He started walking again, mumbling something under his breath about black cats, and thinking about selling the house to move to Florida. He liked this place, it was safe from the daily muggings and murders that plagued Chicago and his wife was happy living here. The houses were not too close to one another, giving him some privacy from the snooping of neighbors. But it was time to go, he thought briefly, time to leave the neighborhood and please the wife with a move to the Florida Keys like she wanted. Her sister and husband lived there with a whole damn bunch of kids and since they were the only two left of her family, she had wanted to move, to be closer to them. He didn’t know what the hell he would do in sunny Florida, but was sure something would come up; if not, then he would enjoy the warm weather and drink beer all day long.
He pulled his pants up, belching loudly and grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth. His hand reached for the cigar, throwing it away on the side walk, starting to walk toward the fence in the backyard, shoes crunching on the snow, a grin on his swarthy face at the prospect of breakfast and a warm bed, even if only for a couple of hours.
As his hand reached for the handle on the gate, his ears caught a small noise behind him and he turned his head slowly, his tired brain dulling his usually sharp senses, his body still moving forward. Then his eyes bulged in terror as they took in the sight of the figure descending on him. A tall, slim figure loomed over him, moving fast, a hand raise above him, holding something that looked like an…axe?
“What the hell…” he mumbled as the cold hand of fear gripped his entrails. A sickening wave of terror welled up from his belly as his right hand tried to reach for the holstered gun at his shoulder, the overcoat hampering his movement, while his mind screamed at him that it was too late…too late. His feet slipped on the ice and snow covering the driveway as he tried desperately to move his huge body, throwing him off balance and he grunted with the effort of trying to stay upright. Something glinted above him, coming down with incredible speed, striking him on the neck, biting deeply, cutting off the beginning of a scream and then there was nothing, not even pain, just darkness rushing at him.
And so he died.
* * * *
The killer had heard the car approaching, had verified with one quick look that it was her intended prey and her whole body tightened with anticipation., adrenaline surging through her like wildfire, pushing back deeper into the shadows to prevent being seen by the dancing headlights. The car reached the house, the driver sitting there for a few seconds longer, probably enjoying the warmth of the car. She saw the amber tip of a cigarette or a cigar as the man smoked and the plume of smoke drifting out of a crack on the driver side window. She heard the door open and saw the figure of a man exiting the vehicle and she sighed deeply, a grin flickering on the intent, beautiful face briefly. It was time.
Like a shadow that was part of the night, the woman moved, swiftly, silent and deadly, her eyes centered on her pray, her running shoes noiseless as she stepped on the soft snow, covering the short distance to him incredibly fast, like a hunting leopard about to feast on an unwary prey. Nothing else existed in her world now, only the man in front of her and she focused on him with all her being. There was no cold, no snow, no danger, nothing but the man in front of her. She was almost on top of him when the man reacted to the danger looming from behind him and he turned his head to the left and back, eyes bulging in terror at the sight that greeted him. A grunt escaped from the man’s mouth as he tried to turn, his immense bulk restricting his movements, one hand reaching for his pistol and then it was too late for him.
She was already swinging her weapon, the axe describing a whistling circle above her head, coming down with incredible speed, the power of her muscles making the axe swing just a blur in the semidarkness. The incredibly sharp blade caught her prey just above the shoulder, biting deep, the two-handed powerful blow carrying all the way through muscle, sinew and bone, the sharp edge of the axe slicing the man’s head off completely. A spout of red blood burst from the man’s neck and the killer jumped back to avoid the splash as the head tumbled to the ground, eyes wide open, sightless now. With a thud, the head hit the driveway, rolling a few feet almost to the SUV parked there, followed immediately by the body, legs jerking spasmodically. Bright red blood had spurted from the severed neck on its way down, marring the pristine snow, even reaching the parked Ford SUV, as the killer stood still, nostrils flaring at the sight of the dead man and the overpowering smell of human feces and urine emanating from the body. The killer glanced up and down the still dark streets, breathing deeply of the cold air, glancing back at the dead man. She took a step toward the body, a look of utter disgust etched on the beautiful face.
“Hope you rot in hell…you bastard”, she hissed softly, spitting the words, her lips trembling as powerful emotions washed over the taut body, warmth spreading all over her, the pleasure of seeing the man dead almost a sexual release for her. She felt the moistness in her loins and she closed her eyes momentarily, her body swaying spasmodically for one long moment. She roused herself with an effort, shaking her head and glancing at the sky and then all around her, making sure she was still alone with the dead man. She came closer now, careful not to step on the fresh blood, leaning over and patting the back pockets of the dead man. Finding what she wanted, she pulled the wallet from the right, back pocket and opened it quickly. A gold badge glinted at her and she smiled now, fingers working fast to disengage the badge from the leather fold. She finally did, throwing the wallet down carelessly on top of the dead man. With a last look at the body of the man that had caused so much pain and suffering in her life, she whirled around and soon was lost in the shadows, gone as silently as she had come, her presence never noticed. The wind whispered softly, swirling the snow about the body and the head, the dead man’s eyes staring at empty space.
Across the street, a shadow moved swiftly and the black cat appeared, head held high, nose quivering as it took the scent of fresh blood in the air. The black shadow that was the cat stood still for a moment and then, as silently as it had come, it disappeared.
CHAPTER 3
January 13, 1995 Chicago, IL
6:00 a.m.
The irritating sound of a telephone ringing woke him from a pleasant dream. He reached for it, his eyes glancing at the clock on the stand, wondering what the hell had happened now for someone to be calling this early, six in the morning. He had gone to bed less than three hours before and now someone was disturbing him. ‘But that’s police work for you’, he thought dourly, sighing deeply. Probably one of the reasons he wasn’t married anymore nor had a live-in girlfriend, he thought again, breathing the cold air of the apartment, trying his best to rid his head of the cobwebs in his brain. The wife was gone after just two years of marriage, tired of coming home to an empty bed and a man that lived in an incredibly ugly world. She had been a pediatric nurse and couldn’t relate to his work, to the dark world he inhabited during the long hours spent tracking some murderer. He was thirty-two years old, with over ten years on the force, the last six working murders and serious crimes in Zone Four of the metropolitan Chicago area.
Lt. Joshua Turner put the phone to his ear, sighing deeply. It had to be bad news for sure, he thought, since as head of the detective division for violent crimes in Zone Four, his phone didn’t ring this early for nothing. And it was bad, a lot worse than anything he could have imagined.
“Yeah…” he said, his hand reaching for the cigarette pack on the night stand. “What the hell is it”? He listened to the voice on the other end and his body stiffened, all vestige of sleep now gone, feeling his stomach churn with every word coming from the duty sergeant.
His face paled at the news and he threw his tall, lanky body out of the covers, his hand lighting the cigarette, inhaling the harsh smoke deeply into his lungs.
He ran his fingers through his short, black hair as he listened to the words coming from the
other end of the line.
“Hell…I’ll be right there”, he said, about to hang up the phone, stopping in midair as the thought occurred to him that he was going to need help with this one. “Get…Miller and Thompson on the way too,” he said, shaking his head slowly at the news, dropping the phone down after getting a grunt from the desk sergeant. A cop was dead, murdered in a most gruesome way according to the report and he felt a slight shiver run through him.
“Hell of a way to start a day”, he said softly, heading for the bathroom. He was ready in minutes, pulling jeans and a sweatshirt on, his black overcoat and hiking shoes on his feet, a .45 caliber Glock pistol on the small of his back. He was out the door quickly, making it to the murder scene in record time despite the snow falling, stopping briefly on the way for a cup of scalding black coffee from an all night drive through. His mind was centered on the dead cop, pulling on the scant information that he had on the man. Officer Claude Dunbar was an old hand and he had known him for years, not closely, but he knew the man was married, a couple of boys away in college somewhere and close to retirement. For what he knew of the guy, he was not the most lovable individual in the neighborhood, but he wasn’t the type either that created a lot of problems for the Department. Now he was dead, making Turner wonder who wanted Dunbar out of the way and why; especially the why of the murder. Those were questions that would have to be answered sooner or later if the killer was going to be apprehended.
He parked his car behind a couple of regular units, stepping out of it, his boots crunching on the fresh snow and ice. He walked fast, tripping on a pile of snow, spilling some of the precious hot coffee in his hand onto the ground. He cursed softly as he regained his balance, glancing at the sky, feeling the wetness of the snow flakes on his face and he shook his head. The weather forecast was not good for the next few days. It was supposed to snow, with cold temperatures in the low teens again. He loved Chicago, loved the smell and the pace of it, but he still hated the cold and the lousy weather in winter. He hated the cold wind that blew with such intensity that it took your breath away on occasion.
He looked at the huddle of people in the driveway in front of the house, recognizing the CS (Crime scene) people, the coroner and the Forensic pathologist among them, Dr. Holt Lambert. The ambulance and the EMT’s were there, as well as some regular units and the usual TV crew. One of the Crime Scene people was busy taking pictures of the body lying in the driveway and he could see another one making the sketch. He sighed deeply, knowing that in a matter of minutes, the reporters from every major newspaper would be descending on them also. A crying woman, heavy-set and with rollers in her hair, dressed in a garish looking housecoat, was being supported by another female and he surmised it was the wife and probably a neighbor. He ducked his head under the yellow tape that said ‘Police Line, do not cross’ and found himself among the small huddle of men who were busy with the scene. He made his way to Lambert, who saw him coming and waved a hand at him. The man was slight of build, with horn-rimmed glasses in a face that was long and pale, his head almost void of any hair, a cantankerous ‘young’ man of sixty. They had known each other for years, had worked together on numerous murders and knew each other’s habits and strong points. They were more than just co-workers, and despite the age difference, they were friends. Both men were professionals, given to small talk, never assuming anything or taking anything for granted when working a murder. Besides being a forensic pathologist, he was also a medical doctor and the best man Turner had ever seen at performing autopsies. That was important now, Turner thought, since they had a cop decapitated, just a few feet from his house.
He glanced at Holt, taking in the steel gray eyes behind the glasses, red rimmed now from lack of sleep, just like his own. The man had spent most of the night doing an autopsy on a recent murder, one that Turner himself had been working on and now he looked exhausted and ill at ease. His eyes glanced up an down at the CS crew working steadily, making sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to be doing. He was a stickler for professionalism and he always wanted everything done just right, which was one of the reasons Turner liked working with Holt Lambert. Once the man told you something was done, it was done, taken care of precisely the way it should have been.
“You look like shit, Holt”, Turner said softly, his eyes taking in the gruesome sight in front of him. Dunbar’s head had rolled a few feet away from the body, the sightless eyes open, an expression of utter terror etched on the pale face. Dunbar had been a big, strong man and the body had bled profusely, coloring the white snow a bright red. The blood spurt had shot quite a few feet away from the body and then, as the heart pumped ever more slowly, it had puddled just inches from the neck stem. He looked at the scene with professional eyes, eyes that had seen his share of murders and other gory things during his years as a cop. But he didn’t remember ever seeing a man decapitated like this, especially a cop. A black hat lay close to the body, next to the left hand and there were a few footprints on the snow, most of them unrecognizable by now. He shook his head at that. No matter how many times the order had gone out for people to stay the hell away from crime scenes until the lead investigator arrived, somebody always managed to fuck up, destroying evidence by their clumsiness. The good thing about this one was that Holt was there and he would make his best effort to piece everything together. Whoever had crossed the police line tape would be recorded on a pad and their footprints checked against whatever they could lift from the scene.
“You don’t look too damn good either”, Holt said, scribbling something on the pad in his hand, giving Turner a tired smile. They both had spent most of the night working another murder, plus the autopsies that Holt had performed during the course of the day. But then, this was Chicago and dead people were nothing new for them, averaging three or four cases in a week per crime zone, sometimes more.
“What do you have for…me?” Turner asked, walking a few paces away from the body, reaching for a cigarette and lighting it, taking a sip of the rapidly cooling coffee in his hand.
“Not much…. of anything”, Holt said, irritation in his voice, long, tapered fingers producing a cigarette from his coat pocket, reaching for Turner’s hand with the lighter and lighting it. He was a man of boundless energy and his fingers were constantly performing some kind of work, including helping him to smoke close to three packs of cigarettes a day and when the mood struck him, an occasional cigar. “This got to be one of the most sterile crime scenes I’ve ever seen. All we have is a dead body, a head and a lot of blood splattered everywhere. Someone came from behind apparently, took his head off…with something like an axe…or some very sharp object, a sword, or machete. Right now, it looks like one blow, given from right to left.” He stopped briefly, looking at the pad in his hand. “No eyewitness…nothing but him. There are some footprints close to the body, some made by the first officer on the scene and the subject that found him…a jogger. Dunbar was found around 5:40 by him. The guy…was on a morning run, happened to glance at the bundle laying on the snow and came to investigate, saw the blood all over the place and the body and immediately knocked on the door and notified Dunbar’s wife”. He took a deep drag of the cigarette, flicking the butt way from him, exhaling slowly, the gray smoke spiraling upwards, continuing the summary of his report slowly; “She went hysterical on him, so he managed to get the phone and call 911.” He scribbled some more in his note pad, his forehead furrowing with his thoughts, and then resumed his report. “First officer on the scene is him, Officer Williams”, he said, his head signaling toward a uniformed officer standing by, taking notes and smoking a cigarette. “He strung the tape as soon as he got here, staying away from the body as much as possible…and that’s about it for now,”
“Weapon…?” Turner asked, his eyes drifting toward the head lying on the snow.
Holt shook his head, taking a drag from the cigarette.
“Like I said…probably an axe, maybe a
very sharp machete or a sword. I’ll know more after the autopsy is completed. Right now, as you well know…everything is speculation.”
Turner shook his head slightly, asking, “How long…ago?”
“Not long…that’s for sure. Despite the cold, his internal temperature was still high when I inserted the rectal thermometer, meaning that maybe…one hour, at the most hour and a half before the body was discovered and the first officer arrived and we were called to the scene. It was cold as hell this morning, so I’ve to take that into consideration There is some blood on the SUV, but I’m pretty sure it’s his blood, not the killer’s. As you can well see, there is no sign of a struggle, no other wounds that are apparent as of now. Again…I’ll know more when I’m finished with him and the preliminaries.”
Turner nodded his head, taking a drag from the cigarette, exhaling slowly, his eyes taking in the dead man again, sipping the coffee slowly, waiting for Lambert to continue.
“Body has not been moved by anybody but me and not much at that, just enough to insert the rectal thermometer after we swabbed him. We are just about finished here unless you find something interesting. We have the blood samples, the sketch, measurements and the photographs…and not much of anything else right now”, Lambert said softly, the frown on his forehead creasing deeper.
Turner nodded his head in acknowledgement and ran his fingers through his short, black hair as he walked a few feet toward the body and squatted down, checking the way the man had fallen, the position of the hands, the blood mist. His eyes took in the black leather wallet laying open on the dead man’s buttocks.
“What’s with the…wallet? He asked, his head turning toward Holt
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