Kropper shrugged. “One, maybe two.”
Colby suppressed a skeptical look. With the dumped body in Boystown, it had to be more like four. But he didn’t want to say anything that would further embarrass Kropper. Shit, after all, rolled downhill.
“Detective, how heavy’s your current case-load?” Mannion asked.
Colby shrugged. He had to tread gingerly here.
“It’s not bad, sir. Luckily, Lt. Kropper and I already discussed the possibility of me maybe going to the task force eventually, so I’ve been divvying up my slam-dunks.”
“Good thinking,” Mannion said, looking back to Kropper.
After a few seconds of silence, Mannion clapped his hands together and pointed at Colby. “Okay, unload the rest of what’s on your plate, I’ll make the call to the Feds. Colby’s going to the task force, no if’s, and’s, or buts.”
“Ten-four, boss,” Kropper said.
“And track down the other cases. See who’s working them. Let’s show some coordination on this thing.” Mannion took a deep breath. “We can keep running our own investigations on our end, but this task force can devote a lot more attention to them than we can.”
“We’ll get right on it, boss,” Kropper said. He reminded Colby of a kid who’d gotten caught sleeping in church and then ordered by the priest to get up and pass the collection baskets.
Mannion picked his round crown off Kropper’s desk and started to put it on, but stopped. He looked down at Colby. “Just make sure, when all is said and done, that we come off looking good for our part in this. I got a hunch this whole goddamn thing’s gonna stink to high heaven when it blows wide open.”
Chapter 6
Matthew was furious. He walked ahead of Knox, down the long, tiled corridor to the elevator that would finally get him off the fifth floor. The Blem floor, as he called it. The noise of their constant and inane grunting and screaming had kept him up all night, until he’d screamed and pleaded for security to let him out of his locked room with the padded walls and stainless steel toilet. It was like being trapped in a zoo.
God, he hated this place. And he hated the Others. Blems, he called them, and that’s what they were. Blemishes! Every one of them was an inferior, incomplete, subhuman—even though Matthew knew that each one of them was an fake version of himself, of Morgan. From the moment he’d first learned about his own genetic history, and of the Blems, their very existence had been a blemish on his life, his future. And now he was back with the creatures.
He shot an obvious look of contempt at Knox, but the prick paid no attention. He’d brought Matthew back last night, his hands, feet, and legs tied with some kind of plastic restraints. And he refused to loosen them during the long drive. By the time they’d arrived at New Genesis, Matthew could barely move his limbs. He flexed his fingers now as Knox inserted his special key into the wall slot and the elevator doors clicked open.
“Get in,” he said.
Matthew pursed his lips. At least he’d be getting off this fucking floor of retards. If only he could get his hands on an elevator key. Knox looked like he could read Matthew’s mind, because he smiled as the doors slid shut. Knox reinserted the special key, twisted it, and pressed the button for the second floor. Going down to see father, thought Matthew. Oh, I can hardly wait.
But something else worried at him: the rented van. Had Knox left it sitting in the motel parking lot? What if it got towed? Matthew hadn’t had the chance to make sure the interior was washed out and vacuumed real well. What if some of the dead faggot’s blood was there? Matthew had put the plastic down when he’d transported the body, but afterwards, could something have leaked from the bag?
The elevator jerked to a slow stop, and the doors opened. Matthew stood there, unmoving until he felt Knox’s powerful fingers dig into his shoulder.
“Come on,” Knox said. “You know the way.”
“Just don’t touch me,” Matthew said, faking a bit of bravado. In this environment the prick would be more restrained, but Matthew didn’t want to see how far he could push it. He had too much to worry about: the plastic bag with the dead faggot’s bloody clothes, the rented van, his overnight stay here…they all upset his overall timetable. He remembered something else, too. The knife.
Matthew was conscious of Knox close behind him as they moved down the hallway, past the opaque glass walls of the lab, to the office with Dr. H.A. Jetters’s name on it. Knox rapped gently on the solid oak door and a muffled voice told them to enter.
Matthew tried his best to out-stare the old man as he caught his gaze from behind his desk. The desk, like everything else in the old coot’s life, was perfectly organized. Not even a paperclip out of place. His eyes were unblinking. Like a reptile’s. His array of degrees, honorary and otherwise, hung in several rows behind him. It was the only a concession to vanity. Or personality. Everything else in the office, from the tightly stacked bookcases, to the immaculate black board, was utilitarian. The old man must have been a Spartan in a past life.
“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” Jetters’s voice sounded authoritative, imperial. The perfect tone for a man who gave out orders and ultimatums all day long.
Matthew returned the stare as best he could until, finally, he looked down. Shit, he knew he’d have to grovel to get out of this one. He had to get back on track with his plan, otherwise it might unravel. But it would look too suspicious if he gave in too quickly. Instead of answering, he looked at the pair of darkly tinted windows beyond the old man’s head.
“Dammit, I asked you a question.” Jetters’s voice had gone up to the next level—the one before he’d lash out with a slap. “Answer me. I am your father.”
Rather than deliver the same comeback he’d snarled at Knox, Matthew pursed his lips.
“What are you going to do, father?” he asked. “Have your hired goon Taser me again?”
He was pleased. The retort immediately cast him as the victim, while sidestepping the entire issue about his recent activities.
“Don’t use that tone with me,” Jetters said. His gaze then focused on Knox. “You did that to him?”
“I had little choice,” Knox said. “He pulled a knife on me.”
“A knife?” Jetters’s voice lowered an octave with the second word.
At least I had the foresight to clean it off, Matthew thought. The clothes in the bag, though…he wondered again if Knox knew about them? He must. But did he bring them, or leave them there? So many wrinkles that could upset the damn applecart.
“He hurt me for no reason,” Matthew said, affecting as much outrage as he could muster. “I didn’t give him any cause, either. He’s just a sadist. If you really cared anything about me, you’d fire this fascist right now.” His voice had taken on a whiny lilt, which he regretted, but found uncontrollable.
Jetters turned back to him. “Why have you been cutting classes?”
If the old fart only knew what I’ve been cutting, Matthew thought. He pursed his lips. “They bore me.”
“Aren’t you interested in studying medicine anymore?” Jetters asked, his voice sounding almost quasi-paternal now. “I’ve been rewarding you with more freedom lately. Is this how you repay me?”
Christ, Matthew thought. If he only knew.
“Well?” the old man said.
Matthew’s mind raced, trying to think his way out of this. He’d had all night, but every excuse, every plan that he’d come up with evaporated as he stood there before that withering stare, eventually lowering his gaze to the floor.
Jetters turned to Knox again. “Do you have anything to add to your report?”
Matthew caught a glimpse of Knox’s eyes. They were flat, unemotional. Like he was staring at a deer he contemplated shooting, even though he didn’t need the meat.
“Just what did he tell you, father?” Matthew blurted out, trying again to seize the initiative. “What lies is he spreading about me?”
Jetters’ brow furrowed a bit, and he took off
his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea how paranoid you’re sounding? Not to mention the strange behavior.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you been involved in something illegal?”
Christ, the whole thing’s coming apart, thought Matthew. He tried another bluff. “What’s the matter, father? Afraid the bad genes are beginning to surface? Illegal.” He rolled his eyes and put what he hoped was the right amount of contempt on the last word.
Jetters sighed and replaced the frail, gold-rimmed spectacles on his face. “I know about the motel, and the rented van. I want an explanation.”
“All right,” Matthew said, “I was out trying to score with some chicks. Didn’t want them to know my real name. Where I lived. Satisfied?”
Jetters continued to stare at him. Slowly he reached down and opened a drawer, removing the brown plastic bag with the bloody clothes.
“And this?”
Matthew swallowed hard, then licked his lips. The old bastard had suckered him. In desperation, he grabbed at one of the flimsy lies he had formulated last night.
“I was with a friend of mine,” he said quickly. “Another guy. We got jumped by a bunch of skinheads, and he got stabbed.”
Jetters’s face showed no emotion. “Who is this friend?”
“Just some guy I started hanging out with at school.”
“His name?”
“Rodney.” He looked down. “I don’t know his last name.”
The old man stared at him. “And where did this happen?”
“In the city somewhere. Lake View, or someplace. I don’t know exactly.”
Jetters waited a few seconds before speaking again. “And did you notify the police?”
“He might have, I don’t know.” Matthew glanced to his left. “I drove to the emergency room.”
“Which hospital?”
“I told you, I don’t know.” Matthew frowned, and then grabbed the name of a nerdy guy in one of his classes. “Okay, I remembered his name. It’s Rodney Potts.”
The old bastard’s piercing stare was making Matthew sweat.
“Were you trying to buy drugs?” Jetters asked.
“No,” Matthew said, shaking his head. At least that much was true.
Jetters looked at him a few moments more, then turned to Knox. “Check on the veracity of his story. Let me know what really happened.”
Knox nodded.
“Look,” Matthew said. “I have to turn in that rental van, and close out the motel room.” Matthew said.
“Mr. Knox will see to that also,” Jetters instructed. “You have this knife?”
Knox gave a slight nod.
“Bring it to me.”
“I’d prefer to handle things myself,” Matthew said. “That is, if it’s all right for me to leave. After all, I do have classes to attend.”
“You can request extensions,” Jetters said. “In the meantime, until you’re ready to be more forthcoming, you’ll stay with us for a thorough examination. Take him back upstairs.” Matthew felt Knox’s hand grip his arm.
“Upstairs?” Matthew said. “With them? No way!” His mouth twisted as he felt Knox’s fingers dig deep into his biceps.
Leslie Labyorteaux watched the taxi’s meter click. She’d never seen so many tall buildings clustered so close together. Several of them looked as tall as the Tower. Nor had she ever seen traffic like this. It made Toronto’s rush hour look like a soapbox derby. Cars stacked one behind the other in lines so long that you couldn’t even see where they began or ended. And this damn cab was traveling at glacial speed. People walking were moving at a faster rate. It was a cold, gray day to match. Everything about Chicago looked blustery and unfriendly, from the rickety elevated trains that moved along with a harsh clatter, to the turbulent lake, which looked more like a small ocean. Waves of the dirty green water slapped the shore with a repetitive fury, and changed to a rich blue farther out, conveying a cold deepness.
The taxi moved up about three feet and jerked to a halt as someone cut in front of it. The driver blew his horn.
Why the hell would anyone want to drive in this? The meter clicked again. It was already up over fifty dollars from her trip from O’Hare.
“Get a receipt for all your expenses, luv,” Graven had said. “Just make sure they match up with whatever charges you make on the departmental credit card.”
“Is it going to be all right? My taking it?”
Graven’s face puckered into what she took as a semi-reassuring expression. “Of course it is. You’re on official business.”
She knew the boss just wanted to get rid of her so they could begin doing things their way: rousting every local thug in the province of Ontario. Probably figured to have the case solved by the time I get half-way finished with this wild goose chase.
The meter clicked again.
They’ll hit the roof when they see my expense report for this little foray, she thought. But that actually brought a smile to her lips. After all, Graven had directed her to go on this excursion, and he’d have to approve it as long as she had legitimate receipts. Nothing frivolous, of course. And since she’d converted all her Canadian dollars to American dollars, she’d wait till she got back and pocket the difference on the black market exchange rate. It wouldn’t be much, but it would soften being shifted to the bench on her first homicide. The taxi edged forward.
“Excuse me,” she asked. “Are we getting close?”
The driver, an Indian or Pakistani type, just shook his head. He’d been busy chatting on his cell phone the whole trip.
Thinking of the turbulence of Lake Michigan again, and how different it was from Lake Ontario, she longed for the breakfast view of the placid water at sunrise in her apartment back home.
Homesick? Already?
She was being silly. This was, after all, an important part of the investigation. Backtracking the victim. In order to find out who’d killed him, they had to gather as much information as possible about him. So perhaps this wasn’t so much the wild goose chase she thought it was. Maybe, just maybe, she would glean some crucial bit of info that would help crack the case. Or an insight as to who would want the victim dead.
A lane opened up to the right and the cab driver swung into it, accelerating very quickly and passing a bunch of cars on the right. He twisted the wheel and turned left, went down a short block, honked at a delivery truck blocking the street for a solid minute. The meter continued to click all the while. Finally he pulled up in front of a pair of black, metallic buildings. They were all girders and dirty windows, and were set back from the street by wide, pebbled sidewalks. Signs and arrows along the glass wall advised that the closest set of entrance doors were closed, and pointed to a set of circular revolving doors, behind which stood a uniformed guard.
“Here you are, Miss,” the driver said, shifting into park and getting out to open her door. He scampered to the trunk for her suitcase as she stepped out.
Looking up at the tall exterior, which at this angle extended out of her line of sight, she thought the building looked hard and unforgiving.
Dix closed the open file and took off his glasses. The late afternoon light was just beginning to filter into his through his kitchen windows. He’d used that table because it was the biggest, and it was now awash with papers, files, and stacks of old reports. He’d pulled out all his old Laird stuff to compare with this new, copycat file. Whoever was doing these new killings knew the Laird case, that was for sure.
Dix got up, looked at the clock, and poured himself two fingers of Jack Daniels in a coffee cup just to help him think. He rummaged through the papers on the table for a clean sheet and a pen, swearing as these items eluded him. Finally, he went to his den and grabbed a new tablet and a pencil from the desk by his computer.
Time to do it the old fashioned way, he thought.
Sitting down he organized the old Laird file, then reshuffled the copycat file, and set them side-by-si
de. Some other papers fluttered to the floor but he left them.
Focus, he told himself, then took another sip of the whiskey. As the burn crept down his esophagus, he opened both file folders and jotted down the sequence of events.
The first time he and Colby had come to suspect Morgan Laird was in the Swanstrom Case. The two young girls, twins, disappeared while walking near a construction site. A neighbor had reported seeing a man in the area, driving a beat-up old van with out-of-state plates, talking with the twins. They’d traced the plates to a third party in Valparaiso, Indiana, who admitted selling the van, with the plates on it, to a guy named Morgan Laird for eight hundred bucks. A computer check on Laird showed he’d served time in Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri for a host of crimes, including rape and murder. He’d been in and out of prison virtually all of his adult life and looked good in connection with the case.
Dix and Colby were confident that they had their man, but finding him was another matter entirely. The Swanstrom twins had been missing for almost forty-eight hours, and with each tick of the clock they were slipping further away. With a bit of luck, they found that Laird had picked up a few day’s work as a laborer at a construction site and had given the address of a seedy, transient hotel in Blue Island. When they’d gone there to pick him up, intending on sweating him about the Swanstrom girls, all hell broke loose.
Dix swallowed some more of his drink and watched as the light seemed to fade through the window. If only he hadn’t been the one who’d caught that bullet, if it had been him who’d chased Laird down, it’d be his name on the book cover instead of Colby’s. Oh sure, he would have given the kid his due, but the fame, the notoriety, it should have been his. He was the one who found the construction site connection. Dix sighed and patted his substantial beer gut. Even if he hadn’t caught the bullet twenty-eight years ago, there was no way he could have run Laird down like Colby had. Of course the kid was a decade younger, and in great shape. Hell, he still looked like he was. How did the guy look so good after all these years?
Blood Trails Page 8
