“Oh…shit”, he mumbled as the hot vomit came. He retched several times, trying his best to keep the damn vomit from getting on his shoes, cursing under his breath. Blinding pain hit him and he closed his eyes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He spit several times, tasting the sourness in his mouth, the SUV all but forgotten now as he fumbled with the car keys, the foul taste of bile deep in his throat. He cursed long and hard, mumbling as he shivered with the cold wind on his back, trying to find the damned, swimming key hole in front of him. He shook his head, blinking eyes full of tears now, his temples pounding with the headache, breathing deeply of the cold air to clear the cobwebs in his brain. Something was trying to push to the forefront and for a second he stopped his efforts to open the car door, his forehead frowning like a man in deep thought. Bu his brain refused to think and he was too damn cold standing in the middle of the parking lot. He shrugged his shoulders deeper into his coat, resuming the search for the elusive lock. The key finally found the hole in the lock and he jerked the door open, cursing still.
As he opened the door of the car, something intruded in his alcohol soaked brain and the cold hand of death touched him. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he turned around, his right hand searching for his pistol, his left hand going up. ‘The damn SUV’, he told himself, as his bleary eyes centered on the dark figure looming over him, catching sight of a silver streak coming up and then down, toward him. His left hand went up in front of his face as his mouth choked down a scream and then the shiny head of the axe was slicing through skin, muscle and bone just below his elbow, blood spurting from the severed limb. The axe, even if slightly deflected, continued its flight upwards, hitting him a glancing blow to his forehead. A primordial scream, full of pain and rage reverberated in the confines of the parking lot and Moore sank to his knees, his back resting on the hard surface of his car, his eyes taking in the circling, moving figure above him. The axe turned in midair, coming at him from right to left in a blur of incredible speed and he shrieked like a small child, feeling his anus and bladder let loose, the overpowering smell of feces engulfing him. For one tenth of a second, his alcohol dazed brain cursed the moment he took that last drink and then blinding pain like he had never felt before surged through him, making him nauseas, the bile raising in his throat With a scream that was more like a sob, he dropped the pistol, clattering on the hard pavement as he grabbed at his severed limb with his right hand, tears of pain and frustration rolling down his cheeks.
“Who…who…?” he started, never finishing, a wave of nausea coming up again, choking him, listening to the diabolical laugh coming from the angel of death hovering above him. The axe bit deep on his exposed neck, slicing all the way through sinew, bone and muscle, the head rolling, thudding on the ground, eyes open. For a moment longer, the body jerked, finally stopping, blood spurting from the severed neck as the heart pumped ever more slowly.
* * * *
She had seen the man stopped close to his car, had seen the hesitation and then the man getting sick and she took that as her opportunity to close in and put an end to him. She exited the vehicle quickly, smoothly, taking care not to make any noise, making her way to her prey in long, quick strides. She reached him as he turned for some reason and the axe flickered in her hand, the shiny blade searching for the man’s neck. She saw the face up close, as the terror and fear gripped him, the left hand coming up to ward off the attack, but it was too late. The sharp edge of the axe cut through sinew and bone as if it were nothing, but his defensive move deflected the axe enough that she had to reverse her cut and move her grip. Even with that, the blow intended for the neck went up after slicing the hand, giving Moore a blow to the forehead. She saw the man go down hard on his knees, heard the scream full of pain and rage and she laughed hard, feeling the rush of adrenalin surging through her, her blood molten lava and her loins incredibly wet. Everything was crystal clear and sharp and for a fleeting instance, she thought that she had never been so alive. She laughed again as she took a step to the left, the axe coming from on high, right to left, and this time there was nothing in the way to deflect it. The axe caught the man on the neck, biting deeply and like Dunbar, slicing all the way through. A fountain of blood spurted from the neck and she had to jump back to avoid the splatter. Her nostrils flared at the sharp smell of ammonia and human feces as the man’s muscles let go.
“Just like a fucking…pig”, she said to herself. She stood still, her chest falling and raising rapidly with the strength of her emotions and she felt the moistness in her loins again as she moaned softly. She allowed herself a few precious seconds to enjoy the death off the miserable human being that lay at her feet, her beautiful face a mask of pure evil, the hard, taut body swaying slowly to the rhythm of her inner emotions.
“Rot in…hell”, she said softly, a grin flickering briefly on the face now. She glanced around quickly, making sure she was still alone. Carefully, she approached the body, working fast now, her hands reaching for his back pocket, searching, moving quickly to the pockets in the overcoat when she didn’t find his wallet there. Her fingers closed on the wallet inside an inner pocket of the coat, pulling it out, searching for the badge. She found it and it was matter of seconds to disengage the clip, dropping the wallet in place. That done, she hefted the axe, turning around and walking rapidly toward the SUV. Moments later, the parking lot was empty, silent, except for the grisly scene of a dead man and the cold wind that whispered softly around it.
CHAPTER 9
Chicago January 27, 1995
04:00 a.m.
Lt. Turner bent his head, his eyes taking in the naked body of the black man laying on the cold, stainless steel table of the morgue. The man’s face was unrecognizable, nothing but a mass of bruises and contusions, dried blood covering the eyes and most of the ruined face. The lips had been split and one ear was almost cut in two. Holt was at his side, his hands moving expertly over the dead man, probing, pushing, and looking for anything that would give them clues about this new killing. It was late and he was exhausted, feeling the weariness seeping into his body slowly, welcoming the heat inside the building. He shook his head, forcing himself to wake up, his eyes rough and red rimmed from lack of sleep, feeling like he had sandpaper in them. He stifled yawn, thinking about some coffee, turning the idea down as soon as he thought about it. The last thing he needed now was more coffee.
Two weeks had passed since Dunbar’s murder and they were still on square one. Nothing, absolutely nothing: no suspects, no weapon, and no motive from any one that was close or had known Dunbar. The man had no girlfriends outside his marriage and so there were no other men angry with Dunbar over a woman and wanting revenge. The other murders in Chicago continued as they always do, Turner thought, part of his mind following Holt’s small talk while the rest of it was centered on Dunbar’s case. It pissed the hell of him when he couldn’t solve a murder or at least work on it ‘right’, concentrating on one case at a time, but murders didn’t wait and they kept piling up, one after the other. Just like the one lying on the table now. The man had been beaten to death in a drunken brawl, so at least the cause of death for this one seemed to be pretty clear. They had witnesses and a suspect and even now Thompson was working on him at the station.
“This one is pretty much…over with”, Holt said, stopping for a moment to snatch a cigarette from the pack laying on a table. He walked a few steps away from the body on the stainless steel table and lighted the cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply, eyes taking the naked figure of the dead man. The autopsy was completed and the obvious cause of death was several blows to the head and face with a blunt object.
“Good…now all we need is a confession from the perpetrator at the station and we can go home soon”, Turner said, closing his eyes for a second. He was tired and hungry after all the events of the day, but hopefully, it would be over soon, he told himself. He opened his eyes and stifled a yawn with h
is fist and turned his head around as a noise coming from the door reached him. His eyes fixed on the man coming in, the look on his face and his gut jumped, his senses telling him that the reason Thompson was there had nothing to do with the stiff laying on the table. The man’s face was set in hard lines, the look in his eyes grim and Turner knew that his hopes of the day being over soon had just evaporated again. Thompson walked fast, approaching the table and stopping, his eyes fixed on Turner and despite the cold outside, sweat ran down his face.
“We have…another one”, he said softly, his voice almost a whisper in the confines of the autopsy room, his hand wiping at the perspiration running down his face in rivulets.
“What the hell are you…talking about now”, Turner asked quietly, his mind knowing well what had happened even before Thompson said it. Another cop was dead.
“It just came in”, Thompson said. His face was pale and his eyes were haunted. He shook his head like a man wanting to dispel bad thoughts and continued talking.
“Police officer named Pete…Pete Moore. Somebody just took his head off…exactly like Dunbar”. His voice was barely above a whisper and Turner had to strain his ears to catch what was being said.
For one long second, Turner remained still, his body frozen in place and then his eyes turned cold, hard, his lips moving in a snarl of rage. For one long moment his face was contorted by an inner fury, disappearing as fast as it had come. His shoulders slumped, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes narrowing.
“Where?” he asked then, quietly, a thousand thoughts running wild in his head. He felt the wild thud of his heart beating on his chest, taking air deep into his lungs to control himself
“Some bar’s parking lot…downtown. Looks like the killer was waiting outside.”
“Damn it…damn it all to hell”, Turner said, feeling the adrenalin jolt and the anger building in him again, pushing the cobwebs from his brain. His hand reached for his overcoat, shrugging his shoulders into it, his face set in hard lines, the exhaustion of a few minutes ago now forgotten completely.
“Let’s go” he said his eyes glancing at Holt, whirling around without another world and starting toward the entrance, followed closely by Thompson.
Holt threw the bloody, dirty gloves in a trashcan next to him, picked up his keys and started after Thompson and Turner. Another long night was ahead of them, another cop killed.
CHAPTER 10
Downtown Chicago January 27, 1995
04:45 a.m.
Josh Turner bent down, his eyes taking in the new crime scene. A man and a woman, the bar’s owners, were standing close by, eyes shifting every few seconds to the body still laying on the ground. They talked softly with Thompson while several regular units, blue lights shining brightly and persistently, surrounded the small section of the parking lot. A TV unit was parked just outside the ring of police units, people moving back and forth, cameras on their shoulders, waiting impatiently for anything they could get.
The bar owners had found the body after closing, sometime around three o’clock and had run back inside to call the police as soon as they realized what had happened. Moore was well known to them, they knew he was a cop, a patrol officer and a good customer. He waited for Holt to insert the rectal thermometer before asking any questions, but his eyes registered everything about the dead man and his surroundings, the position of the body, the blood splatter, the fact that the driver’s door was opened, blood staining the seat and floorboard of the vehicle.
‘He almost made it’, Turner said to himself. The man had come to within a hair’s breadth of getting in his car and then, something, had alerted him to the danger behind him…but too late, just like Dunbar.
His pistol was on the ground, close to him, as well as a hand and several feet to his left, the head. The arm had been severed almost at the elbow and Turner thought that the man had seen his attacker and had tried to defend himself. He made sure the CS investigator had taken pictures of the position of the pistol and then he reached down with a pen, snaring the trigger guard of the pistol, bringing it to his nostrils, smelling the barrel. No smell of gunpowder was evident, meaning that probably the pistol had not been fired. He reached into his back pocket, coming out with a plastic bag and put the pistol into it. He sealed the bag, writing on the cover, and dated and signed the bag as evidence. Powerful overhead lights had been set up by the CS investigators, giving him a good look at the body, which was covered with blood. Moore had been a man of medium height, with short, cropped salt and pepper hair. He appeared to be about mid forties, was not overweight and was a casual dresser. Holt had found his wallet and the contents were lying next to the body, being itemized by a uniformed officer. He could see the man’s wallet and a wad of money among the other odds and ends. Obviously, robbery was not the motive here, just as it had not been with Dunbar.
“Any…sign of his badge? he asked softly, eyes resting on the wallet.
Holt reached for it now and opened it completely, showing the imprint of the badge, now gone.
“It was laying close to his body, meaning the killer took his time in finding it, taking the badge out” he said. We will test it for prints, but…if it’s like the last one…we are not going to find anything useful”.
Just like Dunbar again, Turner thought grimly. Meaning the killer was collecting items from the dead officers. He shook his head slowly, thinking back to other murders, other cases of serial killers. Most of them collected things from the dead ones, sometimes gruesome things like bones or skin, even ears or other body parts that strike their fancy at the moment of death. Some of them took jewelry, clothing or extremely personal items. This one…this one was taking the badges from the dead officers. Was it a reminder to them that he, the killer, was taking on the Police that he was not afraid to kill the very people that represented law and order…power? He shook his head, disgusted, running his fingers through his short hair in a characteristic gesture for him when he was irritated. He glanced around, centering his eyes on the dead man again, breathing deeply of the cold air, the words ‘serial killer’, encroaching in his thoughts. With a second officer killed, the investigation had now turned into a different dimension and now it could be considered that the killer was a serial murderer.
“Great…just great”, said Turner as he returned his attention to the dead man, trying his best to figure all the angles with this new murder.
The man had died on his knees apparently and even now, his body was leaning against the car. The blood splatter was everywhere, the smell sweet and overpowering, as well as the ever-present smell of human feces and urine.
Holt stood up, shaking his head, peeling rubber gloves from his hands. “About an hour, maybe an hour and a half”, he said softly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It seems like ‘our’ killer is back”, he continued, “the same MO (modus operandi), and apparently the same weapon.”
“And once again, a police officer”, Turner said, his face etched in disgust, a sour taste in his mouth. He ran his hand over his face, feeling the weariness seeping slowly through his tired body. He searched for a cigarette and lit it. He took a drag of it, exhaling the smoke, his mind running with questions. He had been going strong all day long, subsisting on coffee and aspirin and nothing else and it took effort to concentrate on this new development. Now another cop was dead. No witness, no suspects and no motive so far…just like Dunbar. ‘Who the hell is killing cops in Chicago and why’, he asked himself. Was it a serial killer bent on revenge or someone with a beef against a cop or cops? Or was it just against Dunbar and Moore? He shook his head, feeling the beginning of a blinding headache about to come on, knowing well they had more questions than answers right now. By the look of things, the crime scene was as sterile as the first one. A dead body, a head severed from the trunk, a hand severed at the elbow, a pistol on the ground, his badge…gone. No shots fired, meaning the killer had go
tten close enough to be able to swing the axe or machete and accomplish what he wanted, the killing of a cop, then vanish into thin air.
The voice of Thompson brought him out of his reverie and he shook his head savagely, glancing around. Daylight was coming fast, but the sky was still laden, full of black clouds and he shrugged his shoulders into his coat, glancing quickly at the heavens above. It was cold and it looked like it was going to snow again. He swiveled his head around, glancing at Thompson.
“What…do you have?” he asked quietly. He needed some sleep or he was going to fall flat on his face soon, he thought, fixing his eyes on Thompson, waiting.
“I’m finished talking with the bar owner. They didn’t see a soul or hear anything when they came back, just Moore, leaning against the car like he is now. They didn’t touch anything, just ran back and called 911”. He stopped talking for a moment, looking at his notes, and then resumed. “Looks like he was…some kind of a regular joe here, coming by just about every day, drinking heavily. Owner said he was quite drunk when he left the bar, came in by himself, left alone after getting into an argument with a hooker…named Gloria”. He stopped for a moment, his eyes glancing at the small notebook in his hand. “He got physical with her…slapped her twice and then the whore, Gloria…left the bar with a joe by the name of Jimmy, just before Moore left”. He stopped again, fingers scratching at the stubble of beard on his face, continuing; “They think he left the bar around three o’clock…but no later than that”
He nodded his head, breathing deeply of the cold air. The damn killer was one lucky son of a bitch, he thought grimly. So far he was like a ghost in the night, striking almost at will and getting away with it. He glanced at Holt who was unfolding a black body bag for the body.
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