and grabbed his stomach. “Hold down the fort, will you? I think that Metamucil stuff that the doc prescribed is about to cause me to go give birth to an FBI agent.”

  Colby grinned.

  As Dix was walking toward the back, he glanced over to make sure Colby was facing the other way. He was, like any good copper, not sitting with his back to the door. Dix moved to the office hallway instead of the john, and watched as the waitress glanced around nervously and unlocked the office door. He went inside and saw the nice, big, fancy copying machine against the far wall. Taking the file from under his arm, he systematically removed the staples, placed the sheaf of papers into the top tray, and pressed the START button.

  As the machine began its copying cycle, Dix took out his cell phone and glasses, then sorted through the business cards in his jacket pocket. He found the one he wanted and dialed the number, straining to see in the subdued light.

  The phone rang several times and an automated operator answered, offering a variety of choices to proceed.

  Dix scrolled through the list of options until the automated voice instructed him to say the name of the party he wished to speak with. “Carmel Washington,” Dix said into the cell phone.

  After about ten more seconds, a sexy female voice said, “This is Carmel Washington of Chicago Today. I’m sorry, I’m not available at this time, but leave your name, number and a brief message and I’ll get back to you.”

  Dix waited for the beep, then repeated his name and cell number. “And listen, babe,” he said. “Make sure you call me back ASAP. This is about the story of a life-time, and I’m giving you first crack at it.”

  He disconnected and watched as the final pages of the case file passed through the copier.

  Knox looked at the luminous dial of his watch. Three-twenty-six AM. Ordinarily, he would have been exhausted, considering that he’d driven back from Canada the day before, and had been going on very little sleep for the past several days. But the thrill of the hunt invigorated him. He felt close to Vernony now, if you could call chasing down a wayward punk a challenge. Still, it helped to keep the skills honed, and he was getting paid handsomely for it. He went back to the green-tinted view that the night scope afforded him.

  The parking lot of the Bel-Aire Motel was only partially full. Most of the traffic, Knox had noted, was of the quick-encounter variety. A seedy place, but from what he’d seen on Matthew’s hard drive, the choice of domiciles wasn’t a surprise. The only surprise had been in how long it had taken to run the kid to ground. Perhaps he wouldn’t even show. He could have even changed motels to suit whatever was his perverted agenda. But Knox was betting otherwise.

  So when the dark, windowless van pulled up and parked in front of room 230, Knox wasn’t surprised to see who it was. From the plate, it was obvious the vehicle was a rental.

  Shielding his eyes from the intrusive and blinding glare from the brake lights, Knox watched as Matthew got out and looked around, trying and failing badly to affect an air of nonchalance before going to the rear doors. He rummaged around in the van’s interior for a few moments, removed a plastic bag, and, after another quick look around, slammed it shut.

  Christ, didn’t that punk know anything? All he was doing was calling attention to himself. And why did he rent the van in the first place?

  Knox used the night scope again to watch Matthew move toward the stairs and up to his motel room. He carefully slipped the lens
cap on the night scope and placed it back in its case, wondering what was in that bag. He would look into it after he’d secured his quarry.

  Matthew set the bag of goodies down at his feet and stuck the key-card into the lock. The light on the door changed from red to green and he twisted the knob.

  What to do, what to do? He flipped on the lights.

  This whole process was so exhilarating, racing along, leaving clues for the cops, knowing all the while that there was no way they would even get close to him, no way they would figure it out. Until he was ready for them to.

  He set the bag on the bed. One more night in this dump. Maybe two, and he’d go back to his apartment, get caught up on classes until the weekend, and then have some more fun. Fun and games, fun and games.

  Just then he heard a scraping sound coming from the door and he froze.

  The police? Could they have followed him here somehow? Had he slipped up? Given them too much, too soon?

  He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried when the tall, athletically built man with the blond ponytail opened the door and stepped inside, quietly closing it behind him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Knox strolled toward the bed and reached for the bag, but Matthew recovered in time to snatch it away.

  “That’s mine. You have no right.”

  Knox moved back, standing in front of the door, preventing any exit.

  “I asked you a question.” Matthew felt his voice crack. He hoped it didn’t make him sound like a girl. Or a fag.

  “Your father wants to see you.” Knox spoke with a quiet deliberation. Like he was tired, or bored, or both.

  But Matthew didn’t care. He wasn’t about to let all his careful planning go down the drain.

  “He’s not my father.”

  Knox shrugged. “He wants to see you anyway.”

  “Tell him to go to hell.” Matthew noticed the contempt he felt raising the inflection of the last word. Again, he hoped it didn’t sound effeminate. To add more force to his words, he reached in his pants pocket and took out his folding knife, using his thumb to open the blade. “Now get out of here. Unless you want some of this.” He brandished the open knife.

  Knox rolled his eyes. “Put your toy away and come on. I’ve had a long day.”

  “What if I refuse?” As soon as Matthew had finished saying the words, he realized how ridiculous it sounded, with him holding the knife. He should be dictating from a position of strength. Issuing ultimatums.

  Knox smiled and reached in his pocket. “Nothing would please me more.” He withdrew some kind of gun and held it down by his side.

  “Don’t even pretend that you’re going to shoot me,” Matthew said, trying for bravado, but cognizant his knees were feeling a little weak. “Father would never allow that.”

  “Wouldn’t he?”

  Knox raised his hand with the gun quickly and pointed it. The barrel looked squared off, funny.

  An instant later two bees stung Matthew’s left side and a gut-twisting paralysis gripped him and knocked him to the floor.

  He thought his joints would snap, it hurt so much. The knife had fallen from his limp fingers. He couldn’t move. The pain…drool oozed down his chin and he knew he’d piss himself if it kept on much longer. Knox stepped over and picked up the knife.

  The pain ceased, and Matthew felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He saw two gold-colored wires looping upward to connect with the gun. Before he could brush the connecting barbs off his body, Matthew felt the mind-numbing pain grip him again.

  After several seconds it vanished once more.

  “Ready to go back now?” Knox asked him.

  Matthew tried to swallow, but found it hard to make everything work right. Finally, he managed to get the words out.

  “You bastard,” he said.

  The next morning Colby woke up to a jarring alarm clock and the delicious smell of frying eggs and strong coffee. It took him a minute to remember last night, and when he did, his head immediately began to pound.

  Oh, Christ, he thought. Seven o’clock. It hurt to move. He laid his head back down on the pillow and tried to let the pounding in his temples subside. It had faded slightly when he felt a hand roughly shaking him, which brought the pain back, full force.

  “Here,” an authoritative voice said. “Take these.”

  Colby opened one eye and saw Dix standing over him with a glass of orange juice and an aspirin bottle. It was a moment before Colby could get the words out. “What are you doing here?”

  Dix laughed and held out the glass, the orange liquid looking less than appetizing. “I sacked out on your couch, remember? I figured you’d probably need somebody to wet-nurse you through breakfast. Now here, take some of these.” He held up the aspirins.

  Colby felt like taking the whole bottle, but Dix only shook out three. They went down like sandpaper over his parched throat.

  “Go take a shower,” Dix said, waving his hand in front of his nose. “How do you like your eggs?”

  Colby sat up slowly, feeling that unsettling twinge in his stomach. He eased his feet to the floor. “If I wanted a wet-nurse, I’d have stayed married.”

  “You know no broad would put up with you.” Dix turned and left, calling out over his shoulder, “How you want your eggs? Colby thought for a moment and then yelled, “Scrambled.” It hurt his ears.

  “Tough shit,” Dix yelled back. “I only know how to do over-easy.”

  “Marvelous,” Colby said, as the patches of cold floor sent shock waves up through the soles of his feet.

  “And hurry up,” Dix yelled. “We gotta go pick up your unmarked at the bar, and I have to meet somebody very special this morning.”

  By the time Colby made it to the office, it was close to ten-thirty. It was going to be a black coffee-and-aspirins kind of day. Bosworth, his fat face looking more smug than usual, came up and yelled in Colby’s ear as he was pouring himself a cup of the hot coffee from the pot.

  “Late one last night?”

  Colby grimaced as the hot liquid ran over his fingers.

  Colby set his cup down and grabbed a paper napkin to wipe his hand off. “Bosworth, you should’ve been a detective.”

  The big man smirked in a self-satisfied way. “I’m what they call a detective’s detective, palie.”

  “Yeah, everybody says you’re a real dick, all right.” Colby turned away and headed back to his desk, taking a much-needed sip of the dark brew.

  “Ha ha. Very funny,” Bosworth’s said. “The LT’s been waiting on ya, smart ass. Wants to see ya as soon as you staggered in.”

  Colby reached the relative safety of his desk and looked at Ray Brewer, another detective sitting in a desk opposite. Brewer nodded. “Kropper is looking for you. And he has a hair up his ass.”

  Great, Colby thought as he nodded a “thanks” to Brewer and took another sip, scalding his tongue. He set the cup down and reached in his pocket for his supply of breath mints, thankful that at least he’d had the presence of mind to bring that vital piece of equipment.

  As he raised his hand to knock on the lieutenant’s closed door, he heard a gruff voice filter out from behind the frosted glass. It wasn’t Kropper’s, and it didn’t sound happy, either.

  The door opened inward with an abruptness that made Colby glad he’d left the coffee back on his desk. He saw a big, reddened face and a white shirt with two gold stars on the collar under a blue blouse. The round crown, with the golden scrambled-eggs on the brim, sat on Kropper’s desk, and the LT sat behind it looking like he’d been caught stepping on his dick.

  “You wanted to see me, lieu?” Colby managed to get out before he read the name tag on the other man’s uniform shirt: MANNION. Colby nodded at the standing man.

  What was the Deputy Superintendent of Operational Services doing here?

  Mannion’s stare was baleful. “Get in here and close the damn door.”

  Colby did and Mannion pointed to the hot-seat
chair. When he sat down, Colby was eye-to-eye with an obviously distraught Lt. Kropper.

  “As I was telling Ken here,” Mannion said, throwing a glance at Kropper, “I got a call this morning from some broad at Chicago Today News Magazine.” He paused and let the words sink in. “Any idea what they asked me about?”

  Colby tried to look as dumbfounded as he felt.

  “No, sir.”

  Mannion’s eyes narrowed.

  Oh, Christ, he’s trying to read me, Colby thought. He sat up straighter and tried his best to look sincere and without guile.

  Mannion shifted his gaze back to Kropper. “They asked me to confirm a rumor that we’ve been purposely excluded from a task force investigating the Laird Copy Cat Murders.” He said the last words with a slow relish, pausing to smile and nod knowingly.

  Colby felt like he’d gotten clocked by a punch from left field. “I wouldn’t think they’d give a shit.”

  “Neither would I,” Mannion said. Do you know what I had to tell ’em?”

  Colby glanced at Kropper, who swallowed hard.

  “Well, I didn’t tell ’em that I never heard of the Laird Copy Cat Case, even though I hadn’t.”

  “Good thinking, boss,” Kropper started to say, but Mannion cut him off with a look. Kropper’s face blushed. “Sorry.”

  Mannion placed his fists on his hips, leaning over Kropper’s desk slightly. “So I do a little checking and come to find out that you been in contact with the Feds on this already. This special agent in charge…I forget his damn name—”

  “Pearson,” Colby said.

  Mannion’s head whirled. “You know him?”

  “I talked to him the other day.”

  “You knew about this?” Mannion asked, looking back at Kropper. The LT gave a quick nod.

  Mannion’s neck looked as red as lobster tail. “And you didn’t see fit to tell me?”

  “Boss,” Colby said as gently as he could. “It’s not really his fault. The Feds didn’t give us much info at all. They’re being really anal on this one.”

  “Show me one of those god damn sphincter-puckering assholes that ain’t anal,” Mannion said, “and I’ll show you one that don’t have his head stuck up his fucking ass.” He sighed. “How many of these damn homicides are ours?”