“How’s it going with you two?” Grimes asked, jutting his chin at the car, motioning toward the dog.
The question caught Reed off guard for a moment, his mouth dropping and closing before he found his voice. “It’s getting there. We’re both adjusting to working with a new partner, but I think we’ll be alright.”
“How’s her training going?”
Unable to stop himself, Reed let out a smirk. “She’s a pro. The Marines taught her well. The training is more for me, showing me how to properly employ her skills.”
An indecipherable sound rolled out of Grimes as he nodded in agreement.
“Still meeting with the doc?”
This time, the reaction Reed failed to hide was an eye-roll. “Just left there, actually. Scintillating stuff, let me tell you.”
“I bet,” Grimes answered, his face still completely impassive.
“Why do I get the impression these questions are leading somewhere?” Reed asked, keeping his voice clear of any accusation.
“I want you two to handle this,” Grimes said, thrusting the words out, not the slightest bit of hesitation in his tone.
For the second time in as many minutes, a statement took Reed by surprise, his mouth again dropping open. “Captain, I mean...”
“I think it will be good for you,” Grimes pushed on, “both of you.”
He nodded as he spoke, motioning toward Reed and the window in turn. “But more important, that call you just walked in on was from the Chief downtown. She’s pulling two of our detective teams to work a drug case in the Near East Side, and I’m short staffed. You have eyes on the scene, and you’re the only available man I have with detective experience.”
A thousand thoughts, objections, passed through Reed’s mind. He forced his face to remain impassive, knowing there was more coming, waiting for it all to hit before he said a word.
“And like I said,” Grimes added, “I think it will be good for you.”
He didn’t further elaborate on the comment, but he didn’t have to. Reed knew exactly what he was alluding to.
Whether it was all a ruse, a form of baptism by fire to force Reed back into the fray, there was no way of being certain. It was clear from the captain’s tone that it was a directive and not a request, meaning it didn’t really matter either way.
“We’ll have to keep different hours,” he said. “I can’t run an investigation on the graveyard shift.”
Grimes stared across at him, making no effort to hide the fact that he was measuring him. Despite being 34 years old with a dozen years on the force, Reed couldn’t help but feel like a child in the principal’s office as he met the gaze.
“I’ll have some uniforms cover your patrol. You have 72 hours of complete freedom to do whatever is necessary on this.”
“Hmm,” Reed said, his eyes narrowing. “Is there something special about the next three days?”
Leaning back in his chair, Grimes broke the gaze, turning to the window, his fingers still piled across his stomach. “Yeah, right now nobody knows about it. If that scene was really as bad as you say, though, it’s only a matter of time before somebody finds out.”
Chapter Six
The soft, sweet smell of cloves wafted up at the Boat Man as he squeezed a thin line of choji oil along the blade of his sword. For a moment he sat motionless, his eyes fluttering shut, inhaling the scent deeply. He allowed the breath to fill his lungs, lifting his shoulders toward the ceiling, enjoying one brief bit of contentment.
Just as fast, the moment dissipated. The Boat Man opened his eyes and took up the roll of cotton cloth from the floor beside him. Starting at the base of the blade, right where the polished steel and the handle came together, he pulled the cloth down its length. Moving in long, even strokes, he spread the oil over the surface of the blade, the dried blood from the previous night stripping away as he went, staining the cloth pink.
The weapon was known as a ken, a Japanese fighting sword. The Boat Man had carefully selected the piece for two distinct reasons, both lending themselves to his mission.
The first was the length of the blade, coming in right at two shaku, the traditional unit of measurement for such weapons. By modern American standards it was just shy of two feet in length, easy to maneuver and even easier to conceal.
The second was that the blade was straight, unlike most other swords coming from the island nation. Such a design allowed for both edges of the weapon to be honed to a razor’s edge, providing for maximum destruction when wielded by the right person.
The Boat Man was more than such a person.
Traditional Japanese swords were created for a single purpose, to be used on the field of battle. Their blades were never intended to be used to prepare food or chop wood, instead designed for the sole purpose of carving through flesh.
Just 10 hours before, was the first time the weapon or the Boat Man had ever done so, though he couldn’t help but smile at the performance of both.
Ten long strokes on the top side were all it took to wipe the blade clean, the polished steel buffed to a mirrored shine. A thin coat of oil remained behind, gleaming in the overhead light.
Rotating it to the opposite side, the Boat Man balanced the blade across his knees. He squeezed another thin trail of choji oil over it, allowing the aroma to hit him in a second wave as he refolded the cotton material, the dark blotches disappearing from sight.
Again, he began at the handle, moving in slow strokes down the length.
The sword had performed beautifully in its first outing, though his own effort left something to be desired. So fearful had he been of being discovered, his planning had become too meticulous. His prey never knew he was there until it was over, his death coming much too fast.
It was a mistake the Boat Man would not make again.
The goal of his mission was not just the elimination of his targets. The intent was for them to feel the same fear they had inflicted. They must know the horror they once inspired, looking over their shoulders as they walked the streets, fearful of every sound in the night.
Such was the vow he had made, one that would not go unfulfilled.
Cleaning the weapon took just five minutes, the blade gleaming in the half-light of morning. Staring down, the Boat Man could feel it beckoning him, urging him to continue, letting him know that it, too, was ready for their next test.
Once more the Boat Man closed his eyes and drew in the rich scent, rolling his head back, his face aimed to the ceiling.
With the cleaning of the sword, last night was now behind them.
It was time to prepare for the next one.
Chapter Seven
Billie wasn’t especially fond of being left in the car again, the second time in less than 12 hours. The sound of her whining droned from the backseat as Reed walked away, filling his ears, drawing the stares of a pair of employees standing in front of the Medical Examiner’s office. Between drags on their cigarettes they glanced from Reed to the car, letting the accusations they felt show on their faces without voicing them.
After just a few months, the rules on when, and if, Reed should leave Billie in the car were still a bit blurry. While nowhere near as imposing as the traditional German Shepherd, she was still a large animal, tipping the scales at 62 pounds, her head coming almost to his waist. An inky black coat lent itself to the appearance of a wolf, matching rows of sharp teeth only adding to the look.
Classified as a police officer, Reed had no doubt that few would protest her presence, though he still was far from wanting to test it.
Besides, the odds of something lurking in the bowels of the ME’s office that would need her assistance weren’t that good.
Less than four hours after lying down, Reed had remained flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, his fingers laced behind his head. There was no way of telling how much sleep he had managed over the course of the morning, though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, his mind working too fast to allow his body to
shut down.
Just before noon he gave up on the notion, tossing the covers aside and stomping through his house into the living room. In short order he went straight to the back door and opened it wide, brisk air pouring into the kitchen, covering his body in goose pimples.
“We roll in 15.”
The words were no more than past his lips when Billie shot past him, a flash of black, bolting from her bed beneath the dining room table and out into the backyard.
At that point Reed had hoped that the time outside would give her the chance to burn away a bit of excess energy, preparing her for the day ahead.
The sounds being muttered behind him now proved how naïve that hope had been.
The pair of employees, both middle aged women with bright lipstick and too-tight blouses, continued to watch him as he trudged past, offering a small nod as he went.
“Doesn’t like being left in the car,” Reed said, adding a half-smile for effect.
“Who does?” the woman on the left asked, her mouth twisted up, a look of disdain on her face.
Ignoring any further attempt at conversation, Reed walked on past them.
The Franklinton office of the Franklin County Coroner was a recent addition to the government ledger, a satellite division of the main site downtown. Built as a direct response to the escalating rates of violent deaths in the city in recent years, it was one of three outposts that had popped up since the turn of the century.
A far cry from what Reed expected the first time he pulled up in front, the place was constructed of steel and glass, resembling a health club more than a coroner’s office. Standing two stories high, it had a fountain spraying recycled water in a fan before it, an even hedge lining the front walk.
The ground underfoot changed from concrete to white tile as Reed stepped inside and walked across the atrium to find a young woman seated behind a desk. A bank of elevators stood off to the left, and a small cafeteria behind her seemed to be serving most of the staff.
Government spending at its finest.
“Good afternoon,” the young woman said as Reed approached, a half-eaten salad on the desk, an iPad beside it with a television show Reed couldn’t place, frozen on the screen.
“Afternoon,” Reed said, reminding himself that it wasn’t still morning, no matter how early it felt. Sliding a hand through his half-zipped hoodie, he pulled his badge out and said, “Detective Reed Mattox, 8th Precinct. We sent a body over here this morning from The Bottoms, Captain Grimes was told it would be fast tracked first thing today.”
“Let me check,” the young woman replied, turning her chair to face the computer on the corner of her desk, the glow of the monitor reflected off her glasses. She scrunched up her face, the sound of her clicking with the mouse audible over the dull throb of dining room chatter nearby.
“Yes,” she replied, shifting her body to him, but keeping her face aimed at the screen. “That was handled by Dr. Solomon downstairs. Would you like me to call her up?”
It was only third time Reed had ever been in the new coroner’s office, both times having dealt with a miserable old man named Wilbern. Never before had he encountered Solomon, but she had to be a welcome change.
“Just let her know I’m on my way down?” Reed asked, phrasing it as a question, but already drifting to the elevator.
“Certainly,” she replied, a big smile lighting her face. She reached for the phone in front of her as the gap between them widened, adding, “Room 016,” just as Reed stepped into the elevator.
Thirty seconds later he was in the basement, the scene before him much closer to what he expected from government operations. Gone were the bright lights and open spaces, replaced by black tile and fluorescent bulbs. The smell of formaldehyde hung heavy in the air as he walked, a chill in the air as he counted off door numbers.
Halfway down the hall he found his destination, stopping outside a wooden door with the top half in wired glass. On it was stenciledDr. Patricia Solomon, Medical Examiner, the dark letters distinct against the window shade pulled down behind it.
More light peeked out from the edges of the shade, the only sign of life on an otherwise deserted floor.
Curling his hand into a fist, Reed knocked three times, the door rattling against its frame, the combined sounds echoing like gunfire through the hall.
On instinct Reed felt a small kick in the pit of his stomach, glancing in either direction. His hand slid to his waist, touching at the base of his weapon, as a voice called from within, “Open!”
Reed stepped inside to find a closet-size office, most of the free space filled with white paper boxes. Each one was labeled with a name and date in blue marker, stacked from floor to ceiling. Wedged in tight between their towering columns was a small metal desk, a serial number tag visible on the front edge. On the table was an aging computer that resembled something Reed had used as a school child.
“Dr. Solomon?” Reed asked, moving a step forward and sticking his hand out.
Across from him a woman in her mid- to late-40s stood, the top of her red curls stopping just below Reed’s chin. A pair of glasses hung from a string around her neck, resting atop a thick wool sweater. She was chewing as she stood, meeting his shake with one hand, covering her mouth with the other.
“Sorry,” she began, her voice muffled through the bite of half-eaten food. “You caught me between cases.”
“No, I apologize,” Reed said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She finished the bite with a heavy swallow. “Please, call me Patricia.”
“Okay, Patricia,” Reed said, releasing her hand and stepping back. “I’m Detective Reed Mattox. Captain Grimes called ahead this morning and said I would be by sometime this afternoon to speak with you folks about the homicide that came in last night.”
A look somewhere between sorrow and repulsion passed over Solomon’s face as she stepped past Reed and slid a pair of case files from the only other chair in the room, stacking them on the edge of her desk.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning to it as she sat down. At her elbow on the desk, was a half-eaten Subway sandwich, the scent of mustard finding its way to Reed, reminding him that despite living with a canine garbage disposal, he was now going on 14 hours without eating a thing.
“I’m guessing by the look on your face you know which case I’m referring to,” Reed said, leaving his voice free of inflection, not wanting to affect her report in any way.
Again, the look passed over her features. “Yes,” she replied, “as much for the fact that we don’t often get rush requests as for what it turned out to be.”
For the previous 10 hours, Reed had been unable to shake the image of what he found the night before. In his years he had seen a few murders that surpassed its grisly nature, but the number could easily be counted on a single hand.
The reaction of the patrol officers who first found it wasn’t without merit.
“Yeah, when I arrived last night, it resembled something from a bad horror movie,” Reed said, a stab at professional collegiality.
What it had actually resembled was a snapshot from Hell itself.
“I can’t even imagine,” Solomon replied, reaching to the edge of her desk and sliding the top file to her. She pulled it over onto her lap and flipped it open, a few typed pages and some pictures visible as Reed glanced down at it.
Pausing just a moment, Solomon raised her glasses and slid them onto the end of her nose.
“High level overview,” she said, her voice taking on a detached tone, “COD: Stab wound to the chest. TOD: Approximately 1:00 a.m.”
Reed aimed his gaze at the file on Solomon’s lap, his eyes blurring over as he listened to what she said, superimposing it onto his memories from the night before.
“Stab wound to the chest,” he muttered, his voice just barely audible, letting the information sink in. “So it wasn’t the slash across his abdomen?”
“No,” Solomon said, shaking her head. “The laceratio
n to his torso and the removal of his right arm both occurred before death, but were not the cause.”
Once more the image of the previous night flashed into Reed’s mind, the ground painted with the victim’s blood. “Any defensive wounds?”
“Nothing,” Solomon said, twisting her head. “Low levels of adrenaline in the bloodstream seem to indicate the attack was by surprise, the victim never had time to react.”
Reed’s head bobbed up and down as he chewed on the information, adding it to what he already knew. “That, or he was familiar with his killer, didn’t have reason to be alarmed.”
“Possible,” Solomon said, raising her eyebrows in concession. “The excessive mutilation would indicate a personal connection.”
The words, excessive mutilation, were the same ones Reed would choose to describe the scene. It seemed to indicate that the goal wasn’t robbery, or even death, but to make a statement.
“Any ideas on murder weapon?” Reed asked, blinking himself into focus, his attention still aimed at the folder on Solomon’s lap.
Flipping the top page on her report, Solomon read aloud. “All three wounds seem to have been made by the same weapon, a large, extremely sharp blade with a maximum of a quarter inch thickness.”
A low, shrill whistle slid out of Reed, though he refrained from speaking.
“Also, each of the wounds looked to be made at a downward angle, indicating the attacker was taller than the victim.”
Lowering the sheet back into place, Solomon closed the file and extended it to Reed.
“Anything else?” he asked, accepting it, though not bothering to open it.
“Yes,” Solomon said, dropping the glasses back from her nose, letting them bounce against the front of her sweater. “All three wounds were single slashes, clean cuts that showed no sign of remorse or hesitation.
“Whoever attacked this man wanted him dead.”
The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 3
