Corktown

by Ty Hutchinson

That’s when he tried to be funny and patted me on the head. I grabbed his hand and yanked down, forcing it back at the wrist. I had him immobilized and crying like a baby in just a few seconds. With him bent over and his face closer to my height, I leaned in. “I’m not a dog. Don’t ever pet me.”

  “You fucking psycho bitch. Let go of me,” he yelped.

  Wilkinson stepped in just as I winked at the crybaby and forced him off to the side. “Let’s all calm down here.”

  “Tell that bitch—”

  Wilkinson grabbed the detective by his suit and pushed him back into the wall. “Watch your mouth.”

  “All right. Everybody calm down,” the other detective spoke up. “Relax, pal.” He stepped between Wilkinson and the other man and separated them. He then faced me with tired eyes. “I’m Detective Vince Solis,” he said with his hand extended. He seemed like the smarter of the two. He was evenly tanned and wore a mustache. “That’s my partner, Detective Ray Madero. Look, we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.”

  I shook Solis’ hand and then walked over to the body. “What do you guys know so far?”

  Solis joined me near the bed. “This woman had an appetite for kink. She’s got drawers filled with this stuff.”

  “Besides her sexual tastes, got anything else?”

  “As you can see from the sheets, she bled out. If you look closely, you’ll see there are three tiny incisions.” Solis pointed with a pen to her neck and then her legs. “One along the carotid artery in the neck and one on the femoral artery in each leg. She drained quickly.”

  I bent down for a closer look. “And this rubber object?”

  “It’s a fist. Doesn’t look like it played a role in her death. Below that is a butt plug. Killer might have been screwing around with her beforehand,” Solis said.

  “Any idea who she is?” I asked as I stood up and faced him.

  “She’s some big shot over at Chrysler, Marian Ward. Every once in a while she’s on TV or in the paper.”

  I turned to the only uniform in the room. “Were you the first on the scene?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Call me Agent Kane,” I said with a smile.

  “Sorry. The pasty guy on the couch downstairs found her and called it in.”

  “Anybody talk to him yet?”

  “I talked to him a little just to get a sense of what happened.” The young officer took out his notebook. “His name is Paul Poole. He’s an engineer at Ford. Said they met at some automotive function. They had been seeing each other for about six months, though he says it was mostly booty calls. Oh, he admits to turning her on to the BDSM life. Anyway, he said she called him on his cell and invited him over tonight.”

  “He took his time?” I asked.

  “No. He was on his way back from Kalamazoo and had about three hours of drive time left.” He scanned his notes again. “Uh, he said when he got here, he followed her trail of clothes upstairs and found her like that.”

  “He had a key to the house?”

  The uniform shook his head. “He said the door was unlocked. He figured she had left it open for him.”

  “Do us a favor; make sure Mr. BDSM doesn’t leave and no one talks to him before I do.”

  The uniform nodded again and then hurried downstairs.

  I turned to Solis. “What are you thinking?”

  “No sign of breaking and entering. Whoever did this knew her or had access to the house.”

  “Maybe she’s such a horn dog she decided to fit another guy in before her main squeeze got here,” Madero added.

  Tiny ball man not helping.

  “Forensics just arrived. We’ll know more once they’re able to give this place a sweep. They might find another print or something we overlooked,” Solis added. He then took a step closer to me. “Agent Kane, I gotta ask. Why is the FBI involved and how did you guys find out about this crime scene so fast?”

  5

  “I was hoping you could tell us,” I said. No point in holding back our agenda. “Our supervisor ordered us to fly to Detroit today. We knew coming out here had something to do with a potential serial killer. Our briefing isn’t until tomorrow morning, but when we landed we got instructions to head over to this address right away.”

  Solis looked at Madero for a second and then back at me. “That’s all you know?”

  Wilkinson and I nodded. Solis motioned for everyone to follow him out of the room. We huddled at the end of the hallway, away from the CSI crew that had just appeared.

  “This is what we know,” Solis said. “Two months ago, a body pops up. Old homeless guy in an alley near Corktown—”

  “Corktown?” I said

  “Yeah, it’s a small neighborhood east of downtown Detroit. Anyway, this guy has the same M.O. as our vic here, minus the fist. A month later, another body pops up. Middle-aged guy, fishing on the shores of Lake St. Clair. Again, same M.O. minus the fist.”

  “Wait. You’re Birmingham police. Aren’t these other cases out of your jurisdiction?”

  Solis nodded. “They are.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand. Why are you keeping tabs on them?”

  “We’re not,” Madero added.

  “Here’s a little background for you.” Solis pointed at Madero and then himself. “We’re both new to the precinct. I’m from Jersey. Madero here is from Tampa. We’ve both been in the city maybe a year, so we have no history; no one knows us. But get this: we’re sharing old war stories with the desk sergeant when he starts to tell us about the original Corktown murders, took place maybe fifteen years ago. A couple was found dead—cut and bled out.”

  “Like our vic here,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “But nobody was ever brought in. Seemed like the case was headed for the filing cabinet marked ‘unsolved’. Anyway, all was quiet for six months, and then bam—a few more bodies, same M.O.”

  “In Corktown?” Wilkinson asks.

  Solis nods. “Soon after, more bodies pop up. A couple in Detroit this time, same M.O. Next thing you know, Detroit’s got a massive serial killer problem. This guy is terrorizing the place, leaving bodies left and right. Male, female—all ages. All told, maybe forty to fifty victims over a five-to six-year period. All of them killed the same way, with an incision to the neck or legs and then left to bleed out. Of course, minus—”

  “The fist. Yeah, I get it. So what happened to this killer?”

  “They finally caught the guy trying to pull off a bank heist with his girlfriend. He killed fourteen people during the botched robbery.”

  “So they caught the guy. Case solved, right?” I asked.

  Solis shrugged. “Appears that way, except…”

  “Bodies are starting to turn up with the same M.O.,” I said as I shifted my weight to one leg.

  Solis nodded.

  “It’s the higher-ups who connected the dots?” Wilkinson asked.

  “That’s what we’re thinking. Had Madero and I not chatted with the desk sergeant, this M.O. wouldn’t have stood out to us. This is probably why you guys were called in.”

  I turned to Wilkinson. “Why us? The Bureau has local agents here.”

  “You know, I remember hearing about this case,” he said. “The press nicknamed the guy ‘The Doctor’. Anyway, I believe the local field office lent its support, and like Solis said, they ended up catching the guy. But why we’re investigating instead of them seems strange.”

  “And they called us before this murder, the third, ever happened,” I added. “Seems like there’s more to this than what’s being said. Two murders shouldn’t spook them.”

  Solis put his palms up in front of him. “Hey, don’t look at us. It’s clear we’re being kept out of the loop.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip. “Any other connection between her, the guy fishing on a lake, or the homeless person?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Take away the incisions and these are three separate cases. Also the ‘serial’ word is forbidden f
or now. As far as the citizens of Detroit and the press are concerned, it’s a whacky copycat that we’re closing in on. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Maybe the killer is checking off a bucket list—you know, a person from different categories.” Madero added.

  Again, not helping.

  I shook my head. “The killer seems educated. He must have had some sort of medical training, enough to know how the human body operates. These incisions are meant to drain a body as fast as possible.” I headed back into the room and took another long look at the victim. “There has to be a reason why he’s mimicking the original killer’s M.O.”

  “We have yet to figure that one out,” Solis said as he came up behind me. “Perhaps that’s where you guys come in.”

  I turned to the three men. “Most serial killers have a motive behind each kill they make. They hate women, or they’re ridding the world of jerks.”

  “So what’s this guy’s beef?” Solis asked.

  “Not sure, but I’m betting there’s an agenda. There’s a reason why this person choose to copy the M.O. of a known serial killer.”

  “Maybe he’s paying homage,” Wilkinson said.

  6

  That same night.

  “I’m home.”

  “Daaaaddyyy!” The two young boys charged down the tiled hallway to the front door and were scooped up, one in each arm, by the tall man.

  “Where were you?” the oldest boy asked.

  “Daddy had business to take care of. Boring stuff, you wouldn’t want to know. But I’m home now,” said Preston Carter, looking at his watch. “It’s beyond your bedtimes.”

  A woman wearing wire-framed glasses walked into the foyer. She had chestnut-brown hair that fell just below her shoulders, and her eyes were a shade darker than a blue lagoon. She had on form-fitting jeans and a sheer blouse, and her body showed no sign that she had borne any children at all.

  “It is, but they wanted to stay up until you came home.” Katherine Carter gave her husband a kiss as he lowered the boys to the floor.

  “Eeewwww,” they groaned.

  “Now, Jackson, Lorenzo. What did we agree to do as soon as Daddy got home?”

  “Brush our teeth and get ready for bed,” they said in unison.

  The little one begged. “Mommy, can’t we stay up just a little longer with Daddy?”

  She looked at her husband. It would be his call.

  “Here’s what we’ll do; you two go brush your teeth and I’ll come by and read you a bedtime story. Sound good?”

  Both boys cheered and raced each other up the stairs. After they disappeared, Katherine turned to her husband. “We had spaghetti for dinner. Should I fix you a plate?”

  He patted his stomach and shook his head. “Sounds tempting but I stopped for a bite on the way home. I’m afraid I might explode.”

  “Well, you can have it for lunch tomorrow.”

  Preston pointed up the stairs. “I’m going to freshen up and get the boys into bed. I’ll be back down.” Katherine smiled before turning and heading back into the kitchen.

  The two met when Katherine was a freshman at Oakland University. It wasn’t long before afternoon coffee turned into weeknight dinners, which led to weekend getaways. They dated for five years, until she got pregnant. That’s when they decided to marry.

  Preston double-stepped it up the stairs, a sign that he was still fit at forty-five, even after a couple of chili dogs. He stopped by the hall bathroom where his sons were busy brushing their teeth. “Hurry up and pick out a book. We’ll rally in Jackson’s room in a few minutes.”

  He continued down the hall to the master bedroom and closed the door behind him. He hung up his jacket, slipped off his pants, and replaced them with a fresh T-shirt and sweatpants. In the master bath, Preston washed his hands and splashed water on his face. He ran his hand through his thick blond hair, checking the length, looking for the occasional white strand.

  He stopped just short of leaving the room and headed over to the bed, where he retrieved a small metal box from under his side. He fiddled with the combination lock for a bit before it opened. Inside were two boxes of disposable scalpels and a box containing latex gloves. He plucked out two gloves and picked a scalpel. He then opened the closet and tucked them into the inside pocket of his blazer. Always be prepared.

  He exited the bedroom. “What are we reading, boys?”

  7

  It was well after midnight when we left the crime scene. Making the trek from the burbs to downtown that night wasn’t an option we were keen on. Instead, we found a hotel in the area and got two rooms for the night.

  The next morning, we exited the lobby a little before eight. The temperature outside had already soared to eighty-five degrees. I imagined it would only get hotter in the city and the humidity would start its frizz assault on my hair.

  According to the hotel concierge, Central Precinct was a straight shot from Birmingham—about a forty-minute drive along Woodward Avenue. Wilkinson drove our rental, as usual.

  “You know, we could have left later, if you weren’t ready.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked as I applied my make-up. “I was ready.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Oh, Wilky, stop being a grouch. I know you like to watch me put on my lipstick,” I said, smiling while I flipped the visor back up.

  “Also, you should learn to drive one of these days,” he said shooting me a look.

  “But you’re so good at it.”

  “Don’t butter me up. You need to learn.”

  “You know, when I was a detective in Hong Kong—”

  “Another Hong Kong story. This should be good.”

  I stopped and shot him a raised eyebrow. “Are you going let me finish or are you going to keep rolling your eyes like a little teenage girl?”

  “Fine. Talk.”

  “My partners always drove because, in my society, the men drove.” I pointed at my chest. “I wanted to drive. They wouldn’t let me.”

  “I’m teaching you how to drive when we get back to San Francisco. I’ll insist you drive from then on to make up for all the times you were discriminated against in Hong Kong.”

  “Great. Can’t wait.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I hope you’re patient. I’m a slow learner.”

  They say when you fight with the opposite sex it means you like them. Did we really like each other? Maybe. Also, I still wasn’t sure how to tell him I had gotten my driver’s license three months ago. What can I say? I liked being a passenger.

  I pointed at a McDonald’s. “Pull into the drive through.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re always like this when you haven’t had your morning coffee.”

  “Like what?” Wilkinson scoffed.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Plus I could use some hot water for my green tea.” I always kept a tin of loose leaf with me. Even though I had acquired my father’s taste for Jameson, my mother made sure I developed an addiction to the green elixir. Maybe that explained my eye color.

  “It must have been tough for you at the start,” he said after a few sips.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, when you first got into law enforcement.”

  “It wasn’t easy, but I managed.”

  “I’d say. Chief Inspector in charge of Organized Crime, was it?”

  “Organized Crime and Triad Bureau. Why the sudden interest?”

  “Well, you haven’t spoken much about that.”

  “What do you want to know? That when I got the job, I didn’t get a round of drinks after work or a celebratory lunch? That it was rumored the only orders the men wanted to hear me shout were, ‘Harder,’ and, ‘Don’t stop’?”

  “No, not at all. That’s terrible.”

  I turned to Wilkinson. “I’m sorry. Look, I know you’re not like those men. It was a bittersweet time in my life.”

  “Was it always like that?”

  “No,
it actually got better when I saved my old partner from having his head blown off.”

  “What happened?”

  “My department had targeted a small Triad gang in the Sham Shui Po district. The plan was to grab as many of the members as we could at six different locations before sunrise. My old partner and I were hitting the same residence. We punched through the door with a battering ram and caught them sleeping. It was a pretty easy round up, until I saw a young male jump out a window with my partner not far behind.”

  “And you followed them both right out the window.”

  “Yup. Anyway, I ran down an alleyway until I reached an open doorway. Inside, I saw my partner with his arms up and a shotgun a finger’s length from his face.”

  “He got the jump on your partner?”

  “He did, don’t ask me how. I took one look at the gang member’s shifting eyes and knew what he was thinking; Blow this guy away, then take out the girl.”

  “What happened?”

  I chuckled a bit and shook my head.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking but I jumped to the side like that movie, the one with Keanu Reeves…”

  “Wait, you mean The Matrix?”

  “Yeah, except I only had the one gun.”

  Wilkinson laughed and batted his palms against the steering wheel. “Don’t bullshit me. Tell me you did not reenact the fricken Matrix to save your partner—”

  “Ex-partner.”

  “Okay, your ex-partner’s life.”

  “I did. And guess what? It worked.”

  Wilkinson shook his head; he still had a fat grin on his face. I was laughing, too. Hearing myself retell the story, it sounded incredibly stupid.

  “So what happened next?” he asked.

  I took a moment to catch my breath. “Well that stupid move caught the guy by surprise. He did a double take, enough time to give me the jump on him. I was able to squeeze off two rounds before crashing down on my shoulder. The first shot took out his trigger hand. The second one slammed into his face.”

  “Bullshit. For real?”