“Yes! Finish me off,” she cried.
Preston picked up the pace again. “We made small talk. I told him Irene and I were friends. ‘The Junior League,’ the dumb mule suggested. He found me so charming. I reached for a skillet that hung from the rack above us, a shiny one that was hardly used. That stupid fucker didn’t suspect a thing.”
“My God… You’re going to make me cum.”
He grabbed her thick mane and pulled tightly. She was close. So was he. He kept up the pace, pushing her toward the edge. Just as she reached her point of no return, he whispered in her ear.
“You could hear his face crack when I hit him.”
16
Early the next morning, Wilkinson and I headed over to the bureau’s field office on Michigan Avenue. We were eager to talk to the agents who worked the Garrison case and get their take on it. I was in a good mood and looking forward to mixing it up with other agents outside of my own office—some quality G-man bonding. Every now and then, I kind of wished I had a penis.
When we got there, my happy outlook changed. A stern-looking man greeted us in reception. He had parted his hair on the side and coated it with some sort of slick product. I couldn’t stop staring. Hair helmet.
“I’m Special Agent Tully,” he said as he shook both our hands.
“I’m Agent Abby Kane and this is Agent….”
Tully spun around on his heels before I finished. “Walk with me,” he ordered.
I looked at Wilkinson with my lips pursed and eyes wide open. He gave me half a shrug. We stood up and dragged our feet, purposely.
“You guys are about a month late. Agent Max and Agent Ton got relocated. One is in San Diego and the other, Atlanta. Off the top of my head, I can’t remember who went where.”
“You got a number or an address for them?” I asked.
“No.”
No pause, no sorry—just a quick no. Where’s the charm? “What can you tell us about them?”
“Good guys. Quiet. Worked hard. It shocked me when I heard they wanted to leave. I thought they were happy here.”
He led us to a Dutch door with a built-in counter. The plastic sign hanging above the opening of the door read, ‘Records Division’. “I figured you guys would want to pore through their files on the case.”
“Thanks. We appreciate it,” Wilkinson said.
Agent Tully hit the little bell on door counter a couple of times. “Hey, Joey Records.”
An elderly black man appeared in the window a few seconds later. He had a big white mustache covering both lips and his cheeks bulged like a chipmunk’s when he smiled.
“I need you to pull all of the Garrison case files.”
The old man responded with a raspy, “Sure will,” before shuffling away.
“Any idea why they were transferred?”
“Change of pace. At least that’s the story they both gave. They put in for the transfer. Now if you can handle yourselves from here, I have a meeting.” Tully did an about-face without waiting for an answer and disappeared around the corner.
I let out a breath. “We always get the nice ones.”
Ten minutes later, Joey Records returned with four boxes on a cart. That’s it? How in-depth was their investigation?
“Here you go,” he said with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. “Just put everything back in the box and return it to me when you’re finished.”
I smiled at him. “Thank you.”
We secured an empty office around the corner and closed the door behind us. Our initial assessment was that everything seemed to agree with what we had covered back at Central—except it was the CliffsNotes version. Nothing looked out of place, but it literally looked as though the agents stopped working the case the minute they found out Garrison was caught.
“So our guys helped out until Garrison was caught and then called it quits?”
Wilkinson glanced up from a file. “Looks that way.” He must have noticed the confusion on my face. “What?”
I tucked my chin in. “Sounds a little suspect, don’t you think? Why not see it through? It’s not like they were taking a test and someone said, ‘Pencils down. Turn in your report.’ ” I leaned back in my chair, willing to let the situation stew.
Wilkinson rubbed his hands together. “Dunno. Maybe it wasn’t their decision.”
I popped up out of my chair. “I’ll be right back.”
I exited the office and walked back to Records. “Hey, Joey Records.”
“Yes ma’am?” Joey lowered a newspaper enough for his eyes to peek above.
“Are you sure those are all the files?”
“I am.”
“Anybody else request these files?”
He frowned a bit as he slowly shook his head. “No, you two are the first since I cataloged them. Why?” he asked, folding his paper and putting it down.
“They feel a bit light. Plus, none of the cases are closed. It’s like the agents stopped working on everything at once and packed it in.”
Joey Records shrugged. “Sorry, sweetie. It’s all I got.”
He reminded me of a co-worker back in Hong Kong, Shen Wo. He was the oldest inspector on the force, always on the verge of retiring—just happy to be around. He often treated me as his granddaughter. Sweet old man.
I returned the files when we were done and then we set off looking for Tully. We found him a few minutes later in the cafeteria spending time with a coffee and a Danish. Was this the meeting you mentioned earlier?
“Agents. Finding everything you need?”
“I wouldn’t say that. How familiar are you with the Garrison case?”
“About as familiar as I need to be. Why?” He put down the last bite of his Danish and brushed the crumbs from his fingers.
“Well, it looks as if your agents stopped working the case a day after Detroit Metro Police arrested Garrison. No follow-ups. No nothing. It’s like they set the files aside and never gave it another thought.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. If I recall correctly, we were short staffed around that time. Any resources we could pull away from Detroit Metro Police would have helped. They had their guy.”
“Is that normal procedure around here?”
“Look, Agent,” he said, standing up, “I know you’re this ex-hotshot detective, but this isn’t Hong Kong.”
“Exactly. So why are you bringing it up?” What’s wrong with these people? Aren’t we all on the same team? I didn’t know what I’d said to merit that attitude, but Helmet Head was getting on my nerves.
“With all due respect, Special Agent Tully, we were asked to help with this case. We are not volunteers. Let’s get that straight. Secondly—”
“Agent,” Tully raised his voice, “I outrank you. Get that straight. You were given the information needed. Now, go solve the case. Good day.”
Tully stood up and walked away, leaving me speechless. I could feel every eye in the room glaring. All I could do was look down. Finally, I turned to my partner. “Tell me I wasn’t out of line.”
Wilkinson gave me a pat on the back. “You weren’t. Don’t sweat it.” He stood and made eye contact with everyone. A beat later, the audience went back to their business as if nothing had happened.
On our way out of the building, my cell rang. It was White. Two more bodies had popped up.
17
Detroit was exactly like one would imagine it: deserted.
During our drive to the scene, we passed a slew of empty apartment buildings and abandoned storefronts; some of the buildings I saw were burnt out. Others were partially demolished. City porn for photographers, I thought. Only when it’s framed and in black and white do we finally see beauty and history in these once magnificent buildings. So sad.
I continued to daydream out my window as we sped pass the urban plight until I experienced a sudden scene change. My view went from liquor stores to mansions in the blink of an eye. “Wait, what just happened?” I asked turning to Wilkinson.
“G
rosse Pointe is what just happened,” Wilkinson said. “The divide between the poor and the rich is that welcome sign back there.”
I couldn’t believe it. One minute I’m staring at someone pushing a shopping cart down the street, and next I’m looking at immaculate lawns with the help riding a lawnmower.
“Manicured to perfection,” Wilkinson motioned with his finger.
The address we had took us to Strafford Lane, which dead-ended at Lake St. Clair. Packed into the tiny cul-de-sac were a slew of cruisers and a CSI lab vehicle. We arrived right behind the Wayne County Medical Examiner, which was a sign the bodies hadn’t been moved yet. Wilkinson parked behind the examiner’s van, and I watched a portly white guy with a mustache exit the vehicle.
The area around the house had already been cordoned off, but a couple of uniforms still worked the perimeter to keep the nosy neighbors at bay. I bet every single one of them called their home security service for extra drive-bys.
I flashed my badge at the nearest uniform.
“Are the detectives inside the house?”
He shook his head. “The bodies aren’t in the house; they’re in the garage. It’s a big mess in there. Blood everywhere. Might want to hike your pants up.”
I thanked him for the heads-up. What are we in for this time? We passed a couple of uniforms on the way. One looked green in the face. Was it that bad?
Large fluorescent lighting brought the three-car garage to life. A group of men were huddled near an old red car, talking amongst themselves. They pivoted when they heard my heels on the driveway. Two of them I recognized right away from the Marian Ward case. Great, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. I leaned over to Wilkinson. “I could have sworn those two were Birmingham police.”
“It gets more interesting,” he said.
The one with the mustache, not the one who tried to pet me, spoke first. “Agent Kane, Agent Wilkinson, right?”
“That’s correct. Detectives Solis and Madero, right?”
“You got it.”
“I thought you guys were Birmingham police,” I said.
“We are, but the higher-ups ordered us to work any case associated with this killer.”
“Lucky you,” I said.
Solis shrugged. “I heard you two had the same luck as well.”
“It appears that way.” I wasn’t sure if this was good or bad. On one hand it kept the number of cooks in the kitchen to a handful, but on the other hand, these two didn’t seem to be all that bright.
I turned my attention to the bright red car with chrome trimmings. It was a convertible and the top was down so everyone had clear view of the inside of the vehicle. A man in his fifties sat behind the wheel. A woman occupied the passenger seat who, I guessed, was around the same age. They were posed. He had his hands around the wheel. She was leaning in toward him. They were on a Sunday drive to nowhere. Their mouths were the eerie part; they both hung open. If you took away the waterfall of blood that ran down their necks, coloring their clothing, it could pass for an exhibit at an automobile museum.
Before I could take a step forward, Wilkinson stopped me. “Blood,” he said, pointing to the floor. A large dark pool of it spread out from underneath the car. I walked over to Solis. “What do you know so far?”
“Dennis and Irene Walters are the unlucky couple. He’s a bigwig at General Motors, CFO. The wife is one of those volunteer types.”
“GM? Marian Ward worked for Chrysler. I wonder if they knew each other.”
“Probably. It’s a small town.”
“Could our guy be targeting auto executives?” I asked. “You know, the whole disgruntled factory worker angle.”
“Could be a grievance with the unions, or maybe these executives did something unpopular in the industry. Lots of possibilities,” Wilkinson added.
I looked back at Solis. “See what you guys can dig up on these two.”
“Will do,” he said while walking away.
“Solis,” I called out as I pointed at the two bodies, “let’s finish here first.”
“Right. Uh, well, both victims took trauma to the head, probably how the killer knocked them out long enough to strap them into the seats—”
“Strap?”
“Oh yeah. Come around this way.” Solis motioned with his pen. “They’re wearing their seat belts.”
A couple of doormats had been laid across the floor to reach the vehicle. I walked over and peered inside the car. “Same incisions?”
“On the neck at least. Can’t tell if they have them on the legs. We didn’t want to disturb the scene before forensics arrived.”
I motioned to the floor of the garage with my head. “How did so much blood end up underneath the car?”
“My guess is he cut them before placing them in the car.”
“And those footprints?”
“Gardener. He found them this morning. He said when he left yesterday afternoon, the wife was still alive and the husband hadn’t returned home from work yet.”
I bent down and examined the blood spill closer. The edges had dried but the center still had some liquidity to it. “Timing feels about right. I’m guessing they were both killed shortly after the husband got home.” I looked back up at Solis. “Anybody talk to the neighbors yet?”
“Not yet. We’ll get some uniforms—”
“No uniforms. I want you and Madero talking to them. Find out what the neighbors know about these two. What time does he come home from work? Do they entertain a lot or keep to themselves? Were they liked or hated in the neighborhood? Find out if there’s any gossip these people are willing to give up.”
Solis nodded and walked back over to Madero. Wilkinson moved up, took his place alongside me, and peered inside the vehicle. “Garrison didn’t do this. Stage people. Why would our copycat do this?”
“He could be bored,” I suggested. “Serial killers kill a certain way because it feeds a need. It brings them satisfaction.”
“And copycats aren’t like that?”
“Not from what I’ve seen.”
Wilkinson swallowed.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m right there with you. There’s something different about this one.”
18
We didn’t bother hanging around the crime scene any longer than needed. I had seen enough to know I had more questions than answers. Not a great way to solve a case. While copycats don’t typically evolve, I worried our guy had. We now had five bodies and no solid leads. If our copycat really was another genius sicko, it didn’t look good for the city.
Walking back to our car, I noticed the lookie loos were still standing in their driveways, whispering back and forth. Their hushed concerns said it all, though. They were terrified. They weren’t used to having a homicide pop up in their backyard. Detroit had wormed its way into their safe little part of the world.
The press had also shown up. A swarm of them circled Wilkinson and me.
“Detective, what happened here? We heard there’s been a double murder.”
How do they get their information so damn fast?
“No comment,” Wilkinson said flatly.
The same woman persisted. “Come on, detectives, tell us something.”
I flashed a smile at the crowd before correcting the person that spoke. “It’s agent, not detective.”
“Agent? Why is the FBI involved? Are there any connections between what’s happened here and the murder of Marian Ward?”
The questions came one after another. I stopped and turned to the female reporter. “We are helping the Grosse Pointe Police with the investigation. As of now there is no evidence to support a connection to the death of Mrs. Ward. That’s all we have to say. Thank you.”
Wilkinson leaned down toward me as we walked away. “You know we’re not supposed to comment to the media.”
“It’s a bad habit I have,” I said as I looked at him and waited for an answer.
He said nothing, just stared straight ahead and swatted at a fly.<
br />
The car chirped and my door unlocked. We had come to nickname our rental the Yellow Jacket. I had laughed when I first saw the yellow MINI Cooper. Now I thought we looked cool in it. As soon as we were out of sight of the press, I flipped the visor down to check my makeup.
Wilkinson looked over at me. “You look fine.”
I did. I just wanted to hear it. And to break the tension.
After a few moments of silence, Wilkinson spoke. “The auto industry tie-in is our first real clue,” he said.
“It’s something to bite into.”
“You think it matters that the victims work at different companies?”
“Nah. I’m assuming car execs in this town move around a lot.”
“A few years ago, I saw a documentary about the city of Flint.”
“Oh?” I asked just as I had a yawn attack. “Sorry. So this documentary…?”
Wilkinson gave me a quick look before he started. “Well, it was the late seventies. Pretty much everyone in Flint worked at the plants or made a living off the workers who worked there. Then GM started closing plants. The effect was disastrous. The entire town practically shut down. Everyone was suddenly out of a job. According to the film, the city never recovered.”
An entire town? Someone living through that could develop a deep hatred for GM, maybe even all three of the biggies. I could see our guy being an ex-employee. What I couldn’t quite accept yet was how a factory worker develops the chops to drain a body in seconds. Was he a hunter? I racked my brains trying to figure out if there were other angles. At the moment, disgruntled worker seemed to be a good way to go.
Wilkinson tapped the steering wheel. “What are you thinking? I hear grinding.”
“I think we need to have a come to Jesus with the lieutenant about what the hell is going on here. Also, I think it’ll be good to talk to the press.”
“You just did.”
“That’s not the press I had in mind.”
Wilkinson pulled into a park near the lake.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I thought we would swing by the area where the dead fisherman was found. This is Pier Park.”
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