Blood Trails

by Michael A. Black

  Pearson nodded and pushed his chair back, standing up. “All right, with that settled, we’ll reconvene tomorrow morning at nine.”

  Colby had to stop himself from asking, “Sharp?” He stood, too.

  Pearson paused and cleared his throat. “Say…” He let the word hang out there for second before adding, “I need a favor.”

  Colby shot him an inquisitive look.

  “That young woman I was talking to in the hall,” Pearson said. “She’s from Toronto Police Services. You know, Canada?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

  “An associate of mine, from the Great White North, contacted me,” Pearson said, breaking into an uncharacteristic smile. “Her superior attended my serial killers course at Quantico.” Pearson raised an eyebrow. “Have you attended the National Academy?”

  Colby shook his head. “Just the University of Hard Knocks. What’s the favor?”

  “She’s down here doing a background follow-up on one of their homicides,” Pearson said. “Inspector Graven, that’s the fellow I know, asked if we could kind of look out for her. Take her under our wings, so to speak.” He paused and flashed the smile again.

  Colby was thinking he liked the guy better with a sour expression. He scratched his jaw. “And?”

  “And, I told him we would steer her in the right direction.”

  “That something you want me to do?”

  Pearson nodded. “I would appreciate it.”

  “Okay,” Colby said. “As long as it doesn’t keep me from getting up to speed on this copycat thing.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Pearson said. “I’d appreciate it if you could drop her at her hotel. I’ll be tied up here with some paperwork for a while.”

  Driving an out-of-towner to her hotel wasn’t such a plumb assignment on his first day with the task force. He hoped this wasn’t a sign that Pearson wasn’t going to try to sick him with all the do nothing assignments. But his stomach was starting to growl and he wanted to grab something to eat real quick, not to mention finding where he’d left that damn file.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Thank you,” Pearson said, standing. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  It was time to do a more thorough check of Matthew’s hard drive, Knox thought as he adjusted his thin leather gloves before attaching his tablet to Matthew’s computer. He’d spent the morning in the kid’s apartment, going through his stuff as well as checking all the emergency rooms, clinics, and police stations for information on the alleged stabbing of Rodney Potts. His sources, along with his computer search, had turned up nothing. Nothing at the Medical Examiner’s Office, either. There was a student listed by that name attending St. Xavier, and after hacking into student information files, Knox found out Potts lived in Pacelli Hall. With another two keystrokes, Knox had his phone number and called him.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  The voice on the other end sounded stupid and dull, as well as confused. “Okay, I guess. Why? Who is this?”

  “This is Mr. Butler with the student health services. I heard you’d gotten injured the other night. Just checking to see if you needed further treatment.”

  “Huh?” The voice sounded genuinely perplexed.

  “You weren’t involved in a fight on the North Side?”

  “Huh? I ain’t even been to the North Side in weeks. I mean, I live up in Winnetka, but alls I been doing is staying here in the dorm, boning up for my midterms.”

  An English major, no doubt, Knox thought, allowing the sarcasm to go unheard. “Are you a friend of Matthew Jetters? He was supposed to be involved, too.”

  “Who? Matthew, oh, okay. I know him. We got a class together. Sometimes he says hi to me, but we never really…” He let the sentence trail off, then added, “Is he in some kind of trouble, or something?”

  Or something, Knox thought. But he didn’t want this idiot to start any rumors, either. “He listed you as a reference for a part-time job here. I thought he said you were ill. But, no matter. Study hard.” He hung up.

  So much for loose ends. With a few more keystrokes, he was rerunning the check for Matthew’s passwords, and then began opening his emails. Mostly, they were useless spam and a few college related messages. No sign of any friends, male or female. He started checking the most recent sites visited. Several were law enforcement sites: the FBI, Chicago Police Department, and South Bend, Indiana Police Department.

  But the kid was pre-med. Why the interest in crime?

  He checked further and found recent checks on the Chicago Tribune and Chicago Sun-Times sites, as well as several other papers both here and downstate. The Indiana Times showed up, too. Most of the articles referenced were crime related. Murders. He minimized the Internet field and clicked on documents. A lot of articles had been copied about a particular case. A serial killer named Morgan Laird. Knox began printing them. Maybe material for a paper?

  Knox didn’t think so. That special feeling started to tingle in his gut. He got it whenever he was investigating a particular problem and had a sudden flash of inspiration that he knew would pan out. He went back to the Internet and did a Google search on Laird, Morgan, with serial killer in parentheses. The references began to pop up. It wasn’t until Knox saw one particular reference that he stopped, and scrutinized it.

  Blood Trails, a memoir by Roger Colby. A tough Chicago detective tells the story of how he caught a brutal serial killer, only to have the system fail …

  Knox clicked on the link and went immediately to Amazon.com, which displayed an image of the book’s red and black cover along with a short description and price. Knox didn’t click further. He got up from the desk and walked over to a closet that he’d searched earlier. He opened the door and pushed some clothes aside, checking two stacks of books piled on the floor in by the rear wall. The ones on top were text books, but underneath them were several copies of the same book with the red and black cover.

  Knox stooped and counted them. Seven copies of Blood Trails, all signed by the author. One of them had a somewhat battered look and several pieces of paper stuck in it. He opened the cover. Notes in black pen covered the margins. The last section book-marked was titled “The Murder of Benjamin Pike.” It had something scrawled in pencil in the upper part of the page. Belmont and Halsted, the Rainbow Derby.

  That was a gay joint. Was the kid exploring that side of the coin?

  Knox considered this, then perused the chapter. It had a picture of the victim. Clean cut looking punk with doe-like eyes. Knox skimmed the text and found out that Benjamin Pike had been a male prostitute who’d been murdered and left in an alley years ago. Like twenty-eight years ago.

  The tingling sensation crept over him again, and Knox read further. Morgan Laird had stabbed Pike in the gut, then strangled him. It was listed as another of the confessed murders for which he’d been granted immunity.

  Sounds he had a good lawyer, thought Knox. This Laird must have been quite a busy guy. Flipping through the book, Knox looked at the several pages of pictures. A few were crime scene photos. One of a naked woman tied to a bed with blocked-out lines covering her breasts and pubic area.

  Jenise Williams was tortured and brutally murdered by Laird. It is a crime to which he admitted after he was granted immunity.

  Knox turned the page and saw an old, black-and-white picture of a young Morgan Laird, taken at age twenty-one, when he was a member of the Merchant Marine.

  Knox studied the face in the picture. Morgan Laird looked like a piss ant trying hard to play a tough guy. His hair was slicked back, and his lips were twisted in a truculent sneer. Obviously, the guy was a real charmer. Still, there was a strange familiarity about him. Knox looked at it again, and then something clicked. Knox smiled and closed the book. Funny how things fall into place when you’d least expect it.

  Matthew scrutinized the attendants at each feeding time, silently counting the seconds to himself. One thousand, nine-hundred and eighty seconds,
or thirty-three minutes, until they got to his room, the last room. It was an approximation, but close enough for his purposes. He stood and moved to the door, removing the paper from his mouth and wadding it in his hand so he could be ready. He heard the keys jangling, and then the sound of the lock on the door to his cell twisting open.

  He knew something else from listening, too. They didn’t use the deadbolt portion until it was time for the night-time lock-down. Too much hassle using the key twice for each door.

  It swung open and the two white-suited attendants blocked his view of the day room. They looked shocked that he was standing so close, so he shifted his weight to his rear foot.

  I could kick them both from here if I wanted to, he thought, but smiled as benignly as he could.

  “What’s for dinner this time?” he asked.

  “The usual,” the smaller of the two men said. “Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and corn. With a chocolate bar for dessert.”

  “But…” the other one said, his face breaking into what he must have thought was an ingratiating grin.

  Matthew wondered what his chances of getting away would be if he stabbed one of them now. Instead, he merely feigned compliance and shrugged. “I know. My meds first, right?”

  The smiling attendant nodded.

  Matthew held out his open palm. “Can I at least have some juice this time to wash them down?”

  “Only water,” the small one said, holding out a waxy paper cup.

  Matthew reached out, moving closer, so that he could almost lean against the doorjamb. The larger of the two attendants moved forward to discourage any escape from the room. The smaller one placed the two blue pills in Matthew’s palm. Tranquilizers. Probably 10 milligrams of Lorazepam.

  “Oops,” he said, letting the pills spill out of his hand as he brought it toward his mouth.

  Both men’s eyes followed the bouncing pills for the split second it took for Matthew’s right hand to press the small wad of wet paper into the latch-hole. It was a deft movement, and neither attendant seemed to notice.

  “Sorry.” Matthew flashed a sheepish smile. “Butterfingers.”

  It’s a good thing these dopes were chosen for their easy dispositions, he thought, accepting another set of meds. This time made a show of carefully placing them into his mouth. The small guy handed him the paper cup, and he brought that to his lips and drank.

  “Ahh,” he said, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can I have some juice now with my food, please?”

  The small guy popped open a can of apple juice and poured it into the paper cup. He then handed him a Styrofoam box with the food inside. The big guy held out a plastic spoon.

  “We’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said. “Place the—”

  “I know, I know,” Matthew interrupted. “Place the cup, the spoon and any uneaten items in the box for pick-up, and you will check for the spoon. Right?”

  The big guy nodded, looking unperturbed.

  “Say, I think I’ve got lice.” Matthew pointed to his long mane of dark hair.

  “We’ll tell grooming in the morning,” the smaller one said. “He can give you some special shampoo.”

  “Okay,” Matthew said, holding the box of food. “Maybe I’ll just get it cut short like the rest of the boys in here.”

  “That’s up to you,” the big attendant said, motioning for Matthew to step back.

  “At least give me an extra candy bar, okay?” Matthew said, trying to make his voice sound plaintive.

  The two men glanced at each other.

  “Come on,” Matthew said, sensing that he had them. “You guys know me. I shouldn’t even be in here, right?”

  The smaller guy reached into another of the Styrofoam packs, removed a candy bar, and held it toward Matthew. “Thanks,” he said.

  As soon as the door closed he leaned against it, stuck his fingers in his mouth, and removed the blue pills, which he had secreted between his cheek and gums. He went to his bed and sat, carefully lifting the plastic-coated mattress. Four more of the blue pills lay on the solid metal bed slate. Matthew picked up one of the candy bars and carefully worked the end wrapper loose, separating the folds of paper. He then used the spoon to cut open the bottom of the candy bar and stuck the blue pills into the rich Caramel and chocolate. After refolding the wrapper, he checked it and could barely notice that it had been opened. Smiling, he set it in plain sight on the bed next to the other candy bar.

  If you want to catch a Blem, he thought, you have to sprinkle a little sugar around.

  Colby was actually beginning to feel better as he walked back to where he’d parked the car. The basement felt cool and brisk, with a bit of a breeze, like he’d splashed icy water on his face. Detective Leslie Labyorteaux walked behind him, tugging her little suitcase. He’d offered to take it for her, but she’d declined.

  “You got your gun in it?” he asked.

  “Gun?” She shot him a look askance. “I didn’t bring one.”

  “No?”

  “We don’t even carry our guns off duty. We check them in and out of the armory for work.”

  “Wow,” Colby said, grinning. “Well, hopefully, you won’t need it down here, but I’ll see if I can find you one if you do.”

  She said nothing.

  “Here’s my car.” He stuck the key in the lock and raised the trunk-lid.

  She nodded, stopping and collapsing the extendable handle.

  She started to lift it, but he said, “Let me.” and bent down to reach for it, only to have the top of her forehead collide with his right temple.

  Damn, that hurt, he thought, recoiling upward. She jumped back, too, and the suitcase fell over.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

  For a moment he was certain the old headache would come skating back, but it didn’t. He even managed a weak smile.

  “My fault,” he said, pointing to the suitcase. “You go ahead. I won’t try to stop you.”

  It was her turn to smile, and she did, and he caught a flash of amusement in her brown eyes.

  Maybe she’s just glad she didn’t knock me out, he thought.

  After the suitcase was safely tucked inside, Colby slammed the lid, making sure to check that his fingers were out of harm’s way first.

  “Where you staying?”

  “The Marriott Hotel.” She began to dig in her purse. “I have the address here.”

  “No need. I know where it’s at.”

  He exited onto Clark Street and headed south. It was close to four-thirty and traffic was reaching its apex in the Loop with everybody in the midst of going home. After fighting his way over to Van Buren, Colby went west a few blocks then cut back north again. He stole a glance at her as they crawled in the stop-start of rush hour. She seemed enamored with the all the activity.

  “Is it always this busy here?” she asked. “Nah. Sometimes it’s worse.”

  She laughed.

  That was a good sign. “Is it a lot like Toronto?”

  “Population wise, it’s about the same size, but your streets seem to be more crowded.” She turned her head to follow the sweep of the River as he turned onto Wacker Drive.

  “Pretty icky looking, isn’t it?” he said. “You should come back for St. Paddy’s Day. They dye it green.”

  “It already looks green.”

  “I mean, really green. Bright Kelly green.” He came to a stop light, waiting to turn onto Dearborn. “You know, we’ve got an Ontario Street two blocks north of here.”

  “Really? I’ll have to get a picture of that before I leave.” Her smile was nice.

  Colby took Grand Avenue east to Rush and pulled up in front of the hotel. There were two cars parked in front of them. Colby assessed the state of his lingering hang-over and decided, what the hell. Why not?

  “Say, after you get settled in your room, I wouldn’t mind showing you Ontario Street,” he said. “They got a couple of good restaurants around there.”

  �
��Oh, thank you, but I should probably go over the case some more. Plus, I’ll have to check in with HQ,” she said. “I’ve got my inspector breathing down my neck on this one.”

  She must have an asshole for a boss too, he thought. Maybe we got more in common than I figured.

  The phone jarred Dix awake. Sitting up and blinking, he glanced at the wall clock. Five-fifteen. Had he really fallen asleep this early? Christ, he only remembered laying his head down for a second.

  I ain’t quite the man I used to be, that’s for sure, he thought as he got up and headed for the phone. Hell, he remembered the time he used to work on a case around the clock on coffee and adrenaline, racking up the overtime. But he always got results.

  The phone rang again and Dix grabbed the caller ID box to see who it was before answering.

  A cell phone. He answered. “Dix, it’s me,” Colby said.

  “Hey, buddy. What’s up?”

  “You remember what I did with that copycat file last night?”

  Dix smirked to himself. Yeah, he remembered, all right. “File? What’d it look like?”

  “It was in a manila folder about an inch thick. Had an FBI stamp on the front.”

  “Oh, that. I think I put it on your desk. You dropped it when we got into your house.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure.” Dix licked his lips. “Why? Don’t tell me you got assigned to that task force?”

  Colby’s reply was hesitant. “Yeah, I did.”

  “That’s great. Just what we hoped for.” Another hesitant reply.

  “Yeah.”

  Dix suddenly began to wonder if Colby might have it figured: the benevolent ex-partner buying doubles, staying over to fix him a good breakfast. “That’s great news. You deserve it.” He paused to let the compliment sink in, then added, “I hope you’ll keep me in the loop, at least.”

  “Sure.”

  “And if you want to run anything by this old, retired war-horse, I’m here.”

  “Thanks,” Colby said. “I’ll call you later.”

  Dix chuckled softly as he hung up, figuring Colby would probably still be holding his head from all that booze. It looked as though giving Carmel a few select pages from the file and urging her to make an FOIA request with the Bureau had caused the right amount of heat in all the right places. Just like he figured. Probably got Colby in a little trouble with his boss, but hell, you had to break some eggs if you wanted to make an omelet. And Colby was good at thinking on his feet.