Download Murder

by Patrick Logan

  “Elgin Street?” Chase repeated. “Where’s that?”

  Dunbar finally looked up from his computer screen.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but it’s right in the heart of the area that the IP address that posted the wereporn books pinged.”

  Chase’s eyes bulged and she turned to Drake.

  “Go! Go grab this guy and bring him in!”

  Drake nodded, and reached for his own jacket. Then he looked at Stitts.

  “You packing?”

  Stitts nodded.

  “Good. I’ll drive. Yasiv, you follow behind with a couple of uniforms.”

  Chase planted both hands on the table and allowed several deep breaths when it was just her and Dunbar left in the room.

  There was something else bugging her, and it wasn’t just Hanna’s story, or the inconsistencies with the killer’s MO.

  It had something to do with Agent Stitts’s profile. It wasn’t right; they were missing something, something big, and yet she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “Fuck,” she said out loud, and when Dunbar looked over at her, she frowned. “Keep digging, Dunbar. I’ve got a feeling that this isn’t over yet.”

  And then, to herself, she thought, it might not even be over when we arrest Colin Elliot.

  CHAPTER 50

  Drake raced across the city, thoughts of the missing finger bone suddenly pushed to the back of his mind.

  The only thing he was focusing on now was catching their killer, of arresting Colin Elliot before he raped or killed another woman.

  “You and Sergeant Adams go back a ways, don’t you?” Agent Stitts asked from the passenger seat. The question took Drake by surprise, as he had just cleared his mind of thoughts not related to the case.

  “Huh?” he asked, his eyes still on the road. The snow was coming down heavier now, and he had to squint to make sure he stayed on the road.

  “You and Chase. You were partners a while back?”

  Drake nodded, but said nothing. Even though the sample size of their interactions had been small, Agent Stitts came off as an introspective person.

  “And?”

  Drake sighed.

  “And what?”

  His tone dripped with annoyance, but he didn’t go so far as asking the agent to shut up. After all, he knew how badly Chase wanted to be recruited to the FBI, and if he hadn’t squandered that already with his Ivan Meitzer fuck up, then he wasn’t going to tell this guy off now, ruin her chances.

  She deserved better.

  “How is she? Stable? Trust-worthy?”

  Drake resisted the urge to look over at the man.

  Stable?

  “Chase is no-nonsense, doesn’t take shit from anyone, as you saw earlier. Damn fine detective, too. And trust-worthy? Definitely.”

  Silence fell over the car for a few moments, before Agent Stitts spoke again.

  “And there’s no sign of her problem? Of a relapse?”

  This time Drake couldn’t resist the urge. He looked at Stitts, his eyebrows knitted in confusion.

  “Relapse? What are you talking about?”

  Agent Stitts stared back for a moment before answering

  “Let me ask you something, Drake. How much do you really know about Chase Adams?”

  Drake shrugged, his mind still stuck on the word relapse.

  “Well, for instance, did you know that she’s married?”

  Drake said he did, although kept to himself just how long it had taken him to acquire this knowledge.

  “What about her son? Did you know she has a son?”

  Try as he might, Drake couldn’t help but let his surprise show on his face.

  It was response enough.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Drake had enough of this intrusive questioning, and decided to put an end to it.

  “We were partners for one case. That’s it.”

  His thoughts turned to Clay and then to Suzan, and how his ex-partner had intentionally kept the details of the crimes they investigated from her.

  And then there was Jasmine…

  “She kept some things to herself, but so what? That doesn’t make her a bad detective. If you only knew the things we’ve seen…”

  “Oh, I can imagine. And I don’t think she’s a bad detective—on the contrary, I think she’s a fantastic detective. If I didn’t, then I would have taken over the investigation the moment she brought me in. What I’m trying to figure out, is whether or not she’s a good partner.”

  Drake turned back to the road and flicked the wipers to maximum. They were ten, fifteen minutes away from Colin Elliot’s address with the traffic, and it couldn’t come fast enough.

  Detective Yasiv had called ahead, and several uniformed officers were already monitoring the place, the roads in and out, but were waiting until they arrived to move in. There might be another woman with him, and the last thing they wanted to do was to force Colin’s hand, make him do something rash.

  “You’re a chatty guy, huh?” he said.

  “Just doing my due diligence, Drake. I hope you can appreciate that.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow.

  “Due diligence? She’s heading to the FBI?”

  All of a sudden, the Chatty Kathy to his right went silent.

  “Hmm?”

  Stitts took a deep breath and then answered without pretense.

  “We’re considering her for a profiler role, something mid-level. But several red flags have been raised.”

  Relapse, Drake thought.

  “And not all of them have to do with her past,” Stitts continued, as if reading his thoughts. “Of a greater concern is her judge of character.”

  “Judge of character?” Drake repeated harshly. But even before the words were out of his mouth, he regretted saying them. He turned back to the road. “You mean me, don’t you?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Drake saw Agent Stitts nod.

  “The FBI is not like the NYPD. In New York, Chase is surrounded by men in blue, case and point the uniforms waiting at Colin Elliot’s house as we speak. In the FBI, it’s usually just the agent and a partner, but as you can see, we occasionally work alone. And not everyone is as inviting as Sergeant Adams, let me tell you.”

  Stitts’s words hung in the air like a foul stench, and they clung to it even as Drake passed the first squad car marking the entrance to the compound that contained Colin Elliot’s last known address.

  He thought back to how he had tried his best to prevent this very thing from happening, how he had taken all of the blame for the errors made during the investigation of the Butterfly Killer to protect Chase.

  And it was all for naught, it seemed.

  In the end, he had sullied her reputation, despite his efforts.

  “You can’t hold my actions against her,” Drake said softly. “That’s not fair.”

  “Of course not. But I’m wondering what it says about her judgment that she insisted on bringing you on board.”

  Drake pulled the car up to the side of the road and parked it behind two police cars whose lights were off.

  He reached across and popped the glove box. Agent Stitts leaned out of the way as he pulled a pistol out.

  “I thought you said you weren’t armed?” Agent Stitts asked, a hint of concern on his tongue.

  “I wasn’t,” Drake grumbled. He was about to open the door, when Stitts’s voice drew him back.

  “I’ve known people like you, Drake; people who always try to do the right thing, but can never manage to get it right. And I’ll let you in on a secret: things are going to get a lot worse for you and those you love before it gets better.”

  Stitts opened the car door and a blast of cold air filled the interior.

  “If it ever does,” he finished as he stepped out into the cold.

  CHAPTER 51

  After the nurse left Hanna, Chase turned the two-way glass back on and observed the woman.

  She was lying about the rape, of t
hat she was certain, but there were too many coincidences not to think that there was a connection between Colin Elliot and their killer.

  He was a writer, and while Hanna didn’t know his pen name, she had confirmed that he wrote under one. He also lived in the area that the books, the three wereporn novels that the victims had all read and reviewed, had been published, and he fit the physical profile that Agent Stitts had offered.

  The profile that I don’t believe.

  As she watched, Hanna pushed a lock of black hair from her face, then smoothed the front of her t-shirt.

  She wasn’t raped, but there was fear in her eyes. Chase fell short of thinking that this was some sort of ploy by feminists to further out her for her ill-advised comments, and that this was a different animal entirely.

  Is it possible that Colin was their killer and for whatever reason Hanna was someone he had just let go? Maybe they had consensual sex, and he decided that that was it? That that was enough?

  Was it possible for a man who had already killed four women to have a normal-esque relationship with a woman and not slit her throat? To not paint her lips red?

  Her thoughts turned to some of the most infamous serial killers in American history: The Boston Strangler, Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy. They lived normal lives outside of their killing sprees, hadn’t they? And the people who knew them in their everyday lives thought that they were kind, charming individuals.

  So why did she find it so hard to believe that this murderer, that Colin Elliot could be the same?

  Because the profile is wrong, that’s why.

  The radio on her hip crackled and she brought it to her mouth.

  “Sergeant Adams?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’re in position. Just give me the word and we’ll serve the arrest warrant.”

  The quality of the connection was poor, and she couldn’t quite make out if it was Detective Yasiv or Drake speaking.

  “You’re a go. Get this bastard and bring him in,” she said.

  “Affirmative.”

  The radio went silent and Chase checked her watch. It was nearing seven, and dark had already settled over New York City.

  She reached for her phone next, knowing that she only had a few minutes before the next report came in. Before dialing, however, she turned to Dunbar, who was still busy punching away at his keyboard, his tongue pushed into his cheek like a teenager playing video games.

  He probably wouldn’t even hear her if she made the call from within the small room, but she decided not to chance it.

  “I’ve got to make a call. I’ll be right back,” she said.

  Dunbar didn’t even look up.

  Chase went into the hallway, and after looking around briefly and confirming that she was alone, she dialed a number.

  Her husband answered on the first ring.

  “Hello?” he said. He sounded sleepy.

  Chase hesitated. What could she say? What could she say that she hadn’t said already? That she was sorry? That this was the last time she would miss dinner? Miss Felix’s bed time?

  “Hello?” Brad asked again.

  Chase decided that she couldn’t lie to him. Not anymore.

  “Brad, it’s me,” she said.

  Brad sighed, and Chase knew that she didn’t have to say anything; her husband already knew what she was going to say.

  “I’m not going to be home for a while, hon. Not until late again.”

  The only reply was Brad’s labored breathing.

  Don’t let it get the best of you, don’t let it take you over like it did in Seattle, he had said.

  But Chase didn’t know any other way of doing her job. She wasn’t a manager of a supermarket. If she wanted to catch the vilest members of society that tormented New York City day and night, she was going to have to put everything she had into it.

  She had to put as much effort into hunting them that the killers put into honing their craft, of feeding their disease.

  “I’ll tell Felix you send your love,” Brad replied flatly.

  “Thanks, Brad. I’m sorry, I really am. And we’re going to go on vacation. I promise. We’re—”

  But Chase realized that the line was already dead.

  He had hung up on her.

  CHAPTER 52

  Drake leaned up against the wall beside the door, and looked over at Stitts, then to Yasiv and the other officers who stood behind him. He adjusted the grip on his pistol, then nodded at Stitts.

  Stitts nodded back and then stepped in front of the door.

  He knocked three times, hard, then stepped off to one side.

  “FBI! Open the door!”

  Drake counted to five, as they had discussed, and when there was no reply, indicated for Stitts to knock again. The man did, and repeated his order.

  This time, however, they didn’t wait.

  Drake pushed him aside and delivered a strong kick to the door, just beside the handle. The wood splintered, and on the second such blow, the door swung wide.

  Agent Stitts, gun held out in front of him, rushed inside, and Drake followed.

  “FBI!” he yelled.

  “NYPD! Come out with your hands up!” someone behind Drake shouted.

  The entrance was filled with shoes, and Drake had to step over them to avoid stumbling. The interior of the small apartment was dark save an ambient glow coming from a room near the kitchen.

  Stitts cleared the first room, while Drake made his way to the second.

  “Colin Elliot!” he shouted. “Come out with your hands up!”

  A flicker of movement, a shadow in front of the blue light from he realized was a television, caught his eye and Drake strode forward.

  His finger tensed on the trigger when a figure stepped out into the hallway.

  “Dad?” a sleepy voice asked.

  Drake inhaled sharply and lowered his gun. He moved protectively in front of the other officers who streamed into the house behind him, concerned at the prospect of an itchy trigger finger. Then he reached out and grabbed the little girl in his arms, hunching over her protectively.

  “Girl! A little girl!” he yelled.

  The girl yelped in shock and surprise. She tried to pull away, but Drake held fast.

  “It’s okay, we’re the police,” he whispered. He was about to say something else, when another girl, sporting a matching set of flannel pajamas, stepped out of the TV room.

  “Another one! There’s another kid in here!” he bellowed. Still cradling the first girl, he moved across the hallway to the second, wrapping her protectively in his arms with the other.

  His heart was racing in his chest, and his adrenaline surged so greatly that he didn’t notice that both of the girls were scratching and clawing at his arms, trying to free themselves.

  “Detective Yasiv!” he hollered. A second later, the man was at his side.

  “Take them outside! Take them outside, now!”

  Drake finally let go of the girls, and thrust them at Yasiv, who grabbed them much the way he had, and turned back toward the entrance.

  “Clear the rest of the lower level,” Agent Stitts ordered from his right. “Drake, come with me upstairs.”

  Drake nodded and hurried toward the stairs.

  “Colin Elliot! Come out with your hands up!” Stitts yelled.

  When there was no reply, they started up the stairs, side-by-side, each leading with their pistols.

  Drake was breathing heavily when they made it to the landing. Stitts looked over at him, then indicated the first door on their left, which was closed, and then the one on the right. Drake, understanding his meaning, went to the door on his left first and threw it wide.

  The first thing he noticed was a female figure lying on top of the sheets, sporting only a pair of underwear.

  Another victim, he couldn’t help but think. He stepped into the room, and when he did, he realized that there was someone else in the room.

  Someone who was trying to climb out the window.r />
  “Stitts!” he yelled as he leveled his gun at the back of the man’s head. “Get the fuck in here!” and then, to the man, he said. “Colin, if you don’t step out of the window right now, I’m going to repaint your walls red.”

  The man hesitated, and Drake rushed him. He tucked the gun in his belt as he did, and then drove his shoulder into the man’s spine.

  The man’s face cracked against the half open window, sending a spider web of cracks spiraling out from the point of impact.

  Colin grunted, and fell backward.

  The man was larger, much larger, than Drake expected and when he toppled backward, the brunt of the man’s weight fell on top of him.

  The air was forced from Drake’s lungs, and his diaphragm spasmed in protest. Colin tried to struggle to his feet again, but Drake reached out and grabbed a handful of hair.

  Colin yelped, and Drake pulled his face down hard, rolling as he did.

  Still unable to draw a full breath, Drake suddenly found himself on top of the other man, this time pushing his weight down on the man’s chest.

  Colin stared up at him, his eyes wide, blood spilling from a cut just above his right eyebrow. Drake pulled the gun from his belt and pressed the muzzle against the man’s chin.

  “You move again,” he gasped, “and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  Colin fell limp as Agent Stitts ran up beside him. To Drake’s surprise, Stitts shoved him off the shirtless man.

  Rolling onto his back, he stared at the ceiling with the sound of handcuffs ratcheting in his ears.

  “Call Chase,” he managed, finally catching his breath. “Call Chase and tell her that we caught the bastard.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Chase tried to ignore the shouts of the protesters outside 62nd precinct, spouting their pro-victim rhetoric. She wanted to go up to them, to each and every one of the dozen or so people holding signs, and shake them, scream at them that she was only trying to help, that she was just trying to keep them all safe.

  But she did none of the above. Instead, she just watched from the shadows, her breath making puffs of fog, further obscuring her face.

  We got him, Agent Stitts had told her over the radio, We’ve got Colin Elliot in custody. There was a woman with him, but she seems okay. Disoriented and bruised, but alive. EMS is looking at her now, and is going to take her to the hospital when they’re done. There were two kids here, too, Chase, but they’re fine.