Blood Trails

by Michael A. Black

  Laird let some smoke drift from between his lips.

  “Well, back then, if they’d had the DNA capability that they have now,” Dix said, “they’d have nailed your ass.”

  “From what? A cigarette?”

  Dix nodded.

  Laird shrugged. “I already copped to doing her. And the rest of ’em, too. It was all covered by the immunity deal. Now I done my time, and you can’t do shit to me for any of that.”

  Dix tried another stare. Was the guy starting to sweat? He looked more befuddled than nervous. Time to unleash a big bomb.

  “That a good smoke, Morgan?”

  “Exquisite.”

  “You know, you left some of your DNA on that butt last week.”

  “Huh?”

  “The copycat crime scene.”

  Laird rolled his eyes. “More of that shit.” He took a last drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out on the edge of the card table, letting the butt fall on the floor. “Those cocksucking Feds tried to run that game on me earlier today. I told ’em I didn’t know what the fuck they was talking about.”

  “But we know better, don’t we?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Dix smiled. In the old days, he’d have plucked Laird out of that damn chair and smashed him against the wall a couple of times, just to loosen the asshole up. But, he reminded himself again, these weren’t the old days.

  “Give it up, Morgan. I’m probably the last chance you have to help yourself.”

  “Help myself do what?”

  “Get out of a new murder rap,” Dix said. “I know you’re working with somebody on these copycat killings. Advising them, reliving your past glories, whatever.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Tell me who’s in on it with you. Tell me.”

  “Go fuck yourself.” He suddenly coughed and a gob of yellow phlegm shot from his mouth and landed on Dix’s hand.

  Dix leaped to his feet in a surge of rage. His fist flew out, before he could stop himself, backhanding Laird’s mouth.

  Laird leaned over from the blow, which hadn’t been very hard at all. His face shook with fury momentarily, then the emotion drained out of it.

  He wiped at his mouth, his fingers coming away red. “Big man, hitting a cripple, huh?” he said.

  Dix swallowed. In the old days, there’d be somebody watching. Colby, maybe, who would come in and pull him out of the interrogation room. Somebody to play good cop. Here, there was nobody, and this whole interview had gone south. He shuffled over to the jutting washroom wall, angry at his lack of control. Still, he couldn’t show any weakness in front of Laird.

  “Morgan, I ain’t gonna beat you.” Dix stood and took out his pen. “I don’t have to. Like I said, it’s just a matter of time before they come knocking down your door.” Reaching across Laird, Dix grabbed the cigarette pack and scribbled his cell phone number across the top. “Think about this number the next time you have a square. It’ll be easy for you to find. Then call me when you wise up.” He tossed the pack back down on the table. “Remember, just like before, I’m the only fucking chance you got.”

  He tried the stare one more time, before he turned to go.

  Knox stood behind the door, next to the washer, and watched the images on his tablet that the fish-eye lens of the camera provided from the small hole he’d drilled through the thin wall of the defunct laundry room. After he watched Dix exit and heard the sound of his footsteps going down the hallway, Knox stepped from behind the door and peeked around the jamb. The old cop was almost out the front door.

  Knox leaned back inside and adjusted his latex gloves. He didn’t want to risk getting any gunshot residue on his fine leather ones. Those he reserved for special, non-firearm encounters.

  He’d originally stepped inside the laundry room to put on the latex gloves and the special paper hospital slippers over his shoes when he’d heard the buzzer go off, and the old guy yelling at the super about being the police. Keeping out of sight behind the door in the laundry room, Knox twisted the pointed blade through the flimsy wall and inserted the camera lens. As he watched and listened to the conversation, a new plan suddenly emerged. What he needed was a subterfuge, a smoke screen to keep the cops busy while he tracked down Matthew and then escaped to greener pastures.

  And now, with a little finagling, he had one. He listened as the front entrance door closed, then with two deft steps, Knox was out of the laundry room and at number eleven. His gloved hand carefully twisted the knob. The door opened.

  Morgan Laird looked up in surprise, then said, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Like the man told you,” Knox said, pulling out the Beretta with the extended sound-suppressor, “You really should lock your door.”

  Laird’s eyes widened when he saw the gun. “You ain’t no fucking cop,” he said. Not with a piece like that.”

  “No, I ain’t,” Knox said, mimicking Laird’s wispy voice. Perhaps he could do it well enough, but why not enlist the aid of the original? He picked up Laird’s cell phone. The cigarette pack, with the numbers written across the top, was on the table. Knox set it up so he could read them as he punched them into Laird’s phone. Before he pressed the last digit, he looked down at Laird and held the end of the silencer to the convict’s forehead. “Here, call your buddy, Dix, and tell him to come back.”

  “What are you, nuts?”

  Knox swiped the barrel across Laird’s face, opening a big gash above his eyebrow.

  “Call him,” Knox said. He pressed the last digit of Dix’s phone number, held the phone against Laird’s ear, and then put the barrel back to the other man’s head.

  A flash of something—fear, realization, or perhaps resignation, crossed Laird’s face. He licked his lips and waited. It rang twice and then he said, “Yeah, Dix, it’s me. Come on back in here. I need help.”

  Knox heard a garbled reply. It sounded ecstatic. He moved the phone away from Laird and pressed the button terminating the call.

  “Very good,” Knox said. “Matthew would be proud of you.”

  “Who’s Matthew?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it even if I told you,” Knox said, and pulled the trigger. Twice.

  Chapter 14

  They walked along Michigan Avenue and stopped when they came to the bridge. Colby had suggested they stroll to a restaurant nearby instead of trying to search for a parking spot. As they paused and looked down at the dark water, he pointed.

  “The Chicago River. Many a body’s been found floating in that one.”

  “You said they dye it green on St. Patrick’s Day?”

  “Yeah. Bright, Kelly green.” He turned and pointed to the brightly displayed clock on the smallish skyscraper a few blocks east. “And that is the Wrigley Building.”

  “Like the chewing gum?”

  “Yep. And the same one Frank Sinatra sings about in ‘My Kind of Town.’” He paused. “You do know who Sinatra was, don’t you?”

  “Of course, silly.” She slapped his arm playfully. He took that as a good sign, but that still didn’t change the facts. She was way too young for him.

  “Is Billy Goat’s Tavern around here someplace?” she asked. “That place they used to show on Saturday Night Live?”

  “Yeah, it’s over there in the lower section off Wacker. But you don’t want to eat there, do you?”

  “I might. But not tonight if you don’t want to. I just want to see the place before I leave. I’ve heard so much about it.”

  “You got to be kidding me, right?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “Isn’t this where that famous reporter used to hang out?”

  “Mike Royko? How the hell did you hear about him?”

  “I read his book in college,” she said. “You know, the one about your famous, powerful mayor.”

  “I remember,” Colby said. “But that was a while back. Royko’s long gone now. What was this class, anyway?”

  “It was about historical patronage and corruption in big cities i
n the United States,” she said.

  Colby nodded thoughtfully. “Probably lots of material there. You learn anything worthwhile?”

  “Just that the FBI is the most honest police organization in the States.”

  When he did a double take, he saw her break into a laugh. He liked the way it sounded. Musical, sort of, and he wondered where this evening was going to lead. When they started walking again, Leslie blew out a deep breath and watched the condensation float way. Almost accidentally, their hands brushed together and he took hers in his.

  “It’s just down here,” he said, pointing to the lighted place overlooking the water.

  “Looks fabulous,” she says. “We have a lot of restaurants overlooking Lake Ontario back home.”

  Her voice was light enough to float on air, and she smiled again.

  Easy, old man, he thought, remembering again she was young enough to be his daughter. He sighed and told himself that all he really wanted out of this evening was a pleasant dinner with a pretty girl. Anything else, if it happened, would be gravy.

  “So how’s the investigation going back home?” he asked.

  “My boss says they’ve pretty much got things wrapped up. Said to keep going through the motions down here. Like it matters.”

  “And it doesn’t?”

  Her smile faded and he realized he’d ruined the moment.

  “I guess I should have expected it, my first homicide and all.” She looked down at the street. “Not quite like dropping the ball, but bad enough because it means the coach was afraid to let me carry it.”

  Colby raised his eyebrows trying to salvage things. “A football metaphor? I had you figured for a good Canadian girl.”

  “Meaning what?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I usually don’t associate football with Canadians. You folks are more the cold weather type. Hockey players.”

  “For your information, winter is only one season in Canada. We also have spring, summer, and autumn. And we do have football. Didn’t you ever hear of the Canadian Football League?”

  “They any good?”

  “Of course they are.”

  “Is it made up of lackluster hockey players?”

  “In Canada there’s no such thing as a lackluster hockey player.”

  “I’ll bet,” Colby said, watching her gestures and thinking that body language was signaling him that she was loosening up. “But just remember one thing. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

  A crease formed between her eyebrows.

  “That seems a bit redundant.”

  “It’s meant to be. In a homicide investigation, every lead has to be checked out. You never know what’s going to make or break the case.”

  “So you’re saying I shouldn’t feel bad about being sent down here to check out a dead end?”

  “Like I said, it ain’t over till it’s over.”

  Dix strode back toward the flophouse with a purpose this time. He was sure the federal surveillance boys had taken notice of him this time, but he didn’t give a shit. Laird had invited him. Dix felt a surge of adrenaline. The asshole was ready to flip on his partner in the copycat murders.

  And he’s going to spill it to me, Dix thought.

  He practically ripped the flimsy door off its hinges. The same old pathetic, smelly lobby greeted him. It might make a good panoramic shot when they did the movie version, though. Or maybe he could walk Carmel around it, narrating how he’d broken the case. In a few seconds he was at Laird’s door again. Lucky eleven. That had turned out to be true after all.

  He twisted the knob and was pleased to find it still unlocked. Some fuckers just don’t learn, he thought, as he stepped inside.

  Laird sat at the far end in his chair, his cell phone on the card table, his head slumped to one side, like he’d fallen asleep.

  Maybe he’s praying, Dix thought. Maybe he got religion spending all those years in the joint. Or maybe he’s having second thoughts.

  “Okay, Morgan, here I am,” Dix said, strolling past the jutting bathroom toward the wheelchair. “Whatcha got to say to me?”

  Laird didn’t move. He was facing away, with his chair turned toward the window. Not that you could look out with the damn blind pulled down tight.

  Something made the hairs on the back of Dix’s neck stand up. Something wasn’t right. He was just about to speak to Laird again when he heard the squeaking of a door behind him, and felt twin spitballs hit him between the shoulder blades. Then a powerful force gripped him and sent waves of pain shooting through him. Tingly pain. Like he’d stuck his finger in an electric socket. He couldn’t move. His body wouldn’t obey. It just jerked in an uneven, spasmodic rhythm as he plunged face-first toward the shabby rug.

  His body landed with a flop, stealing his breath. Before he could try to move, the pain soared again, along with the involuntary jerking. Spit dribbled from his lips, as though his mouth, too, was under someone else’s control. He felt like a helpless puppet. The tingling increased, sending his body into even a more uncontrollable spasm, until he finally descended all the way into blackness.

  Knox didn’t ease up on the Taser until he was sure Dix was completely out cold. Still holding his finger on the trigger, he stepped over and peeled back the fallen man’s eyelid. Only the whiteness of the sclera showed.

  Good, he thought.

  He left the trailing wires connected to Dix just in case, and carefully moved over to the dead man in the wheelchair. Knox had used the special Taser cartridge that held none of the traceable confetti. Turning Laird, so his unblinking eyes now gazed down at the prostrate Dix, Knox grabbed Laird’s cell phone off the table using only two fingers of his left hand. He stepped back to Dix, stooped and straightened the prone man’s right arm. Knox rubbed the back of his right latex glove over Dix’s, confident it would leave enough traces of barium and antimony to produce a positive result for a gunshot residue test. He stood and stepped behind Dix, standing between the man’s outstretched legs. With the utmost care, Knox removed the Beretta from his pocket and unscrewed the silencer. Slipping that in his pocket, Knox dialed 9-1-1 on Laird’s cell phone and readied his voice.

  When the emergency operator answered, Knox screamed out in his best imitation of Laird’s husky, southern-sounding voice, “Dix! No!”

  He held the un-silenced Beretta straight out and shot Laird in the chest. He then tossed the phone over by the right side of the wheelchair and placed the gun in Dix’s open right hand, taking special care to press the limp index and middle fingers onto one of the smooth surfaces of the gleaming black metal.

  Damn, he thought. I’m going to miss that gun.

  Matthew paid cash for two different outfits, taking extra care not to do anything to draw attention to himself. Pushing open the exit door, he stepped out into the well-lighted parking lot and strolled leisurely toward the tech’s car, making it look like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  He needed to get in and drive away, then try to make it back to his apartment. Risky, but he’d have to chance it. And tonight, too. For one thing, the building superintendent, Mr. Webber, would easily buy into a story about lost keys and open the door for him. Once inside, he could pick up enough supplies, clothes, and money to see him through the rest of it. He’d decided to expedite the plan. Move things up. Jump ahead if he had to, just so he could beat them to the punch. “Them” being the old man and Knox.

  The old man. His pseudo-father. Matthew had long since stopped thinking of Jetters in that context. He was far from it. The worst example of fatherhood there was. A phony. Dr. Frankenstein.

  Matthew smiled. If the old man was Frankenstein, what did that make him? The monster? No, better described as the experiment: the first perfectly cloned human being.

  Knox, on the other hand, was pure trouble. He could be in the area now, watching the apartment, ready to swoop in like some bird of prey. The old man would order it. Matthew knew he’d have to be extra careful. Park the car, leave the Blem in
the trunk, and walk through an adjacent yard. Hopefully, no one would call the cops on him. But even if they did he doubted the old man would have alerted the authorities. He couldn’t afford to. Too many skeletons rattling around in his closets. Or the graveyard. Lots of them. Literally.

  But soon, very soon, everything would be unearthed. He hit the remote and watched the car lights flash with an accompanying beep.

  I hope that didn’t wake up my sleeping brother in the trunk, he thought, smiling. My brother?

  He’d have to stop thinking of that thing in those terms.

  Colby was feeling better than he had in a long time as they stood by the elevators. Dinner had gone very well, and afterward, they’d taken an easy stroll along Grand Avenue back to the Marriot, even though the evening had become a little brisk with the hint of the coming winter. He pointed out different sights and buildings along the lighted skyline as they walked. While they’d been eating, she’d told him a little about herself, but mostly she asked about him. She seemed particularly fascinated about his book and how he’d come to write it. Flattered, he’d told her more than he usually did. Now, as they stood next to each other he could feel the heat from her body. She’s still way too young for me, he thought.

  She turned toward him as they walked. “Your first name’s Roger, isn’t it?” He nodded.

  “So why does everybody here call you Colby?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I’m just a Colby kind of guy.”

  She laughed. “And what do people who like you call you?”

  “Haven’t met any of those yet.”

  “Come on.”

  He considered the question, then said, “People have called me Rog from time to time, bu that was mostly my ex-partner.”

  “Rooog.” She drew the word out, as if tasting the sound of it. “I like that. It has a nice ring to it.”

  “Which is exactly why I prefer to be called Colby,” he said, with a grin.

  She turned and looked at him for a moment. “You averted your eyes yesterday. When Pearson showed the picture of them finding those two little girls.”

  That startled him. Had she been watching him? “Did I?” “What were their names?”