Every Deadly Kiss

by Steven James

  From a place called Campus Martius at the epicenter of Detroit, the city is measured by miles, with 8 Mile being the city’s official terminus.

  The drive took me past Highland Park and Hamtramck, two anomalous suburbs located within Detroit’s city limits, and through the crime-riddled east side to the mansion-lined streets of Grosse Pointe. So close, yet so distant. A few blocks separated them geographically, but they might have been two entirely different continents.

  I passed the old Packard Plant and even hopped onto Outer Drive, which loops you around from one end of the city to the other.

  Along the way, I analyzed the network of streets, took note of the residential clusters and socioeconomic state of the neighborhoods, and tried unsuccessfully to establish a causal, or at least correlational, relationship between the crime scene locations and the residences of the victims.

  There weren’t any traffic cameras at the intersections nearest to where the crimes occurred, so we had no footage of vehicles or individuals leaving the scenes. I imagined that cameras didn’t last long out there before scrappers stole them for profit or destroyed them to assure anonymity.

  But it also spoke to the meticulous care the offender had taken in avoiding leaving clues.

  I visited the first four sites in the order of the crimes and did a walk-through at each of them: St. Clair Street, where Maxine Nachmanoff was found; then Worcester Place, where a young man named Gideon Flello was killed; then to the site of Dakota Sawatzy’s homicide on Walton Street; and the house on Montrose where Meredith Getz was found.

  Since randomness is often complexity in disguise, the apparently random distribution of the locations got me thinking, and I pulled up the Detroit Police Department’s precinct map.

  In many urban centers, the police department’s patrol routes, workloads, and precincts aren’t drawn up in response to crime types, locations, or frequency, but rather to correspond with voting districts and other arbitrary criteria that have little or nothing to do with crime prevention or suspect apprehension.

  Often, politics and bureaucratic or administrative entrenchment in outdated law enforcement models and methodologies keep precincts from evolving, even as a city’s demographics change. And, analyzing Detroit’s precinct map, that appeared to be the case here.

  However, when I overlaid the precincts with the sites of the crime scenes in this case, I discovered that each crime scene was in a different precinct and always within two blocks of that precinct’s terminus.

  Five bodies. All near the perimeters of the precincts in which they were found.

  That couldn’t simply be a coincidence.

  To spread them out? To hinder the investigation?

  It was likely that most people in the general population wouldn’t even be aware of which police precinct they lived in, let alone be able to delineate the other precincts in the city, at least not with such pinpoint accuracy.

  Obviously, the offender was familiar with the DPD’s precinct map. It would be too much of a leap to assume that he would necessarily be involved in law enforcement, but I wanted to keep an open mind and follow the evidence wherever it might lead.

  Since I’d already had a look at the site of Jamika Karon’s homicide yesterday, I saved her street for last. Somehow, that man I’d chased into the school had eluded us. We still didn’t know how. And that was something I wanted to remedy.

  Based on the school’s location, I figured I had just enough time to have a quick look around and still make the one thirty briefing.

  Or at least make most of it.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize what time it was. Really? Is it that late? Huh. I never would have guessed.”

  Might work.

  Who knows.

  While I could certainly look up some of the information about the school online, all too often, public records aren’t on the web or even on any law enforcement databases. Instead, they’re stored in file cabinets and in boxes and drawers in back rooms and basements and would likely never be scanned in or posted online unless there was a reason that would justify the time spent doing so.

  Today, I had a reason.

  I contacted the city records department, and, since I figured the secretary would have done more actual filing than her boss and would probably be able to locate the information more quickly, I spoke with her instead of him. She told me her name was Starr “with two r’s” when I gave her my federal ID number for clearance.

  “Can you pull the records for Lincoln High School?”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty busy here today.” She yawned, either out of actual boredom or for effect. “I need to slip out anyway at my break. I just ran out of fingernail polish.”

  I wasn’t sure how serious she was being. “I’ll send you some. You just might be able to help us solve a series of homicides.”

  “London Reckless.”

  “London Reckless?”

  “That’s the name of the color I use.”

  “That’s a color?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s how they do it with lipstick and nail polish.”

  “Right. Okay. I’ll order you some London Reckless.”

  All at once, she was all business. “Structural, architectural, mechanical, or civil prints? Site plans, floor plans, or elevation views?”

  “Blueprints, building plans, permits, anything you can get your hands on.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  ________

  But Starr must have been better at her job than she gave herself credit for, because less than thirty minutes later as I was pulling into the parking lot behind Lincoln High School, she called me back.

  “I don’t know if this will be of any help,” she said, “but it looks kind of interesting.”

  “Interesting is good. Go on.”

  “During World War Two, since Detroit was a manufacturing city, the automobile plants were retrofitted to build tanks and construct military convoy vehicles. Because of that, the city was considered a prime air strike target. So the schools—and even many of the churches—that were built in those years were constructed with bomb shelters underneath them.”

  Starr obviously knew what she was doing. Maybe the ditzy secretary bit was just her way of sloughing off extra work.

  She continued, “In some cases, the tunnels connected with each other beneath the neighborhoods so residents could get to them easier, quicker. Basements, cellars, that sort of thing. The entrances to ’em might not always be visible, though—might not even be accessible anymore. You’re talking about passageways that might not’ve been cracked open since half a century ago. From what it looks like, some were pretty well hidden to keep an encroaching army or invading force from finding them.”

  As far as I knew, none of the officers last night had searched any bomb shelters, so this was sounding promising.

  “And this specific school? Lincoln High?”

  “Yeah. It was one of ’em. It’s got a bomb shelter under it, but I couldn’t figure out how to locate the entrance—the records aren’t as comprehensive as they should be. And some are missing.”

  “Do me a favor, scan in the plans—whatever you have—and send them to me.”

  “There’s a bunch of ’em,” she noted. “It might take a while.”

  “Start with any that might show how that bomb shelter can be accessed.”

  “Nude Velvet.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Lipstick. Nude Velvet. Send me some lipstick too. With the nail polish. That’s my color.”

  “Um. Alright. London Reckless nail polish and Nude Velvet lipstick. Not a problem.”

  “Thank you, Agent Bowers.”

  “You’re welcome, Starr.”

  ________

  I had my flashlight, but no weapon, so I was cautious as I entered the school and traversed through the hallwa
y I’d been in last night.

  Sometimes I carry an automatic knife, but I’d been distracted thinking about how things were going with Christie and had forgotten to pack it for this trip.

  Excellent foresight there.

  Around me, a hush. Just like there had been when I chased the man with the hoodie through here.

  Still, stagnant air.

  As I swept the light in front of me, I caught a glimpse of movement at the end of the hall near one of the doorless rooms. The Maglite’s beam barely reached that far, but there was enough light for me to make out that it was a dog.

  I’m no expert on canines, and I couldn’t tell what kind this was, but it looked big enough to do some real damage if it decided I was a threat.

  It stared at me motionlessly for a long moment, its eyes catching light that didn’t quite manage to illuminate the rest of its face, making it look like its eyes were glowing green in the shadows.

  For a moment it reminded me of the wolf in the essay “Thinking Like a Mountain” by the conservationist Aldo Leopold when he wrote of the “fierce green fire” in the wolf’s eyes fading as she died.

  The dog growled at me. A challenge.

  “Get!” I yelled.

  But it crouched into a more aggressive stance and growled again, a deeper, more guttural warning for me to leave.

  I glanced around for anything I could use to defend myself if this dog meant me any harm, but apart from the mashed ceiling tiles, the hallway had been picked clean by scrappers.

  “Go on!” Instinctively, I waved my light toward it, although I wasn’t sure how that was really going to help.

  It took a few steps toward me, but when I hollered at it again, it finally grew disinterested, turned, and trudged off, out of sight.

  Sharyn’s case notes had mentioned that there were fifty thousand stray and feral dogs in this city.

  That’s a lot of hungry Rovers and Spots and Fidos, and from the crime scene photos from the first four homicides, I knew that human flesh was not off the menu.

  The scanned-in photos from Starr with two r’s came through on my phone and, keeping an eye out to make sure the glowing-eyed dog didn’t return, I began to study the school’s blueprints and building plans, looking for a way to access its World War II bomb shelter.

  33

  Blake’s pilot guided the Sovereign in for a smooth landing at the Sarnia Chris Hadfield Airport and as soon as they touched down, Blake and Mannie slipped away before any border agents could stop them.

  In corporate circles, the Fixed Base Operator offered services to aircraft owners and passengers. So on the flight, Blake had contacted the FBO and a car was waiting for them when they touched down.

  Their abrupt arrival might have raised some suspicion to the operator, but if you pay people enough, they’ll keep their questions to themselves.

  Blake thought momentarily about diminishing the chances of getting caught by having Mannie take care of tying off the loose end of the pilot, but decided violence in this case wasn’t required or justified. The man had served them well. He was a friend. He didn’t deserve to die today.

  When they reached the vehicle, Blake directed Mannie to drive so that he could check his email to see if the CCTV footage that Terry was going to provide from the Atlanta airport had arrived.

  ++++

  At the 9th Precinct, Sharyn Weist studied her notes in preparation for the briefing, which was scheduled to begin in less than ten minutes.

  No usable prints on the boards over the windows. Nothing from Officer Springman about the dojos or the TypeKnot app. That avenue just might be a dead end. He was moving on with the parkour possibility.

  She hadn’t heard from Pat since leaving the hospital, and she wondered if she’d said something that upset him.

  Probably not. Don’t worry about it. He’s just doing his job. Do yours.

  She’d found overlap regarding the apps on the phones of the five homicide victims.

  To some degree that was to be expected: Google. YouTube. Facebook. Krazle, the latest hybrid social networking/web search engine that seemed to be everywhere these days.

  Just about everyone had those, so it made sense that the victims would all have those installed.

  However, each of them had also downloaded the Hook’dup app, and she did not think it likely that all five people just randomly happened to use the same relatively unknown dating application.

  It didn’t take Sharyn long to discover that this app was pretty much just what it sounded like. You go online, post your photo and what you’re looking for—a man, a woman, a threesome, whatever—and the app helps you find others who are interested and a place to hook up.

  But this dating app was unique in that it was designed specifically for Detroit and listed the top five hundred hookup locations in the city: abandoned houses, churches, schools, warehouses. It included which entrances and exits to use, the best times of day to be there to avoid detection, and even which rooms were recommended for “the discreet adult recreational pursuits” that the app’s users were seeking.

  The app would flash green for “go.” Yellow for “easy does it.” Red for “keep your distance.”

  Whoever designed it would’ve needed to be intimately familiar with the abandoned buildings in the city.

  A street artist?

  Igazi?

  She downloaded the app.

  After opening it, she was able to confirm that each of the five crime scenes was listed as a potential hookup site.

  The developer, Inntoit2U Designs, had an office about forty minutes outside the city.

  Alright.

  Good.

  Rather than calling ahead to set up a time to interview people, anyone in law enforcement can tell you that, if at all possible, you should just show up to speak in person. Calling beforehand gives people a chance to rehearse what to—or what not to—say, to shred documents, or to flee. So Sharyn decided that as soon as the briefing was over she would go and have a chat with the app’s designer.

  Maybe Pat would be available to go with her.

  Just a thought.

  Just a possibility.

  See how things played out.

  ++++

  Although the architectural plans were detailed, the scanned-in files were a little blurry and difficult to read.

  However, from what I could tell, the bomb shelter’s entrance would be in the boys’ locker room, where some sort of tunnel or stairwell along the west wall led beneath the gymnasium.

  If so, I guessed that, because of the proximity of the locker room to the gym, the suspect probably would’ve had just enough time to slip away last night while I was descending the attic’s access ladder.

  Starr had mentioned that some of the entrances were well disguised. Since the briefing was about to get started, time was an issue here.

  On the one hand, I hoped it would take a while to justify not attending.

  On the other, I hoped this entrance wouldn’t be too hidden or obscured by the years so I could get right in to see where it might lead.

  At first, the locker room door resisted when I pressed against it, but with a little additional effort, it creaked open.

  Cautiously, I went inside.

  34

  Without windows to let in any daylight, I needed my flashlight to see anything at all.

  The faint sound of claws scratching across the floor caught my attention and I flicked the light over just in time to see a sewer rat that looked as thick as my thigh flattening itself into a jagged hole in the wall, its tail whipping behind it like a brownish-gray snake, slithering out of sight.

  As I swept the Maglite to the side, my phone buzzed with an incoming call with Ralph’s A-Team ringtone. In the stillness, the sound startled me so much that I jumped and I was glad no one was here to see.

 
“Got your text earlier,” he said. “I couldn’t get away. What’s up? How’s it going in Motor City?”

  “We had another homicide.” I filled him in while I scrutinized the empty wall where the lockers would’ve been if scrappers hadn’t removed them. As far as I could see, there was no entrance to the bomb shelter. My search here reminded me of scouring the garage for the hidden room at the house in New York yesterday.

  Apparently, looking for secret doorways was my new hobby.

  “Where are you now?” he asked.

  “In the school, trying to find a bomb shelter.”

  “Bomb shelter?”

  “There’s supposed to be one beneath the gym. I think it’s possible the suspect fled through it last night.”

  “Speaking of fleeing, there’s still no word on Blake. But we do know the Russian bioweapons researcher’s name: Dr. Vladislav Kuznetsov. He dropped off the grid about six years ago. Wasn’t really on anyone’s radar screen—ours or the Russians’. They’re still being pretty tight-lipped about what kind of projects he was involved with, but at the time he disappeared he was doing some pioneering work in synthetic biology.”

  “I’ve heard of that, but I’m not sure I know what it is.”

  Only a few of the sinks and urinals were intact. Most had been smashed to pieces. All of their metal fittings were gone.

  “Next frontier after gene splicing,” Ralph told me. “Biotech, genetic engineering. I don’t know how it all works, but you can design new viruses from the ground up. Basically playing God.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No, it does not. Oh, and there weren’t any rope fibers beneath his fingernails. The lab verified it: the petechial hemorrhaging and the bruising on his neck are both consistent with manual rather than ligature strangulation.”

  “I doubt the guy manually strangled himself.”

  “Yeah. That’s always tough to pull off. By the way, I understand you sent in a request for a Monday meeting with Maria Aguirre, that OPR lawyer.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Word gets around. Thing is, she left for vacation nine days ago and no one’s heard from her since, but her passport was used to enter a country in the former Soviet Union: Kazakhstan. And guess how that’s significant?”