Download Murder

by Patrick Logan

  Chase breathed more deeply, realizing what Drake was trying to do. He wanted to make a human shield around the body until CSU got here.

  She hurried after Drake, moving close to the body as he instructed. At least a half dozen police officers did the same, with Drake barking orders to complete the circle. When they were done, it wasn’t a perfect cover, but it was better than having the woman’s naked body exposed for anyone with a cell phone to snap a photo.

  They stood in silence as the shouts continued to bombard them.

  “Women are not to blame! The victims are not to blame! Women are not to blame!”

  Chase hung her head low, her cheeks flushed despite the temperature.

  This was her doing.

  And it was all wrong.

  There was something wrong with the profile, something that didn’t feel right. Agent Stitts had told her to use her instincts, her gut, and this was as strong a reaction that she had experienced in years.

  “Find this guy, Drake,” she said suddenly, aware that all the officers were looking at her, but not caring. Chase looked up, staring her ex-partner directly in the face. “Let’s catch this bastard.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Colin hurried into his home, slamming the door behind him. He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding. He felt his entire body awash with guilt.

  “Dad? You okay?”

  Colin opened his eyes to see Colby standing there, her eyes wide.

  He offered her a fake smile.

  “Fine, honey. Where’s your sister?”

  “In here!” Juliette hollered from the other room. Colin leaned to one side, peering beyond Colby.

  The TV was on, which meant that Ryanne wasn’t home. Part of him was glad, while the other half started to become furious.

  “You guys okay? Where’d your mother go?”

  Juliette shrugged and then turned back to the TV room, eventually plopping herself down on the floor beside her sister.

  “Dunno. She just left.”

  Colin shook his head. Something had to be done about her. Leaving two seven-year old’s alone to fend for themselves?

  He looked down at his hands, the fingers tensed in the gloves. They were still shaking.

  “I’m going to take a shower, okay guys? Then I’ll make you some dinner.”

  He removed his gloves and patted his girls on the head, one after the other.

  They didn’t look up.

  On the way to the shower, he tossed the gloves in the garbage.

  His mind was racing and it wasn’t until he was fully undressed that he realized he had cut himself. Holding his hand up to the light, he stared at the two-inch-long gash that ran from between his first and second knuckles to the middle of his palm.

  “How the hell did this happen?” he muttered. “I was careful… so careful.”

  His heart skipped a beat, and he rinsed the blood away. He breathed more deeply when he realized that although the cut was long, it wasn’t very deep.

  Colin stepped into the hot shower, allowing the water to cascade over him. His thoughts went to Ryanne, of seeing her in the bed, her breasts sagging beneath the t-shirt, the landlord behind her, pulling up his underwear.

  In our bed—She slept with him in our bed.

  Out of spite, he tried to conjure images of the girl with the piercings, of her pale ass as he bent her over the desk, but every time he did, it continued to transform into Ryanne. Ryanne looking back at him, smiling, laughing, a cigarette dangling from her lips, but never falling.

  “Come on, big boy, come on Glenn, pump me harder!”

  Colin started to cry.

  What have I done? What in god’s name have I done?

  Everything he had done was designed to make him feel better, to give him some semblance of control. But it hadn’t worked.

  And he hated himself for it.

  Colin got out of the shower and quickly toweled himself off. He did so with his eyes closed, too ashamed to even glance in the mirror.

  The clothes that he had been wearing were damp from the snow, and the knees of his track pants were dirty with mud. He found a plastic bag beneath the sink and shoved them inside, then he tied it up.

  Throwing on a fresh track suit, he made his way back downstairs, trying, and once again failing, to put on a happy face.

  He settled for a neutral expression.

  “Colby, Juliette, what would you like for dinner?”

  No answer.

  Colin sighed heavily.

  “Girls? Dinner? What would you like?”

  Still nothing.

  “I’m going to make green peppers and Brussel sprouts if you don’t answer me!”

  This finally got a response.

  “Pizza!” Juliette shouted.

  “Burgers!” Colby followed.

  “How about pasta?” Colin replied.

  He took their silence as acceptance and started to fill a pot of water with water. After adding a pinch of salt and setting the burner on high, he bent down and searched the cupboard for a box of pasta.

  Not immediately noticing one, he pushed several half-open cereal boxes to one side before eventually found a bag of spaghetti. It was already open, and when he went to pull it out, the noodles slid onto the floor.

  “Shit,” he grumbled and started to pick them up, trying not to break the individual strands.

  A loud bang from behind him caused him to jump to his feet, and he spun around.

  Ryanne was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his computer bag sitting in the center of the counter. Her face was red, her hair wet, and her boots were covered in a layer of snow.

  “Ryanne? What’s wrong?” he said quietly.

  Does she know? Is that why she—

  “I fixed your fucking computer,” she spat.

  Colin felt relief wash over him, but a bleep from the cartoons in the other room reminded him that the girls were within earshot.

  “Ryanne, keep it down—”

  Ryanne’s eyes bulged.

  “Keep it down? Fucking keep it down?” she snapped, stepping forward. “I had to walk for three miles in the snow because some asshole slashed Glenn’s tires, and all you can tell me to do is keep it down?”

  She was within two feet of him now, and Colin couldn’t help but glance over at a steak knife in the drying rack.

  How easy would it be? To grab a knife and…

  “It’s just that the girls are in the other room, they might—”

  Ryanne’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  “They might be what? They might figure out that their father is a no-good hack? Can’t even provide for their family because he thinks he can write fucking books?”

  Colin felt his cheeks redden and he slid closer to the rack.

  “I don’t want to fight, anymore, Ryanne.”

  She ignored him and strode forward.

  “That you make your goddamn wife walk in the snow because you can’t get a real job and get me a fucking car?”

  Ryanne was right up in his face now, and he could see that her lipstick was smudged, that her hair was a mess.

  “That you whored me out so that I could fix your piece of shit computer?”

  Red flashed across Colin’s vision. Without thinking, he lashed out.

  His fist cracked against the side of Ryanne’s jaw, sending her staggering backward.

  “I didn’t make you do it!” he screamed. His voice was so shrill that he didn’t even recognize it as his own. “I didn’t make you do anything! You did this! You did this!”

  Colin moved toward her and as he did, Ryanne fell to the ground, her hand reaching up to rub her jaw where he had hit her.

  “You’ll be sorry,” she said, her eyes blazing. “You’re going to be so fucking sorry you did that.”

  “Fuck you!” he screamed, his hands balling into fists. Any rational thought had fled him. He raised his right hand high above his head, intending to bring it crashin
g down, not on her jaw this time, but on the smeared lips that had so obviously been wrapped around the landlord’s cock less than an hour ago.

  But a split-second before he struck her again, a small voice from his left drew his attention.

  “Daddy? What are you doing daddy?”

  It was Juliette. She was standing with her hands at her sides, her eyes wide. Colby was beside her, a matching expression on her face. They looked so young then, half of their seven years, if that, like baby chicks looking to their mother for sustenance.

  And they were terrified.

  Colin gasped and lowered his hand.

  “What have I done?” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  He grabbed his computer bag from the counter and ran toward the entrance. Even when Ryanne shouted after him, he didn’t look back.

  “You’re going to fucking pay for this! Colin, you’re going to pay!”

  CHAPTER 43

  Chase’s best guess had been three hours.

  She was wrong: photographs of the body were online in under an hour. To make things worse, there were several of her in the shot, sprinting toward the body that hung nude in the distance. In the photo, her face was almost unrecognizable.

  Old.

  “Shit,” she grumbled, forcing herself to turn off her computer monitor.

  Another body, another book.

  Chase picked up the phone and dialed down to records.

  “Dunbar? Tell me you managed to narrow down the search for the author? For R.S. Germaine?”

  Dunbar hesitated before answering, and Chase felt her stomach drop.

  “No. Nothing yet. But we have another problem.”

  Chase frowned.

  “What?”

  “The book—Red Smile? It’s rising up the ranks. Jumped up to sub 8k in the last hour.”

  Chase closed her eyes.

  “What does that mean, Dunbar? Speak English.”

  “It means that it’s starting to move. People are buying it.”

  Chase’s eyes snapped open.

  This was turning out to be the worst day ever. Starting with the goddamn debacle of a press conference. Before she could reply, there was a heavy knock on her office door.

  “Hold on a sec,” she told Dunbar as she stood and made her way toward it.

  When she opened it, she felt her heart sink all the way to the pit of her stomach.

  Less than two months ago, Officers Lincoln and Herd from Internal Affairs had come for Sergeant Rhodes. Today, they were here for her.

  FINAL ACT

  ~

  CHAPTER 44

  IMAGES OF THE YOUNG WOMAN hanging from the goalpost, her throat slashed, filled Drake’s mind as he drove back to Triple D.

  All to the soundtrack of shouting protesters…

  Despite Chase’s warning, Drake had gone ahead and watched the Sergeant’s press conference after all.

  And he had cringed the entire time.

  How could she say that? What the hell was going through her mind?

  He knew that Chase meant well, but her phrasing had been… off. Insensitive, callous, even. The worst part was that it hadn’t sounded like her at all. Truthfully, even to Drake who was about as sensitive to political correctness as a rounded stone, it did sound as if she were blaming the victims.

  Snow was falling heavily again, and Drake flicked the windshield wipers on high.

  When he had been Chase’s partner, she had addressed the media several times. And each time, she had been authoritative and showed a level of composure that had impressed him. But that had been with Rhodes watching on, his beady eyes staring at her as much as the crowd. He had been her support mechanism, as much as it pained Drake to say so, and it was apparent that she needed one.

  Like Drake, it was beginning to become clear that she was better off behind the scenes instead of in front of the camera lens.

  Pulling his Crown Vic into the parking lot, Drake parked but left the car running, and the heater on, as he checked his phone.

  There were two missed calls, one from Screech and one from an unlisted number. Neither had left a message, and yet he had a sneaking suspicion that the second call was from Raul.

  It was almost as if he could smell the creepy bastard through the phone line.

  A shudder ran through him, and he turned off the car and opened the door. The cold hit him like an ice water enema, and Drake tucked his chin down low to protect himself from the brunt of the wind. He hurried across the parking lot and yanked the door to Triple D wide.

  “Screech?” he said as he stepped inside. He removed his coat and hat and hung them on the wooden rack beside the door.

  “Right here, boss,” Screech replied from the bathroom.

  Drake sighed. It was like Groundhog Day.

  “You ever leave, Screech? You’re always—”

  The door to the bathroom opened and Screech stepped out. He was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, cargo shorts, and a straw hat.

  Drake gawked.

  This is new…

  “What the hell? Have you lost your mind?”

  Screech laughed.

  “Probably… working with you will do that to anyone,” he moved toward his desk, beside which Drake saw a small suitcase packed and ready to go.

  “No, seriously, where are you going?”

  Screech picked up his bag and slung it over one shoulder.

  “Going on vacation. The weather is shit and your company is as about as much fun as a brooding demon on her rag.”

  Drake blinked. He was caught off guard, and while his initial reaction was to tell him he couldn’t go—they were, in fact, hunting a serial killer—he reminded himself that Screech could do as he pleased.

  He was, after all, half owner of Triple D.

  “Aaaaaand,” Screech continued, clearly noticing Drake’s expression, “I’ve got a Yacht to find. Caught some chatter on the net about a yacht in the Virgin Gorda, one with a very distinctive name. B-yacht’ch.”

  Drake stared for a moment longer. He had told Screech to look after the missing yacht, and if the man got a vacation out of the deal, so what?

  Screech deserved it.

  “Knock yourself out. Bring back some pirate’s booty, would ya?” he said as he made his way toward his office.

  Drake expected Screech to nod, maybe come over and shake hands, and then leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he just stood there, staring at Drake, a queer expression on his face.

  “Honestly? I also wanted to get away before the shit storm rains down diarrhea.”

  Drake stopped mid-step.

  “What?”

  “You haven’t read the news yet, have you? Jesus, man, what was the point of setting up that fancy phone if you—”

  “I’ve been busy working, Screech. What are you talking about?”

  Screech swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “Yeah, well, you know your favorite books? They just made the top ten list.”

  Drake screwed up his face.

  Favorite books?

  “Red Smile,” Screech specified.

  Drake gasped.

  “It looks like your buddy Ivan somehow got wind of the whole deal, wrote all about how Red Smile is based on real murders, on an active investigation.”

  Drake’s heart migrated from the pit of his stomach to his throat. He actually retched.

  “Wh-what?”

  Screech shrugged.

  “Some asshole leaked the news, apparently. And now the books are selling like mad. Sick fucks, I tell ya. Sick fucks buying it up like crazy.”

  Drake could hear his blood pounding in his ears like a bass drum line.

  Screech swallowed again, then checked a watch that he wasn’t wearing.

  “Welp, looks like I better go, got a plane to catch.”

  Drake watched the man walk backward towards the door.

  “Good luck, Drake,” he said, and then his partner was gone.

  Drake stood in the main lobby of Triple
D for what felt like an hour.

  An asshole leaked the news to him.

  An image of the dead bodies, first those at the barn, buried in hay, then the poor woman hanging from the goalpost flashed.

  Everyone was reading about them now; their families, their friends. The killer was probably laughing at them all, most of all him and Chase.

  Fury suddenly usurped bewilderment, and Drake reached inside his sport coat pocket. He grabbed the e-reader and pulled it out. Somehow, he must have turned it on, because he found himself staring at the horrible image of the woman with the blood-stained lips.

  Without thinking, Drake hurled the e-reader across the room. It struck the wall behind Screech’s desk and the screen shattered, raining thousands of tiny pieces of glass or plastic or fucking unobtanium or whatever the screen was made of to the floor.

  He cursed loudly, then grit his teeth.

  An asshole leaked the news to Ivan Meitzer. And I’m that asshole.

  Again.

  CHAPTER 45

  “Give me one more day!” Chase pleaded. “Just one more day. I don’t give a shit about the images online or what twitter is saying. I care about the dead women… and the next victim. Because, mark my words, there will be another murder. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already kidnapped someone.”

  Officer Herd stared at her for a moment. He was a short, awkward looking man, with an unusually small space between his nose and upper lip that not even his thick mustache could disguise.

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant Adams, but I’m just doing my job. Assistant Deputy Inspector Roger Albright said that you were to be relieved of your duty,” his dark eyes softened somewhat. “It’s only temporary, until this all blows over.”

  Chase could read between the lines; Rhodes’s suspension was supposed to be temporary, too, but last she heard the bald bastard had become a hermit up Vermont somewhere.

  She shook her head.

  “We’re close, Officer Herd. Really close. Just take a walk, come back later. Tell Roger you couldn’t find me. Anything, just let me solve this case. Please. If we have to start over…” she let her sentence trail off.