Malevolent (Lieutenant Kane series Book 1)

by E. H. Reinhard

  He flicked the photo of the cop with his finger. “Sick and depraved, huh?” He smiled and coughed. “I’ll show you sick and depraved, Lieutenant.”

  Chapter 18

  I sat glued to the monitor with Murphy in our tech department. We had played and replayed, at least ten times, the video footage Hank had brought back from the airport. We had her getting into what looked like a standard Crown Victoria taxi. Like Sarah McMillian, she walked to the taxi stand and waited, got picked up, and drove away.

  We caught a glimpse of our driver in this video. Though he was no bigger than an inch on our forty-some-inch screen, he looked to be the same height as Diane Robins. He looked thin—around a hundred fifty pounds. We added it to our file. We couldn’t pull any car or plate numbers from the footage. I thanked Murphy for staying late and headed back upstairs to my office.

  At my desk, I sat down and grabbed the phone. I wanted to check with Timmons on Kevin O’Hare before I called it a night.

  “Patrol, this is Sergeant Timmons.”

  “Hey, it’s Kane. You get anything on Kevin O’Hare?”

  “We sent a car out to his house. No one home. He works for American Taxi and Limo. We sent a car there, but he has tonight off. The dispatcher said he should be in by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “No sweat. Want me to give you a buzz if we find him before morning?”

  “Please.”

  “No problem.” He hung up.

  I called Hank to tell him what we’d gotten from the video. The phone call was short. My clock read 9:18 p.m. I couldn’t do anything else at the station until morning. If they did bring in Kevin O’Hare overnight, which I doubted, I’d be fine with driving back. My keys in hand, I locked my office door and headed home.

  Butch greeted me with his normal foot thrashing as he tried to escape. Corraling him and shoving him back inside the condo took a minute. I doubted he’d know what to do if he got out. Everything from my pockets was tossed on the kitchen table. A quick rummage through the refrigerator netted no results other than a beer. I decided to grab something to eat on the way in to the station in the morning. I went into the living room and flopped onto the couch. Butch came and sat on my leg. I clicked the TV on to a movie I had seen a hundred times. The television couldn’t keep my concentration. I stretched out and stared at the ceiling. My mind wouldn’t shut off and allow me to relax. I reviewed the evidence in my head. Ed’s mention of the drug being our best lead kept coming up. I decided it would be the first thing I looked into, come morning.

  The sound of my own snoring woke me a few hours later.

  I pulled myself from the comfort of my couch and sauntered to my bedroom. I set my alarm for six o’clock. As soon as my head hit the pillow, my phone rang.

  I rolled over, took it from the nightstand, and answered.

  “Kane.”

  “Hi, Lieutenant, it’s Sergeant Mueller. Sorry to wake you. Timmons left me a note to call you if we picked up Kevin O’Hare. We just did. He’s at the station now.”

  I pulled the phone from my ear and caught the time: 1:13 a.m. “Be there in twenty minutes.”

  I hung up and rolled myself out of bed. I tossed on what I had worn the previous day and splashed some water across my face. Everything from the kitchen table got jammed back in my pockets. I headed out for my car. I rolled down the windows on the drive over to the station, thinking the night air would help wake me up. It didn’t.

  I pulled into the station and parked. As soon as I walked in, I went straight to the lunchroom to try my luck with the coffee machine. I hit the button for a large and stuck in a cup. The machine whirred and bubbled. The word error flashed on the screen. I cracked my neck from side to side.

  On the counter sat a coffee pot someone else must have brought in. It had just under a cup sitting in the bottom of the carafe. The red light on the side told me it was still hot. I walked over and picked up the carafe to give it a sniff. The coffee was burnt and had probably been sitting on the burner for hours. I poured it into a cup and sprinkled some powdered creamer into it. I hoped it would be better than nothing. As soon as it hit my tongue, I realized it wasn’t. I grabbed a soda and a candy bar from the vending machine.

  I made my way over to patrol and looked for Sergeant Mueller. He was in charge of the guys out working the graveyard shift and was sitting at his desk.

  “Mueller. You have my guy somewhere?”

  “Hey, Lieutenant. We have him in box number two. One of our guys scooped him up on a DUI. Someone called him in. He was using both lanes of the two-way street to get home. Be forewarned, he’s not in the best of moods. Officer Quinlin is in there with him now.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Find me when you’re done. We need to take him over for processing.”

  “Will do.”

  I headed to my office to grab both of the victim’s files and then walked toward the interview rooms. I took a sip of the black swill in my cup. The station didn’t have enough powdered creamer to put a dent in its color.

  I gave the door a knock and entered.

  Officer Quinlin sat on one side of the desk, Kevin O’Hare on the other. O’Hare swayed from side to side in his chair. Alcoholics all seemed to have a look about them. This guy had it. His tan was dark, his clothes dingy. He was thin and stank of cigarettes and beer. A dirty baseball cap sat on his head. Gray stubble covered his cheeks and chin.

  “Kevin O’Hare?” I asked. I set the soda and candy bar in front of him.

  He swatted at them with his hand. “What are you? The good cop?” His voice slurred.

  I gave Officer Quinlin a nod and took a seat.

  He got up and headed for the door. “I’ll be right outside, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks.”

  O’Hare slouched in his seat and stared at Quinlin. “Looks like your boss is here. Better run along, putz.”

  Quinlin smirked and closed the door.

  I was always cordial with my suspects. Some officers at our station still played hard-ass during interviews. I tended to get better results from being civil and just trying to keep the conversation moving forward. That night was different. That guy was drunk and angry. O’Hare’s demeanor toward Quinlin told me that my normal tactics wouldn’t work. I needed to get what I could before he lawyered up or passed out.

  “Okay. Kevin O’Hare. Do you drive a taxi?”

  He let out a puff of air. “Doubt I do anymore. Yeah, good work tonight, guys! Great bust! Real credits to the force!” he shouted at the walls as if the guys who’d brought him in were standing there.

  I checked it off as confirmed on my sheet. “Tell me about your son’s attorney.” I crossed my arms and waited for a response.

  “My son’s attorney? What the hell does that matter?”

  “Stanley and Wallace. Attorney Robins. I understand there were some problems there. You weren’t happy with the representation.”

  He jerked his head back. “Hell no! My boy got twelve years for having a handful of ecstasy. The attorneys didn’t do squat.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t get twelve years for a handful of ecstasy. I heard they offered him a plea deal.”

  “It might have been more than a handful but not much. He wasn’t selling it. He and his stupid friends were sneaking into clubs, going to parties, shit like that and taking it. He’s just a kid. He didn’t have any priors. Why would he take a deal? He should have got off with a slap on the wrist. Instead, they stuck him in prison with a bunch of killers and gangbangers.”

  “So you threatened his attorney?”

  “You know how mad I was? We hired those guys, spent thousands and thousands of dollars to keep him out of jail, and he gets locked up anyway.” He slammed his hands on the table. “For twelve years!”

  “What did you say to Attorney Robins?”

  “I told her that she was a damn thief and someday she would get what was coming to her.”

  �
�Did that day come?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t follow.”

  I scooted my chair closer to him. “Where were you last night?”

  “Work.”

  “Driving a cab?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “We found her body outside her office this morning. I’m going to need more than ‘you were at work.’”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. Check with American’s dispatch. They can tell you every fare I took. When I wasn’t taking a fare, I sat at the station house.”

  “I have to say the fact that you don’t seem to care one bit is a little concerning.”

  “I don’t care. The bitch got my son locked up. Just check my alibi. Call American Taxi.”

  “I’ll be calling them—don’t worry. Do you know someone named Sarah McMillian?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “I’m asking you if you know her.” I pulled her photo from her file and held it up. “Ever pick this woman up?”

  He sat up straight in his chair to take a look.

  As soon as he sat up, I realized I was wasting my time. I didn’t remember what his sheet had listed for a height and weight, but his height in the chair told me he wasn’t the cab driver from the video. O’Hare had to be over six feet. He sat eye level with me, maybe a touch taller.

  “Never seen her before. Look, I’m getting an attorney before I say another word to you. You guys aren’t railroading me into a murder charge.”

  “That’s fine. I would suggest you don’t call Stanley and Wallace.” I stood from the table and walked out.

  Quinlin waited outside the door. I told him I was through and headed for Sergeant Mueller’s desk.

  He stared at me as I walked down the hallway toward him. “All done?” he asked.

  “Lawyered up. I’m through.”

  “Think he’s your guy?”

  “Don’t think so, but I’ll check into his story in the morning. I know where he’ll be if his alibi doesn’t check out. All right, I’m heading home—going to try to catch a few hours of sleep before I’m back here in four and a half hours.”

  Mueller smiled. “Have a good night, Lieutenant.”

  Chapter 19

  The cops were too thick at the Tampa airport for him to make a grab. The police patrols forced him to go elsewhere.

  At 7:15 a.m., he awoke choking on his own blood. The cab sat in the cell-phone lot of the Orlando airport. He coughed and gagged. Air refused to fill his lungs. He rushed from the cab into a portable toilet. The door slammed shut at his back. He leaned over the plastic bowl and heaved. Blood ran from his mouth. A minute passed before he could draw in a breath. His illness threatened to take his life before he could complete his plan.

  No. You’re not finished yet. Get up.

  He wiped the blood from his mouth with a piece of toilet paper and walked back to the cab.

  At 7:42 a.m., a woman waved from the curb at the arrivals section. She was a little younger than the others. He put her in her late twenties. She was thin with short brown hair. The woman bounced up and down, flailing her arms in her blazer and matching skirt. He cut two cars off to get to her. He told her she had a twenty-five-minute ride from the airport to her destination.

  She spent her time in the cab chatting him up. She told him she’d caught the red-eye back from Los Angeles. He learned all about the position she’d just landed as a junior executive for a pharmaceutical company in Thousand Oaks. He smiled and nodded while listening to her ramblings. She apologized for being so excited and telling him all those things he probably didn’t care about. He told her to continue. She said she’d planned to pack up her things and move by the end of the week. Her hard work had paid off.

  He had a solid hour-and-a-half drive back to the house in Brandon. The woman made the trip unconscious in the trunk.

  Chapter 20

  At nine thirty, I’d finished my fifth cup of coffee, trying to combat my lack of sleep. As long as I kept the caffeine flowing, it was holding off the drowsiness somewhat. We gathered the same team we’d had for the previous day’s meeting, plus one, Major Danes. The media splashing the words “serial killer” across the papers didn’t sit well with the higher-ups. He wanted to see where we stood so he could give an update to the chief. The major took up a space next to the door, his arms crossed over his red tie and barrel chest. In his dark pinstriped suit, he looked intimidating if you didn’t know him. Major Danes had a thick white mustache and bald head. I imagined I would look similar in fifteen years. Anybody who knew him, however, realized he was just a cop like the rest of us. He’d worked his way through the ranks and had earned his position. I’d been out to his house for barbecues and gatherings. He was a good cop and, I would almost venture to say, a friend.

  The captain had faxed everything we had on the case over to the feds earlier. The guy they were lending us to help was going to put together a profile and come at ten. I started the meeting by going over the interview I’d had with Kevin O’Hare a few hours earlier. I’d checked out his story as soon as I got in. He had been at the taxi station between fares when the cab picked up Diane Robins, and he was across town at the time Sarah McMillian got into a cab. The guy was another dead end, someone we could cross off the list.

  We went over the autopsy report of Diane Robins next. When everyone was up to speed with where we left off, I addressed Detective Jones.

  “Lingerie? What did you get?” I asked.

  He looked into his notes. “It’s regular department store stuff. Big name brand that’s sold at just about every retail outlet in the area. We’re talking hundreds of stores. That’s not including online sales. Needle in a haystack stuff.”

  I nodded. “What about connecting the two women?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, there’s just nothing there.”

  “Okay, I have something that might be more productive for you.” I printed out a couple copies of the Diane Robins toxicology report. I took one from the stack and handed one to him. “Aside from being injected with Xylazine like Sarah McMillian, Diane Robins was also injected with a drug called Buprenorphine. It’s heavily regulated and normally comes in a pill form. Try to find out where someone would get the injectable stuff.”

  Jones nodded.

  “Timmons, what have your guys got from the airport?”

  “Not much, Lieutenant—a few unregistered cabs that we cited, questioned, and then sent off. Since we talked last night, my guys have collected six tag numbers from cabs that took single females as fares. No one has called in a missing woman, though.”

  “Okay, keep in contact with the guys up in missing persons. If they get a call, cross-check it right away. Can we keep the cars stationed at the airport going for now?”

  “Yeah, I can keep guys there as long as they are getting paid their overtime.”

  Timmons looked at Major Danes. Danes nodded.

  “Good.” I looked at Rick. “Anything from forensics? Did you meet with Ed?”

  “First, we went out to both scenes again yesterday. We canvased a block in each direction. We searched dumpsters. Nothing. Pax did see two red-light cameras while we were in the area of the attorney’s office. One was three blocks away, and the other was six blocks from the scene. We could try to pull those and see if we have a taxi in the area at the time. It’s a shot in the dark but could be something. Someone is going to have to get it signed off on, though.”

  “Give me the time frame, and I’ll get you guys the video,” Major Danes said.

  I nodded. “Thanks, Major. All right, what about the cuts on her hand, Rick? Ed mentioned he wanted your opinion.”

  “He gave me a call last night, and I met him there first thing this morning. He questioned the cuts she had on her right hand and wanted me to take a look. She had a wound that ran horizontally, starting in the webbing between her thumb and index finger. The shape of the laceration was consistent with the blade of a knife slipping back into her hand while she st
abbed something. It’s common with people who are unfamiliar with handling knives in that way. This wound had inflammation around it. Over the top of that wound and to the sides were more cuts. They were smaller in size and depth. There was also no inflammation present around them.”

  “So, postmortem?” I asked.

  Rick nodded. “They could have been made to cover up the original cut. It’s a possibility that our guy has a knife wound.”

  “Can you make a few calls for us, Rick? Local hospitals?” the captain asked.

  “A knife wound would be reported. From him stitching up the woman’s head, we know he had the materials to sew himself up if it did happen. I’ll make some calls either way,” Rick said.

  “Thanks, Rick.”

  Timmons, Rick, and Detective Jones left the room. Captain Bostok, Hank, and I went over the case.

  One of the girls from up front knocked on the sill of the door to let us know our profiler had arrived. The captain went, got him, and brought him back to the meeting room. We had a quick round of introductions. His name was Agent Beck. He wasn’t what I was expecting. All the Feds I’d had come into contact with were interchangeable. They all seem to average six feet, all wore dark suits, and all had short hair with no mustaches or beards.

  Agent Beck was five foot eight and overweight by thirty pounds. He wore a tweed suit from the late seventies or early eighties. His hair was shoulder length and graying. There was at least two weeks’ worth of scruff on his face. He was either exceptional at his position or did a damn good job of avoiding whoever was in charge of FBI appearances. He took a seat and opened a folder he was carrying under his arm.

  “Okay gentlemen, if you don’t mind, let’s get right to it.” He looked up at us and waited.