by Diana Kirk
Another was a young female, slashed mercilessly until the skin of her face and neck resembled dripping red fringe. Until recently, Omaha homicides had been the simple by-products of child molestation, family disturbances, rape, or gang-related felonies. Lately, however, there'd been a rash of bizarre killings involving male sexual mutilation.
"Krastowitcz," Captain Dunnally called to him from his office. "You've got to come up with something on that so-called hit and run. I need that report on my desk. I'm getting heat from the Chief because we can't produce. Some guy's head is all over the highway and we've got nothing. I don't understand it. Not even so much as car paint on the body. It's almost too clean."
Krastowitcz leaned his head against the door frame. "Listen, Cap, you've got to give me some time to get it together." He strolled in, grabbed the Excedrin bottle on Dunnally's desk and carefully doled out four tablets. "Now, there's this call over at Dorlynd."
"I know what you're going through, but things haven't changed. This ain't no Sunday social and I've got the same order from the Chief. As soon as you get back from Dorlynd, follow up anything you can come up with. We need to I.D. that body fast." Dunnally glanced at him almost sympathetically, but his words remained harsh. "And don't try that headache routine on me, Krastowitcz, I've got a big one of my own."
"Tough shit!" Krastowitcz walked out the door, tossed the tablets over his tongue, and gulped a bitter swallow of cold coffee. On the Omaha Police Department for a life sentence, he'd joined the force at twenty-one after kicking around Omaha working odd jobs for three years. Slowly, he'd worked his way up from jail guard to rookie patrolman and, ultimately, homicide investigator where he was content to stay for eternity. No one would call him ambitious, but they'd all agree he was fiercely loyal to his profession and honest to a fault.
He did everything in moderation. His ego couldn't tolerate embarrassment. He was an enigma, a truly honest cop. He had a fierce temper and Herculean libido, although the AIDS scare kept him relatively celibate.
Forty, he'd married only once, but his perfectionist ways had finally taken their toll and his wife, Ramona, had left him. Not only did he have to deal with a backlog of investigations, but Ramona took all the credit cards, including some he hadn't even known about, and had charged them to the limit. Now, he had a shitload of debt to unravel. If only he hadn't been so preoccupied with work. Hell, at this point, all he could do was see it never happened again. Staying away from relationships was the only way, and that's exactly what he planned to do.
"Come on, darlin'. They can't wait forever." The day-Sergeant's jibe broke his thoughts. "The body might decompose by the time you haul your carcass over there."
"Okay, okay, on my way." Krastowitcz shook his head to clear it and hurried to the garage. What kind of mess waited at Dorlynd? He fondled his Smith & Wesson semiautomatic, snugly nestled in his shoulder holster. These constant interruptions only got him more behind in his already burdensome paperwork. Being one of only two homicide investigators didn't help. The city just didn't have enough cops, and this crap always happened to him. The Police Department was too small to sustain more detectives on a regular basis. So, two of them took care of assaults, threats, robberies, and anything else unsolved. Homicide in this territory wasn't exactly high volume, but when murder did happen, the pressure was on, like now, from the higher-ups to "clean `em up fast."
Driving into the white-hot glare of the morning sunlight, Krastowitcz watched the Omaha humidity slam against the windshield in small droplets of condensation. He flipped the air conditioner to high, creating a foggy haze he scraped from the glass by hand. Using Dodge Street, the main roadway, his drive from Central to Dorlynd Medical Center took only four minutes.
Nestled on the banks of the Missouri River, the hospital was an impressive, cream-colored concrete structure dominating the hill on the west-end of the Dorlynd University campus. Large picture-windows studded the building front. Toward dusk, when the sun hit the windows just right, Dorlynd looked transparent, as if totally made of glass. Everyone in Omaha called it DMC. He turned onto the street that cut in front of the hospital. The closer he got, the larger it seemed with its twelve stories overshadowing the smaller Dorlynd buildings. On the prairie, a twelve-story building was a high-rise.
Krastowitcz stopped his `84 Charger in front of the Faculty Clinic Building. He smiled at two guards hurrying forward, waving their arms in an attempt to move his vehicle ahead. Rent-a-dummies, Krastowitcz sneered silently. Basic butt-wipes of the trade.
Recognizing him as a superior, they stopped abruptly, their raised arms conspicuously frozen in mid-air. This better not take too long. Hopefully, some rich doctor really had gone ten-seven. Permanent-like.
That would be unusual at the Medical Center. Mostly the Dorlynd dentists did themselves in. The suicide rate for dentists was particularly high--even in Omaha. Of course, that was understandable. He chuckled to himself. Who really liked dentists, anyway? Even hard-core cops couldn't handle that type of constant rejection.
"Sorry Officer Krasto--" the young guard stammered. "Didn't recognize your unmarked.
"No problem, Tom." Krastowitcz smiled.
He walked into the Faculty Building, noticing the new gray and mauve velvet chairs and highly polished oak tables in the visitor's waiting area. Beautiful, but within six months they'd be antiques. Names and epithets would soon be carved into the expensive oak tables and the darkened velvet matted with filth. This wasn't a posh West Omaha hospital, no matter how hard they tried to give that impression. Dorlynd served the poor, who not only went there for health care, but usually hung out in the lobby trying to stay warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Unattended rag-tag children ran the halls. Although no one publicly admitted it, fact was, other Omaha hospitals wouldn't touch the poor. They were immediately transported to Dorlynd.
Krastowitcz checked his note pad. Fifth floor, Medicine Department, Chairman's Office. He entered the crowded elevator and pushed five. The aroma of stale sweat, tobacco, gin--or was it whiskey?--and onions wafted up surrounding his face, almost smothering him. The door opened, and he pushed his way through the crowded elevator to the fifth floor lobby and fresher air. He followed the large painted arrow pointing the way and entered a set of glass doors marked "Administrative Offices." In the corner, clusters of women huddled together, tearfully whispering to each other. A large, saltwater aquarium in the center of the waiting area, bubbled with blue and yellow clown-fish. Running his hand over the stuffed chairs, he realized the covering was beige leather.
Wow! Real leather. Evidently the dregs of life hadn't made it this far.
Another Dorlynd security guard directed traffic.
Several uniformed police officers circled around Sergeant Sam "Trent" Trenton, his best friend and uniformed field investigator, already on the scene. A shock of black, curly hair hooded Trenton's dark eyes. Tiny creases gathered at the corners, suggesting a smile, a smirk, a royal smart-ass waiting for an opportunity to jibe.
The entire area had been roped off. Krastowitcz entered the inner office and Trenton pulled him aside.
"You're not going to believe this shit. When I got here, I found a woman, covered with goop, huddled in the corner of the room staring off into space. She's the Chief Resident," he flipped a page of his notebook. "Dr. Andrea Pearson."
"Yeah? What else?"
"Found her boss draped over the toilet, managed to literally swim in his shit and knock him on top of her. Wait'll you see in the bathroom. You won't believe it."
"You, my dear WOP friend are just like your father--always exaggerating."
They walked side by side. Sam Trenton was a second generation Omaha police officer. His full-blooded Italian mother had fallen instantly for his father. A New York police officer, he'd reluctantly removed to Omaha narrowly escaping a Mafia grudge just because he wouldn't go along with the take. Sam Senior, had been tall, blond, and powerful and Nina Sutera was no match for the street-wise cop who usually got his
wish.
Sam, Junior, favored his mother's dark coloring. The only resemblance Sam bore to his Irish father was his height. At six-foot five the younger man was one of the tallest officers in Omaha. Krastowitcz held the record. In their rookie days, they were often assigned the more difficult cases--the ones nobody wanted, the criminally insane, hostages, or hyped-up druggers.
He and Krastowitcz stalked past the crowded outer office into a small inner room. "Trent, has the area been kept clear?"
"Shit," Trenton said. "You can see everyone's footprints in the blood. Everyone around here, except the perp's. We don't have much to go on. Not a fresh print. Nothin'. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."
"Again." Krastowitcz continued through the adjoining door-way and entered a much larger office. The familiar odor of decomposing flesh and old shit greeted him. It never failed to remind of his rookie days when he'd been the first officer to answer a missing elderly person call, or people not heard from for weeks. Entering these homes had been a horror of smells and sights. Bodies, bloated and melting into the surroundings, were welcome receptacles for flies attempting the procreation of their young. Those new-born maggots wriggled in the eyes and ears of the deceased. Once, a family feline had avoided starvation by dining on its master. Krastowitcz never forgot the smell or the sight. He'd carry both to his grave.
His foot caught on a pile of medical journals and he scanned the room. The cluttered desk seemed alive with swirling papers in the vacuum his movements disturbed. "What a mess!"
Instinctively, he stooped to pick up the debris before entering the bathroom. The victim, bare-skinned and facing the door, was curled in what resembled a fetal position. On closer inspection, Krastowitcz noticed the wrists. They were bound in back by what looked like fine wire lightly embedded in the flesh. Sight-less eyes stared at him in glazed horror. Krastowitcz made a mental note to check the wire. From the amount of smeared blood on the floor, either the victim was alive after his wrists were bound, or the entire Dorlynd staff had strolled through it. His money was on the former theory, although, why would the victim let someone bind his hands without resisting? Even if a gun was used, from the looks of this mess, he should've fought back. Yet, there was no physical sign of a struggle.
Krastowitcz carefully lifted the blood-stained lab coat on the toilet seat.
"Thrown over the deceased's body," Trenton said.
"How do you know?"
"The witness told me."
"Witness?" Krastowitcz noticed the protrusion from the corpse's mouth. An instinctual pain shuddered through him. Sexual revenge?
"What do you think, Gary? Revenge of the killer faggots?"
Krastowitcz smiled, shrugging his shoulders. "Can't readily determine the cause of death without the coroner. This guy must've bled out. But why?"
On closer examination, it looked like a metal object protruded from the rectal area. Bile slid up his throat and he swallowed hard.
"Whew! The guy had to have been alive when that thing was rammed in, or else he wouldn't have bled so much. What do you think, Trent?"
"Whatever you say, boss, this one's your call. You guys are the almighty homicide dicks."
"Yeah, and you're just a dick. So? Got any recommendations for us poor dumb investigators?"
Trenton smiled at his friend and headed toward the door. "Oh, no. You ain't baitin' me with that one. I'm just a lowly field investigator, remember? First officer and all that crap. I'm no fancy Regional. This collar'll belong to you."
"More like a noose, than a collar," Krastowitcz muttered. "Jeez, Sarge. I'm mighty lucky you gave it to me. Thanks!" Krastowitcz called to the other officers, "Why isn't the medical examiner here? Where the hell's the Crime Lab? From the smell of things, I need to get this body to the morgue, so we can have an autopsy!"
"You asking me?" Trenton answered back. "You know I always handle this stuff before you Super Cops get here."
"Okay, okay, let's not get testy, Sergeant." Krastowitcz waved him off. "This is a big one and there can't be any mistakes. The Captain's on my butt as it is. Where's the witness?"
"In one of the outer offices. Boy, she's a mess. I didn't want her to clean up until you got here, so you could see her, and she's havin' a fit. Smells like that shit in there," he said, pointing toward the bathroom. "It wouldn't hurt to talk to her right away so she can go home."
"Since when do you care about witnesses?"
"Since I saw the body, you big dope."
Slowly Krastowitcz turned to the other officer. That's all he needed, another typically hysterical female. Damn! Nothing about this job ever got easier. He pulled in a deep breath and turned the door knob.
He couldn't wait to talk to this one.
Chapter II
. . . TO RECKON HIM WHO TAUGHT ME THIS ART. . .
Andrea tried to hold herself together physically and emotionally. Milton Grafton was dead. But why? Who would want to kill him?
She stared blankly at the police milling around, murmuring, pointing, reassuring. . . Had it only been six hours since her nightmare?
So much blood. . . Death surrounded her, invading her dreams, her head, her life--
"Doctor Pearson? Doctor Andrea Pearson?"
She shook herself into the present. Everything looked as if it were underwater: shimmering, unclear, surrealistic. She blinked the room into view. A lone tear slid down her cheek. "No! This isn't right. I tried--I tried--"
"Doctor Pearson?"
"I--I, yes?" Andrea wiped the corner of her eye with her fingers.
"I'm Sergeant Krastowitcz and," the tall man pointed to the door, "that's Sergeant Trenton. This shouldn't take too long. We'll get you on your way as soon as possible. We want to ask you a few questions. Do you think you can handle that for us?" He leaned down. "Hey! You okay?"
"Got to clean up." She rubbed her hands over her skirt.
"I understand." He walked toward her. "Please. We really need you to talk to us. Do you think you can?" She looked into his cold, dark eyes. He didn't care, not really. She could tell.
"What time did you discover the body?"
"This morning, a--after eight, I--I think . . ." She breathed like a jogger finishing the last mile in a marathon. "Please. I--I'm an asthmatic. I'm having trouble. My albuteral inhaler. . . It's in my office."
"Sure." Krastowitcz motioned toward the other officer. "Trent, get the lady's inhaler, will you?"
"In the top drawer of my desk. I'll show you."
"No. I'll find it." Trenton strode toward her office.
She and the hulking interrogator waited in silence for his return. High-pitched wheezing from Andrea's lungs rattled through the stale air. Krastowitcz didn't blink, didn't take his eyes off her for a second. He made her want to reach up and slap him.
"Here's your inhaler." Trenton hurried into the room and handed her the small container. She nodded and sucked two quick puffs deeply into her lungs, then held her breath.
"Thanks, buddy." Krastowitcz turned his cold eyes toward Andrea. "You say you found Grafton around eight this morning?"
"Yes," she gasped between puffs of Albuterol. "I think. I had junior orientation this morning." Andrea remembered the morning, the dream, and the asthma attack. "The day just didn't seem right."
"And you came here, first?"
She nodded.
"Why?"
"It's my office. I'm the Chief Medical Resident for Internal Medicine here at Dorlynd. I also am--was--one of Dr. Grafton's research fellows. We shared the office. I'm responsible for the medical care of his patients. The ones with communicable diseases like AIDS. . . " She drifted off, staring at the inhaler in her hands.
"What's junior orientation?"
"Getting the new third year medical students accustomed to their surroundings here at Dorlynd. This morning, there were thirty-five starting their medicine rotation." She stopped abruptly. "My God, the juniors--what happened to them?"
"I don't know," Krastowitcz replied. "No one said
anything about students around. Did they Trent?" Krastowitcz looked at the other officer who shrugged his shoulders.
"Someone's got to take care of them." Andrea rose from her chair.
Krastowitcz placed his hand on her shoulder and applied gentle pressure. "Just a few more questions, Dr. Pearson. Please, sit. I'll have Sergeant Trenton find out what happened to them." He motioned for Trent who nodded and left the room. "How long have you been at DMC?"
"Eight years. Four of medical school, three of residency, and this last year, I've been Chief Resident." She glanced up at him. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Look, I've got to get as much information as I can, okay? Please, just answer the questions. Did you notice anything unusual when you arrived?"
"N--No. I don't think so. Only. . . his bathroom door was shut." Andrea shuddered. "I--I--when I opened it, he was there, over the. . . I slipped." She trembled openly. Tears pooled in her eyes, and softly trickled out.
"What was so important about the bathroom door?"
"It was closed. He never shut it--I don't know what I'll do." Andrea covered her face with her hands.
Krastowitcz waited a few minutes and began again. "Was the body in the same position as it is now?"
Trenton's entrance interrupted Andrea's shuddering. "The students have been taken care of," he said.
"How?" Andrea asked.
"A Dr. Stuetter was talking to them about their duties. He told me to tell you everything was fine."
"Fine, indeed."
"The body?" Krastowitcz began again. "Was it in the same position?"
A helpless, sinking sensation filled Andrea. Didn't he have any compassion? "No--over the toilet--I fell--pulled him on top of me. I looked him right in the eyes." Andrea covered her face again. "Please, can I go now? This whole thing is. . . I'm feeling a little sick." The bigger hulk looked like a seasoned police officer. He'd probably investigated everything from suicides to hatchet murders during his career. He was probably thinking what a big baby she was, especially for a physician. But doctors were human, too, dammit. They were entitled to moments of weakness, of helplessness. Did cops ever cry? Hell, he probably didn't. The thought angered her. She straightened her shoulders and glared up at him.
