Splintered

by SJD Peterson

  “Agent Hutchinson, Doc Fisher would like to have a word with you.”

  Hutch turned and nodded his acknowledgment to Knutson. When he turned back to the crowd, the kid was gone. He stood staring at the empty spot for a long moment, trying to recall where he’d seen the young man before, but the connection eluded him. Setting aside the puzzle for now, Hutch turned once again from the crowd and joined Knutson and an elderly man dressed in blue scrubs, who he assumed was Fisher, near the coroner’s van.

  “Dr. Fisher?” Hutch asked and held out his hand in greeting.

  “Agent Hutchinson,” he responded by way of acknowledgment and shook Hutch’s hand. “I understand you’ve had a chance to inspect the body. Will you need more time, or can I have it moved to the morgue?”

  Hutch cringed when Fisher referred to the victim as it. It was proof he was losing his edge. Goddammit, man, get your shit together. Hutch repeated his mantra. It is just another body. No name and no family. This is just a job. “Yes, but can I ask you a couple of questions before you go?”

  “Sure,” Fisher responded and then turned to Knutson. “Let them know they can bag the body for transport, would you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Knutson said with a nod.

  As soon as the officer walked away, Fisher asked, “What can I do for ya?”

  “This victim has many of the same wounds as my last victim, but they look… I don’t know, different.”

  “Are you referring to the Jefferson County cases?” Hutch nodded. “I haven’t viewed any reports, mind you, but considering that body was dumped in a rural area, it’s quite possible the difference you’re seeing is in the decomposition, or possible animal and or insect activity.”

  “No, they concluded the body was discovered shortly after it was dumped, and I didn’t see anything that would have indicated an animal had gotten hold of it. It’s the cuts and burns—they look almost too clean, like maybe our perp washed the body?”

  “It’s possible, or perhaps they were inflicted postmortem,” Fisher surmised.

  “That wouldn’t make any sense,” Hutch concluded. “My guy gets off on making his victims suffer.”

  “Either way, I won’t know until I’ve done a full examination. Was there anything else?”

  “Do you mind if I sit in on the autopsy?”

  “Not at all. I have another examination to complete tonight but say 6:00 a.m.?”

  “I’ll be there,” Hutch assured him and shook Fisher’s hand again. “Thank you for your time.”

  Hutch bit his lip and scowled, concentrating hard as he took in the scene around him. Nothing about this crime scene made sense. Where the previous victims had been found in remote areas, this one was in a relatively public place. While the prior bodies had been dumped haphazardly, this one was positioned in a morbid way to shock those discovering him as well as the investigators. The wounds were also different, yet the same. The same five-point ligature marks and evidence of torture and mutilation were there, but the major difference was, for the first time, the wounds had either been washed or inflicted after death.

  “It makes no fucking sense,” Hutch muttered in frustration as he continued to scan the area.

  “Excuse me?” A tech looked up at him questioningly.

  “Nothing, keep up the good work,” Hutch said distractedly and made his way out of the area.

  As he walked back to his car, he lit up, pulled his cell from his coat pocket, and then dialed Byte.

  Byte answered on the first ring. “Hey, Hutch, what’s up?”

  “What do you know about staging and posing bodies?” Hutch asked.

  “Well, it’s very rare. Only about 1.3 percent are left in unusual positions, with 0.3 percent being posed and even less than that for staged victims. Umm…. In all the known cases, the victims and offenders are white and on average have been older. Oh, and the victims are predominately female. Why?”

  “Because I have a young black male staged and posed.”

  “Holy shit!” Byte yelled into the phone, forcing Hutch to pull it back from his ear. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “No, I’m not kidding you.”

  “You think it’s our guy?”

  Hutch slid into his car and shut the door. “Everything about this scene is wrong. I suppose it’s possible we have a copycat killer,” Hutch said dubiously.

  “I know that tone,” Byte commented. “You do think it’s our guy, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I do, and I think he’s sending us a message.”

  “Which is?” Byte queried

  “Or rather a thank you.”

  “What?” Byte asked, sounding incredulous.

  “He knows we’re here, and I believe this latest victim was his way of thanking the bureau for sending in some worthy adversaries.”

  “That’s just fucking great. It means he will more than likely change the game. Test our intellect and investigative skills,” Byte scoffed.

  “Bingo.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Byte grumbled. “So we going to play?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Game on, motherfucker!” Byte hooted.

  Hutch rolled down his window and flicked the butt of his cigarette out and then fired up the car. He had no intention of playing this guy’s deadly game; Hutch’s sole purpose was to end it.

  Chapter 6

  DR. FISHER’S examination confirmed the most recent victim—Mike Disson, twenty-two—had died of manual strangulation. The cigarette burns, cuts, and genitalia mutilation had been inflicted postmortem. There was still the slight chance Mike Disson was the victim of a copycat killer, but Hutch was sure it was their guy. He’d foregone the ritual, rushed the kill in order to send his message. A rookie investigator would surely see it as a change in modus operandi, believing the killer was taunting them, would follow the breadcrumb trail, possibly give up conventional routes of investigation, but Hutch wasn’t a rookie. He knew it for what it was: a thank-you rather than a taunt. Their guy would be returning to his original MO now.

  Hutch ignored the most recent crime scene photos, and scanned the previous seventeen cases for the tenth time in the last few days. No evidence. Not a single fiber. It’s there, Hutch, focus. But what the hell was there? He stared at the photos, not really seeing them as his vision blurred and the facts of the cases started rolling through his mind.

  Focus.

  Then, without warning, it hit him square in the chest, nearly stealing his breath. “Motherfucker,” he snarled. “Martin wasn’t this bastard’s first victim.”

  “Huh?” Byte sounded confused as he lifted his head and stared at Hutch like he’d lost his mind.

  “Why the hell didn’t you pick up on this? You’re the fucking data god,” Hutch accused angrily and threw the file haphazardly on the bed. He stalked toward Byte and stood over him menacingly, glaring down at him. “Martin couldn’t have been his first victim. It’s too clean, too organized, and you missed it.”

  Byte narrowed his eyes and visibly tensed. “Back the fuck up, Hutch.” Byte slowly set his laptop aside without taking his eyes from Hutch and rose to his full six foot four height. Now Byte was the one looking pretty menacing as he growled, “I put in the fucking data you gave me, so if something got missed, you better start sniffing your own ass for the answer as to why.”

  He held Byte’s gaze for a moment longer before angrily stomping away. Byte was right, Hutch only had himself to blame. He’d messed up, and it wasn’t sitting too well with him. He grabbed a glass from the bar, poured a couple fingers of bourbon, and downed it in one gulp. He stood clutching the glass, taking a few deep breaths as the liquid burned all the way down to his churning gut. It took a moment, but once he had better control on his anger—Jesus, this was becoming all too familiar—he turned back to Byte. A deep scowl contorted the normally attractive features of Byte’s face.

  “What?” Hutch finally asked when Byte continued to stand there and stare at him without saying a word.

&
nbsp; Byte rolled his eyes. “How’d it smell?” he asked before returning to his chair and laptop.

  “It smelled like shit,” Hutch admitted grudgingly. “Happy?”

  “Uh-huh.” Byte started tapping at the keys rapidly. “You’re still an asshole. And for your information, I already tapped into ViCAP. Just waiting for the reports. We should have a complete list of similar crimes within a few hours.”

  Hutch set the glass down on the bar and headed back to straighten up the file he’d strewn across the bed. “Will you still love me if I apologize?”

  Byte’s only response was a disgusted snort as his hands continued to fly across the keys, but Hutch knew he was forgiven and he went back to his files.

  An hour later the only thing Hutch had for his troubles was a pounding head and sore back. He stood and stretched his arms up over his head. His back protested loudly with a series of cracks and pops. He rolled his head and shoulders, adding to the orchestra his body was playing, and walked to the map taped to the wall again.

  “I want to see the dumps,” he suddenly blurted.

  “We have photos of them all. Just dig for them.” Byte muttered.

  “No. I need to see them for real. I need to walk where this fucker walked. Stand where he stood.” Hutch grabbed his cell phone from his hip and flipped it open.

  “Want me to come with?” Byte offered.

  “Nah, keep digging. See what you can come up with on possible earlier vics and the twelve-week timeline. I’m calling Granite to have him ride along.”

  Granite answered on the first ring. “What’s up, boss?”

  Hutch ignored Granite’s attempt at humor; he didn’t feel like playing the game today. Granite knew Hutch hated to be called boss. “Where are you?”

  “At the field office, why?”

  “I’ll be there in ten. I want to check out as many of the dump sites as I can tonight.”

  An exasperated sigh came through the phone before Granite said, “Can’t we do this tomorrow? I’m hungry and my ass hurts from sitting in a cheap plastic chair all afternoon.”

  “I need to see them at night. You can eat on the way.” Hutch didn’t wait for a response. He clicked off and returned the phone to his belt.

  He’d seen the sites in photographs, but he needed to see them the way the killer had, to stand there under the cover of darkness and try to get inside a deranged mind. Hutch grimaced at the thought as he grabbed his keys and headed out to pick up Granite.

  Hutch pulled up in front of the field office and watched Granite push through the doors. As he headed toward the car, Granite shrugged into a long black trench coat over a T-shirt that depicted some sicko’s idea of a bloodbath. More chains and straps hung from his pants than an entire harnessed team of Clydesdales pulling the Budweiser wagon.

  “You ever think I might have been doing something important when you interrupted me?” Granite grumbled as he eased into the passenger seat and reached for his seat belt.

  “Then you wouldn’t be waiting for me, so stop your bitching.” Hutch slowly ran his gaze over Granite’s body, then back up to his eyes. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

  Granite looked down at himself like he didn’t have clue. “Umm… clothes?”

  Hutch snorted, put the car in gear, and pulled away from the curb. “We may have to readjust your salary. Move you up to shopping for clothes at Walmart instead of Goodwill?”

  “Fuck you,” Granite huffed.

  “You wish.”

  Granite turned his head and stared at Hutch. Out of the corner of his eye, Hutch noticed Granite’s face was expressionless, but he smelled the smoke wafting through the car that emitted from Granite’s ears as he undoubtedly searched for the best possible comeback.

  One and two and….

  “You know it.” Granite’s voice took on a deeper tone when he added, “Gonna fill you like a suburbanite fills a Goodwill dumpster after a yard sale.”

  Hutch chuckled as he navigated the streets of Chicago heading for the ’burbs. “I can’t even come up with a response to that. Nice.” He held out his fist, and Granite bumped it with a smug grin on his face.

  They pulled off the road near the ravine that Jared Martin—the first known victim—had been discarded in. Like all the other victims, except for the latest one, he’d been thrown to the ground without any kind of care to how he landed. Once dead, he was like yesterday’s garbage, dumped without worth or another thought.

  Granite didn’t follow Hutch as he made his way to the exact spot Martin had been found. Instead, Granite leaned against the car with notebook in hand. Granite would take his own notes of the area but knew enough to give Hutch a minute alone at the scene. Hutch considered the area with a critical eye. There was nothing special about it, a wide open field with scattered trees and brush visible beneath the nearly full moon. It was doubtful it had changed much in the past three years. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he tried to think beyond his own definitions of right and wrong.

  It’s isolated. I live close by. I’ve been here before. Don’t want to take a chance on getting lost with my prize. It’s deserted. The grass has grown up in the ruts of the makeshift road. No one comes here often. It’s a perfect place to leave my toy.

  Hutch let the thoughts flow through him as he tried to get a mental picture of the man speaking to him in his head, but he always stood in shadow, never revealed too much about himself or showed his face. Hutch recalled from the notes that there had been no tire marks left, no other types of indentations suggesting he’d used a cart or any means to bring the body here except brute strength. The shadowy figure morphed into a larger man.

  A glint of light off the smooth steel blade sliced through delicate skin. Metal shackles that immobilized straining limbs clanked. Anguished screams as fire met flesh echoed off the walls, took it in, relished in the sweet symphony.

  As the images and sounds of torture and mutilation played out in Hutch’s mind, the edge of his lip curled into a sneer as exhilaration raced along his nerve endings. Blood. Pain. Screams. Power. Lust. His body heated, pulse racing as arousal surged through him, hardening his cock. Hutch stumbled back with a loud gasp as the intensity caused his body to spasm violently.

  Strong arms snaked out and caught him around the waist before he could land on his ass, steadying him. “I got ya,” Granite murmured against Hutch’s ear as he was pulled tightly against Granite’s chest.

  Hutch gasped harshly, trying to get air into his constricted lungs. His mouth watered and he swallowed several times as he fought to keep down the rising bile from spewing out. Hutch let Granite support his trembling weight as he worked to slow down his breathing and calm his rapidly beating heart. He hated this part of the job. But his uncanny ability to get into the mind of a killer was a necessary evil and part of what made his arrest record so stellar. Still, it scared the living shit out of him. The way his body reacted to the images of carnage and death disgusted him.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? He was no longer sure if he was experiencing what the killer was feeling or his own reactions to the images, the lines having become blurred. Was it possible that on some level, he had the same penchant for suffering and murder? Was he just as sick as the bastard he was hunting?

  Hutch pushed the disturbing thoughts down and locked them up tight. He didn’t dare look at them too deeply, question them, afraid of what the answer would be. He straightened and pulled away from Granite.

  “I’m… I’m good,” he assured Granite as he threaded his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair.

  Granite watched him carefully, worry and confusion evident in his tight features. He knew Hutch well enough, had witnessed his strangeness enough times not to push him at the moment. But Hutch knew they’d be talking about it later. At least by then, hopefully he’d have his shit under control and could tell Granite the same thing he always did. “Imagining how they die always gets to me.” Granite was smart enough to hear the lie for what it was, but
he never demanded more. Hiding this dark, ugly part of himself was the only way Hutch could look anyone in the eye every day. Eventually, though, he knew the truth would come out. What then? Would he find himself with a one-way ticket to the asylum for the criminally insane before he could become what he sought?

  Agent Hutchinson, you are one fucked-up man. “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” he muttered under his breath as he stomped back to the car.

  BY THE time they had viewed the third dump site, Granite had had enough. If the dark circles under Hutch’s haunted eyes weren’t enough, the fact that the man looked like he was about to shake apart was a dead giveaway. He was convinced that, even as crazy as it sounded, Hutch could see and feel things the killer was experiencing. It was uncanny how Hutch could read a scene from just a few shreds of evidence, remarkable even. Hutch was simply that good at tracking killers. Granite however, suspected Hutch thought there was more to it, yet refused to talk about it. Every day a killer was on the loose, Hutch blamed himself. No matter how many times Granite disputed it, bragged about how amazingly talented he was, Hutch couldn’t take a compliment. He was always pushing himself harder, to learn more, do more, until he was beyond exhausted, and then he pushed further.

  Granite carefully laid a hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “Let’s head back to the hotel.”

  Hutch jumped at the contact but was quiet for a long moment. He stared out across the field where Edward Thompson had been discarded, deep in thought. Finally he shook his head. “No, I want to see the Ramirez site next.”

  “No,” Granite muttered, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “We’re going back to the hotel to have a drink and discuss what we know so far.”

  Hutch shrugged off his hand and turned to glare at Granite. “Eighteen dead men don’t have the luxury of having a drink and discussing a fucking thing. The least I can do is to keep working until I find this son of a bitch.”