(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind'

by Michael A Diaz

  Then there was the sex. He was a fairly handsome man, he knew that, but even if he didn’t want to admit it, he was not that incredibly great in the sack, not as much as she wanted him to believe. Even from the beginning, she had worked hard to make him feel…great, always attentive to him, exhorting his prowess in the bed. And he had thought that she was faking it, that she was putting a show for him, for his benefit, but why? What was the big deal anyway? Why did she feel she had to make him feel great? And then there was the look on her face, the time he had glanced at her and instead of love or passion on her face there was an incredible look of hate and loathing etched deeply on it. Turner shook his head, bewildered at the way the thoughts kept running in his head. He had opened a gate and now there was no way to close it. She was extremely tall, and incredibly strong and agile for a woman, something that he knew the killer must be, too. If she was a killer, what was the connection between her and the men murdered? Was it revenge for something that happened to her, or was the killer a sociopath, wanting to rid society of something perceived as bad? If she was the killer, what was the damn motive? Again, a thousand questions and no answers, Turner thought.

  The little voice inside his head kept hammering at him, giving him no rest. She was incredibly beautiful and polished, so why pick on a simple detective? Why was a woman like her alone? With no one to care for, just her work, no real friends and even her exercise mode was running, a solitary endeavor for most people. He shook his head in consternation, realizing that there were gaps in his knowledge of her. He didn’t know much about her, that was for sure. He needed to get inside her apartment, alone, all by himself, but he knew well that no judge was going to give him a search warrant on what he had; a gut feeling. He had gut feelings before and so far, his gut feelings had never lead him astray, so he was going to do it. He was going to have to do it the hard way…by breaking in.

  CHAPTER 23

  February 12, 1995 Chicago

  6:30 a.m.

  It was cold and of all things, it was raining, making the day dark and miserable, even this early. Turner sat in his car, the engine off, waiting. He had stayed away from her last night, with the excuse that something had come up at work, with the investigation, halfway expecting her to ask questions about it, but she had been extremely nice and understanding, saying that she understood, not asking anything about the case or the reason for him to stay away from her. This was another thing that struck him as interesting. If she was the killer and wanted to get close to him for the purpose of finding out what was going on with the investigation, she had never asked a single thing, never pushed him to talk about it. The few times that he could remember saying anything about it had being when he had too damn much to drink and he had done the talking, with her just listening to him, never saying much of anything to him or asking questions.

  ‘Damn my gut feelings’ he told himself, disgusted. Here he was, about to break the law on a gut feeling. He had parked away from her building, but close enough to see any one leaving the building and now he was ready, watching the cars coming out one by one. He glanced at his watch, noticing the time, knowing well that she would be leaving soon. She was a stickler for time, always leaving for work with plenty of time to get there early. He drank his black coffee while he waited, his body shivering with the damn cold. Suddenly the red Corvette filled his vision and she was at the entrance, stopping briefly for the traffic, then jumping out into it, heading for the museum. He waited a few minutes longer and then he reached for the door handle, pushing it open. He exited the car, throwing the rest of the coffee away, crumpling the paper cup. He watched the traffic, running across the street, heading for the apartment. He disregarded the front door, heading for the back entrance. The door was open and he pushed his way inside, looking right and left. There was no one around and he headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time, moving fast, reaching her floor. He stuck his head out, making sure no one was around and stepping out into the corridor. He reached her door, his right hand going into his pocket, coming out with several stainless steel hooks. In less than thirty seconds he was in, closing the door softly after him. He stood still, listening to the silence in the room. Once again, he marveled at the way the place looked; so quiet, so eerie, sterile, as if no one lived there. He shook his head slowly, feeling the sweat on the palm of his hands, his heart beating painfully against his ribs, adrenalin surging through him. He moved then, approaching the bedroom, walking in, and the scent of her was deep in his nos-trils…her perfume permeated the room. The bed was made, the room immaculate, as usual. He moved fast, going into the bathroom, glancing around, coming out, and then checking the closet. The running shoes were there, but much to his chagrin, they were completely clean, recently washed. He had planned to scrape the spots, taking a sample with him, but now that option was gone. He cursed then, steady and hard, his eyes taking in a black leather bag next to the shoes. His hand rummaged through it, coming out with a black pair of leather gloves. The leather was soft, pliable with dark spots on them, but due to the color of the gloves he was not able to determine what the spots were. They were too soft and flimsy to be running gloves in the winter time and he wondered what they were used for. His thoughts went back to Holt’s words about the lack of fingerprints in any of the items found on the bodies and the assertion that the killer was using gloves while doing the killings. He smelled them, close to his nostrils, but nothing jumped at him, no smell that he could deduce, except sweat and a lingering whiff of her perfume. He looked at the gloves for a long moment, discarding them back inside the leather bag, searching the contents again. There was nothing in the bag, except the gloves and he gave up, dropping it in place, and standing up. He reached the bed and sat down, closing his eyes, letting the quietness of the place seep into him, breathing deeply, clearing his mind of everything but the case at hand. This was the first time he had been in her apartment by himself and he felt like the perfect intruder. He took a deep breath of air, letting it out slowly, opening his eyes, thinking that he had to put his demons away concerning Mariska or the whole affair would not be worth anything to either one of them. He needed to prove to himself that he was wrong about her, that all he had was nothing but speculations. He bent down swiftly, his fingers snatching several carpet fibers, reaching for a plastic envelope from his pocket and putting the fibers in it. He folded the plastic bag and put it in his jean pocket. That done, he walked out to the dresser, opened it and began rummaging through the contents. He marveled at the orderly fashion in which every item was placed inside the drawer, folded neatly, nothing out of place. He ran his fingers and the palm of his hand over the items, night shirts and bras and the small, wispy panties that she favored. He did it slowly, careful not to disturb anything too bad, knowing well that she would know in a second if someone had disturbed the contents of the drawers. Several seconds later he was done, finding nothing. He stepped back, eyes roaming over the room for anything unusual, anything that would get his attention. He bent down again, searching under the bed, not at all sure what the hell he was looking for. Nothing, sterile, just like the rest of the apartment, everything in its place, everything neat and clean, not a speck of dust. ‘The work of an obsessed person, or just someone that liked her place immaculate?’ he asked himself, wondering, thinking that in all his life he had never seen an apartment like hers. Cold and efficient, but nothing that he would call home, sweet home.

  He stood up swiftly, exiting the room. The apartment was small, but he had noticed before that it had two rooms and now he headed for the second one. He had never been in that one either and had never paid any attention to it and now, as he approached the room he could see a padlock, in addition to the usual lock, on the door. “Now, why padlock this particular room?’, he thought aloud, reaching for the steel hooks again. In seconds the padlock was open and then he tried the lock handle. It was locked also and he used the steel hooks again. In seconds the lock was opened and he pushed the door so
ftly, wondering what could be inside. The room was dark, with no windows and he searched for the light switch. He found one on the right side of the door and he turned it on, the light coming on, bathing the room in soft shadows. He noticed that the light was in the center of the room, one single bulb, barely pushing the shadows away. The light made one circular shape on the carpet, and from the door, it appeared that something dark and shiny was resting on that particular circle of light. The rest of the room was left in shadows and he wondered about that. Except for the light, the room was empty, completely void of any furniture, so why the padlock? He stepped in slowly, feeling like he was disturbing a sanctuary and he felt the goose bumps on his arms. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he shivered like a man with malarial fever. He took a step into the room, shaking himself like a hunting lion, wondering what the hell was going on in that room. He glanced quickly around, his eyes taking in the shape of the room and the emptiness of it, stopping at some kind of steel, horizontal bar to his left, coming from the ceiling. He approached then, wondering what the hell it was, frowning at it until he realized that it was a pull up bar. She probably had it installed in the room for her and he shook his head, his hand grabbing the cold steel, pulling hard on it. It was strong, built into the ceiling, about seven feet high, enough to pull herself up. He stepped away from it, glancing at his wristwatch, noticing the time. It was getting late and he had spent too much damn time in the apartment for nothing. He glanced at the room again, noticing the dark box again, walking toward it. He bend down, picking it from the floor, his eyes taking in the beautifully engraved top. It was dark and shiny and…it had a lock on it. He wondered what the hell was in it and he put it down again, reaching for his steel hooks. The lock was small and as he tried to match one of the hooks to it, he found out that they were to big for the small hole. He cursed inwardly, knowing well that if he forced the lock, she would know someone had tampered with it. He shook it slowly, listening to something rustle inside. He put it to his nostrils, smelling the dark wood, trying his best to catch a scent, anything that would tell him what could be in it. He looked at the box for a long time, something telling him that it was important, that the room and the box were of intrinsic value to Mariska. Somehow, in that room and in that box was an explanation of who she was…what she was, the answer to all his questions about her. He could sense that…and he could sense something else, something that eventually made his hair stand on end again. It was like something evil was emanating from the box, from the very room and carpet he was standing on. He shivered again and he put the box down, his mind fighting the impulse to rip it open to find out what was in it. That would not do, he told himself, controlling his raging heart, shaking his head to dispel the bad thoughts. The damn room was creepy and whatever it was there that made him feel that way was something that he could not put his finger on. But the room was special for Mariska, of that he had no doubt.

  His rational mind made him realize that even if there was something in there for him, she would know the moment she put her hands on the box that someone had tampered with it and would in all probability, get rid of it before he had a chance to get a search warrant and come back. He walked out of the room, his breathing still coming hard and fast. He closed the door and put the padlock on again, walking away from evil itself. He shook his head slowly, sweat running down his back. He glanced around again, heading for the small kitchen, opening cupboards, glancing in. The last one he opened made him shake his head again, as his eyes took in the can of household oil right in front of him. Common household oil, he thought, not reaching for the can, just looking at it. The edge of the axe that had killed Dunbar and Moore had oil residue on it, he thought, household oil, just like the one in front of him. He reached for another plastic bag from his back pocket; this time taking the oil can from the cupboard, squeezing several drops into the plastic bag, sealing it. He put the oil can back, glancing around one more time, his mind running with a hundred thoughts, determined that he had to find out what was in that room and in the wooden box as soon as he could.

  He walked away, reaching the door, opened it softly and snatching a look outside. No one was around and he exited. He made his way down the stairs again, encountering no one on his way. He came out in the parking lot, making his way to the garage area. He found her spot, pulling on the door handle, attempting to lift the gate. If there was an SUV there, he had to find out who was the owner. Much to his surprise, the gate lifted and he made his way in fast, wondering about his luck today. Had she left it open by mistake? He stepped in and in the semidarkness, his eyes recognized the shape of the SUV. It was there, silver in color. He glanced at the back, looking for a tag, finding none. He peered inside through the windows, unable to see much of anything clearly. His right hand went into his pocket, coming out with a small flashlight, shining it through the window glass, but that wasn’t much of an improvement either, so he tried the door. This time, lady luck was not with him. It was locked and he walked to the front, searching for the VIN number of the car. He found it easily and pulling a pen from his shirt pocket, he wrote the numbers on the palm of his hand. He glanced around, taking in the contents of the garage, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. The damn place was just like her apartment upstairs, neat, everything in it’s place, no junk clustered anywhere, making his search easier. That done, he stepped outside, pulling the door down. Several minutes later he was on his way back to the office, his mind convinced that something evil lurked in the nearly empty room. He shivered again, not from the cold, as he sped away. He would talk with Holt, giving him what he had. ‘Maybe all of this has been for nothing’ he thought grimly, still thinking about the ‘room’ and the strange box.

  * * * *

  Later on, he sat in his office, alone, wondering what the hell had happened in that room. He had given the samples of the oil and the carpets fibers to Holt who had given him a speculative look, and even now, was working on them. But he couldn’t get the damn room of his mind. Something evil was in there and even if he was not a religious man, he could not help but feel that it was real, that it was a part of who Mariska Mason was. He shuddered again, standing up, his mind rebelling at the thoughts running wild in his mind.

  “Jesus H. Christ” he exploded, hands massaging his face. The last few hours had seemed like a roller coaster to him, everything coming in fast, too damn fast for him. Instead of the search clearing his mind about Mariska, it had clouded everything for him and now he was more confused than ever. He had not really found anything abnormal in the apartment and he was letting his mind spook him about a damn empty room The oil and the fibers would probably be common to a million households, not proving anything about the murders either. But then, if that was so, why was he so pissed at himself, why did the feeling in his gut keep getting worse and worse? He lit a cigarette, feeling the wild staccato of his heart against his ribs. He sighed deeply, sitting down again, controlling his emotions. His fingers massaged his temples as his mind kept racing, the thoughts coming in fast.

  He was absorbed in his thinking when the strident ring of the phone on his desk jolted him. He cursed softly, reaching for the damn thing, only to hear the voice of the woman that he was thinking of as a killer, on the other end of the line.

  “Hey…there”. The voice was soft, musical, with a promise of sex and love in it.

  He swallowed hard, feeling the constrictions in his throat, trying his best to find his voice. When he did, it was rough and dry. “Hi…how are you?”

  “Missing you…lover”.

  He shook his head, feeling the beats of his heart increasing. Damn…but she can get to me’, he told himself angrily. She could make him forget that she was a suspect in the killing of four police officers, and she could make him believe, even now, that he was her lover…her man. He had never known a woman with that kind of control over him, irritated with himself for letting her get to him so damn easily. He shook himself of the tr
ance he was in, listening to the words of endearment coming from her mouth and when the conversation was over, he had agreed to come to her place. He cursed himself again for being so weak, but something inside of him was pushing him to her. One way or the other he was going to find out what he needed from her. And if she was a killer…then let God have mercy on her. He stood up, making his way out, heading for her place. As he was leaving, he could hear the sound of the phone, ringing again. For one split second, he thought about going back in, taking the call, but he was in no mood for phone conversations and he let it go. At the other end of the line, in another office, Holt Lambert put the phone down, wondering where Turner could be. He had sounded impatient, wanting the test on the oil and the carpet fibers done as soon as possible, even tonight and now he was gone. He glanced at the paper in his hand, the preliminary report from both items. The carpet fibers and the dye used were identical to the ones found on the edge of the axe, as a well as the oil. Both were common household items, but it would be interesting to know where Turner had come into possession of the items. He lifted the phone again, not really feeling any urgency in the matter, but he wanted to do anything possible to locate Turner and give him the information. Maybe the boy is onto something, Lambert thought idly, lighting one of his cigars while the phone rang again. Getting no answer, he called dispatch, requesting they inform Turner of his call. That done, he turned his light off, closing the door softly after him, heading for the lab and another round of autopsies.

  CHAPTER 24

  Mariska Mason’s Apartment Chicago February 12, 1995

  8: 30 pm

  She met him at the door, the smile on her face full of happiness, the light in her eyes bright, warm. For a moment Josh Turner forgot all about her being a suspect, about his feelings, enjoying the reception. She was in a happy mood, relaxed and talkative as she pushed the door closed behind them, taking his arm in hers, pushing her taut, warm body against him.