(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind'

by Michael A Diaz

  “Soon…soon”, she whispered as the hand moved expertly and the axe whistle in the air.

  “Soon”.

  Lt. Josh Turner had been marked for death.

  CHAPTER 18

  Chicago Police Dept. Chicago, IL. February 7, 1995 1300 hours

  By the time he got back to the office it was snowing hard and traffic was a mess with commuters heading home early, eager to get away from work before the storm came howling down on them. As soon as he came into the office, he was greeted by a red blinking line on his phone and he reached for it, wondering who had called. The strong voice of FBI agent Moyer reached him and he shook his head, hoping the man had something for him.

  He dialed the number, returning the call, waiting as he listened to the ring. A secretary answered, telling him Moyer was momentarily out of the office, would return his call soon. He hang up, his mind full of thoughts about the murders. He realized that he was getting frustrated more and more, that his mind was not functioning like the well oiled machine that it usually was. The lack of information, any solid evidence, was frustrating to say the least and he knew his men were feeling the same way. Day after day with nothing to show and the trail getting colder by the minute. Except that his gut was telling him that the killer was not done yet…that he was just waiting.

  The telephone rang and he jumped out of his reverie, reaching for it. It was Moyer’s secretary again, telling him he was back. Seconds later Moyer was on the line.

  “I have something for you, Turner”, Moyer said softly. “I think is interesting, so I’ll run it by you and you tell me what you think.”

  “All right…hit me”, said Turner, waggling his butt into his chair a little deeper, waiting now for Moyer.

  “Your killer is young, probably late twenties, early thirties. Highly mobile as shown by the fact that he is able to follow his victims around and get to where they are easily. He’s employed and able to function in society pretty well, probably good personal skills, friendly, able to talk to people and get information. We know he drives a car, an SUV, fairly high priced if we believe the description of your witness”. He was silent for a moment and Turner could hear the rustle of papers.

  “The crime scene photos tell me this killer is in a rage, so this is personal against cops. Something traumatic happened to him to get him started on the killings, probably shortly before the first one. This killer…this killer is extremely intelligent, with an orderly mind, able to act swiftly and probably on the spur of the moment as evidenced by the last two killings. There is a tremendous amount of controlled rage in the murders, which tells me that this killer is holding a grudge against some cop. I would say that it was probably the first one he killed, Dunbar…or maybe Moore. I’m inclined to believe it was Dunbar…unless it was the two of them that the killer was mad at, which is very possible, but Dunbar, he was the first one and that may have some meaning. Whatever happened between this killer and the victims, I’m sure that he considered Dunbar the main player. Another thing is that this killer planned the first two murders for a while, maybe ran the killings in his mind over and over until some precipitating event drove him to do the actual killings. We know…we know that he waited for Dunbar at his home, knew his schedule and therefore the killing was very well executed.” He paused again, clearing his throat, shuffling more papers. “Moore’s killing…we can surmise he too was followed and the killer waited for him, knowing that sooner or later he would have to come out of the bar”.

  He cleared his throat loudly, continuing; “The last two killings, those were random…I’m sure of that. The hood up on the SUV, car parked on a corner, pretending some type of malfunction. The officers were not well known to each other, there is no connection between them except that they were assigned to each other just a few days before the killings. There is no indication that they knew Dunbar or Moore. To me that means that the killer chose them at random, that he saw…or made…the opportunity, and then killed them. It seems that the killer, once committed to killing, can not stop for long now. So I’ll bet that unless we catch him soon…the killings will go on, closer and closer together.” He stopped again, shuffling some more papers, clearing his throat before he continued.

  “This is where it gets interesting Turner”, he said, continuing; “The choice of weapon…the axe. It bothers me. It’s not a common murder weapon as we know. Most axe murderers use one because it’s there, not because they bring one to the murder scene. This killer is bringing the axe with him, a special one, which tells me again that there is something personal about the killings. Our Mr. Douglas, from the FBI would say the axe is a signature for this particular killer, something very significant to him”.

  Turner listened closely to the words, his mind running at full speed. In the small list of suspects that they had, there was no one that would fit that profile and he shook his head, sighing deeply. The task force had conducted thousands of interviews, had tracked down just about anybody that had any contact with the officers; old girlfriends, arrests made, people that might have a grudge against the officers…and the results for all that time spent was…nothing, one big, fat zero. This was the first murder investigation for him in which everything was in favor of the killer. Witnesses that were not sure of anything. Evidence with not much to offer. Four men dead and no real motive discovered. Turner realized that Moyer was still talking and he focused on his words again.

  “I…know we don’t have much Turner…but I’ll keep working on this one…see what comes up”.

  “Yeah…but listen. You keep saying he…about the killer” he said, finally asking what was in his mind foremost. “Are you sure this one is a…man? He felt stupid for asking the question, but he realized that something in his gut was telling him that this killer was different, that indeed, it was personal between this killer and the police officers. He didn’t know if all the killings were related, but he had the nagging suspicion that it had all started with Dunbar and the fact that Moore had been associated with Dunbar was another indication for him that maybe the motive for all these was revenge. Somewhere, sometime, those two officers had come in contact with the killer. Something had happened between them and that was why they were dead now. But…what? What the hell was the connection? He had researched the files of both officers himself, had combed through the information carefully, slowly…but besides the fact that they had been partners for a while many years back, there was nothing in the files to indicate to him that anything major had happened. The files contained the usual things that were expected of police officers, the usual complaints, but nothing that would jump at you. There had been complaints made, about police brutality, some sexual harassment by some women, concerning both cops, but they had found every person that had complained about Dunbar and Moore, had interviewed them at length and…nothing. The same with the arrests. people sent to prison on charges brought by the officers. The results had been the same…nothing there. He was going to have to get back to those records, comb through them inch by inch to see if there was something they had missed.

  Moyer was silent for a moment, finally saying; “You know…we tend to think that the highest percentage of all serial killers are men and the evidence that we have right now supports that particular idea. Most of the killers out there that commit more than one murder are men, but it is not written anywhere that all serial killers are men’ Moyer replied softly. “This one…well…this one, if it’s a woman…boy, we have problems”. He was silent again for a moment, clearing his throat several times before finally saying; “It could be a woman…except that the axe business doesn’t come into the equation.” He stopped again and Turner could hear his breathing on the line. He waited patiently for Moyer to continue. The man wasn’t finished yet, his mind probably going a thousand miles a minute right now, trying to figure out what they were missing. “Most women serial killers murder when opportunity presents itself, they don’t usually go looking fo
r people to kill and usually the killings are for profit or for the purpose of making the killer feel good, like in a setting where people are dying of some incurable disease and the nurse or doctor would just finish them off. That person is alleviating the suffering of a human being and in their warped minds that is not murder, they are doing someone a favor by killing them. Their weapons are not pistols or knives or…axes, just a plain old needle most of the time and some type of poison.” He stopped then, sighing deeply, resuming his talk. “If I have to guess, the first two murders are related, very well thought out by the killer. Hell, Turner…the killer is going around whacking cops off with a damn axe and there is no doubt in my mind that the first one and probably the second are intimately related because of the way they happened. He follows Dunbar home and kills him within a few steps of the door and he tracks Moore in just about the same way, waiting for him outside his watering hole. The fact that Dunbar and Moore were partners for years, knew each other well and were the first ones to get killed, tells me that their murders are connected. Something happened during their partnership that had to do with this killer. They knew him…or her and something happened between them, something bad enough to make the killer come after them…and if all these suppositions are right…then we have a motive. Good old revenge…pure and simple”.

  “Yeah…that’s what I thought”, Turner said softly, hanging up the phone a few moments later. Moyer had confirmed most of his thoughts so far concerning the killer, but he was still far from having anything solid to help him catch the killer. His eyes rested momentarily on the evidence bag containing the axe head and he shook his head slowly, his mind going back to a woman with beautiful blue eyes and a bewitching smile. He glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering where all the damn hours went, his hand going into his pocket, coming out with the small piece of paper, the number on it. It was five thirty in the evening and he wondered if she had made it home yet.

  He stared at the number for a long time, wondering what the hell he was about to do, part of his mind telling him he didn’t have time for any type of involvement with a woman like her, that it was stupid of him to think that a woman like that would be interested in him. But finally he shrugged his shoulders, his finger dialing the number almost in a trance. Hell…he could use some female company…maybe a dinner somewhere quiet…some drinks. And for the rest, well…that was something he had to take one step at a time.

  CHAPTER 19

  Chicago February 8, 1995 Saturday 10: 00 am

  He woke up to a world of blinding light his head swimming, the pulsating pain behind his eyes making him wince. He opened his eyes briefly again, closing them rapidly, his hand going to his head, his mind trying it’s best to remember where he was. He opened his eyes again, shaking his head, his mouth dry. He was in his apartment, in his bed, alone.

  “Jesus H. Christ”, he mumbled as he threw his feet out of the bed, his head reeling. He walked the few steps to the window, closing it, shutting the curtains to the light coming through it. He staggered back to the bed, sitting on the edge, forcing his mind to think. He stretched his body, realizing his back was sore, burning. He shook his head again, standing up, heading for the small bathroom. He opened the cold water faucet, splashing water on his face and turning his body to see his back in the mirror. Red, angry welts and scratches crisscrossed his back and then he remembered some of last night. ‘Jesus”, he mumbled again, his hand reaching for the bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet. He took a handful of the pills, chewing them, swallowing some of the tepid water from the faucet.

  He glanced at his face, the dark smudges under his eyes and he realized he looked like shit. He had called Mariska Mason at home the previous night and after a short conversation, he had managed to ask her out. Much to his surprise, she had accepted and he had made his way to her apartment to pick her up. He had come up, admiring the place, shaking his head at the orderly manner in which the apartment was kept. Everything was in its place, clean, shiny…and with no decent, comfortable chair to seat on. As he waited for her in the living room, his eyes took in the place, his mind telling him he had never laid eyes on a place like hers. It was like a museum, sterile…even cold. He stood in the middle of the living room, shaking his head slowly as the eyes continued scanning the layout. He glanced all around and then again, something playing in his mind, finally realizing that there wasn’t one picture hanging anywhere. The walls were bare, nothing to dissipate the starkness of the room. There weren’t any photographs of people, of family, of friends. Hell…not even a dog or a childhood picture were visible. He shook his head again and then she was there, all full of warm smiles, her perfume filling his nostrils and he forgot about everything except the beautiful creature on his arm. They had gone out to eat and for a few drinks. On the way out she had insisted on taking her car, a shiny, brand new Corvette and even allowed him to drive. He had found out she was everything he thought she was and more and the hours had flown, the drinks coming fast, until he realized he was on his way to getting drunk. For some reason, she didn’t seem to be affected very much by the drinks and finally they had made it to her apartment. Once again he was surprised when she had asked him to come up. Once in the apartment, the reserved, slightly shy woman had turned into a veritable sex demon. She had taken him into her bedroom and the sex had been incredible, the woman never satisfied until he had made love to her several times, her cries of passion driving him wild.

  Turner splashed some more water on his face, his head pounding, his mind refusing to think clearly. He staggered back to the bed, his eyes glancing at the clock, his face hitting the pillows and in seconds, he was out again.

  He woke several hours later, the headache almost gone, and the shadows of the evening darkening the room this time. He stood up, making his way to the window and peering outside. It was almost dark and he realized he was hungry, his stomach rumbling. He put some old jeans on, wincing at the soreness on his back as he put a shirt on, thinking that Mariska Mason was a wild cat. He was in the process of putting his shoes on when the phone rang, a persistent sound that started his headache again. He let the phone ring until the damn thing finally stopped and he sighed in relief. He was in no mood to talk to anyone right now and he knew it was not the office calling since the beeper had not gone off. He made his way to the bathroom when the phone started ringing again and this time he cursed softly, wondering who the hell it could be. He snatched up the phone, his voice loud and gruff.

  “Yeah…what is it?’ he said.

  “Well…that’s a nice way to say hello”, a soft, husky voice said an immediately his headache was gone as well as his sour disposition.

  “Mariska…huh…I’m sorry” he mumbled, his mind conjuring up the woman that was beginning to fill his every waking moment.

  “I thought you might like to come over…do something?”

  He heard the words and the double meaning and found himself saying yes, even before he had really thought about it, his blood moving now, his heart beating painfully against his ribs at the mere thought of getting her in bed again. He found himself hard, his erection overpowering in its intensity. ‘Jesus Christ”, he mumbled to himself. He was no virgin and he knew his way around women, but this one, at least by what he could recall from last night…was something else

  “Yes…I would”, he said quietly, visions of long, beautiful legs entwined around his body…of red, sensuous lips kissing him…filling his mind.

  She hung up the phone and he remained still, his brain sluggish. There was something wanting to come to the surface, something he knew was important, but right now he wasn’t functioning right and whatever was bothering him was going to have to wait. He finished dressing and within minutes was on his way out.

  CHAPTER 20

  Chicago 3151 W. Harrison St. February 10, 1995

  Josh Turner sighed deeply, his had reaching for the cigarette pack, taking one out and lighting it. H
e took the smoke deep in his lungs, exhaling slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the ceiling fan. He was in his office, a grin flickering on the handsome face as he daydreamed about Dr. Mariska Mason. He stood up, making his way to the coffee pot, filling his mug and coming back to his desk. He had breathed a sigh of relief when he had come to work Monday morning, after dreading another call from the dispatcher all weekend, another murder. Today was Tuesday and no more cops had been killed and he was grateful for that. He took a sip of the hot brew, savoring the taste and he settled himself in his chair, closing his eyes, daydreaming again.

  In all his life, not even when he was a horny young man, could he remember a woman like Mariska. He had spent the whole weekend with her and the sex had been a roller coaster that left him spent and weak in the knees. He was fascinated by her body, the proud, erect, small breasts, the greyhound belly, the way the incredibly strong muscles moved under the skin, the ripe sensuous lips that engulfed him in ecstasy as she took his manhood in. But…something was not completely right. The part of him that was hedonistic, his egotistical self was smug in the belief of his incredible sexual prowess and his endurance. He had exulted in the cries of passion that he had elicited from her, the orgasm that she had achieved under him. But the part of him that was a cop, was telling him something different, that the woman was faking it, that underneath all the cries of passion and assertions about his lovemaking, she was just putting on a show for his benefit, making him believe that he was the world’s greatest lover. He really didn’t have anything solid to go on, it was all just a hunch, a feeling, but…there it was and Josh Turner was not a man that would let his feelings go away. He was cop and his mind was analytical, dissecting everything to it’s bare essence.