“I guess that means our 72-hour window is gone?”
Grimes left Reed standing with Billie, moving on to make a statement, without answering the question.
He didn’t have to.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The smell of wood pulp and dye filled Reed’s nostrils as he walked through the factory. Beside him, the enormous lines used for producing boxes stood silent, resembling extras from a Transformers movie set, all steel and rollers assembled in odd patterns. The place had an almost eerie vibe to it as he walked, following the directions the officer at the front door had given him.
Reed imagined it was the first time in ages that the place had been so quiet, the buzz of overhead lights replacing the usual cacophony of heavy machinery running.
Flood lights poured from the opening separating the main floor from the warehouse in the back, beckoning him forward. In the distance he could see silhouettes moving back and forth, a larger crowd having already gathered than at the previous two scenes combined.
The warehouse stretched almost 80 yards in length and half that in width, though all of the activity within was concentrated into a 20-foot square in the middle of the space. Around it were the uniforms, a perimeter already established. Within the yellow police tape were three crime scene techs, each clothed in white paper suits.
Somebody had been quick to bring in the forensic experts, no doubt the same person who had called Grimes. Any hope Reed had of trying to figure this out before it went out over the airwaves was gone, a classic case of trickle down law enforcement.
The media had leaned on the brass, who would now be leaning on him.
Opting against joining the circus going on nearby just yet, Reed switched out the leads on Billie’s collar, attaching the end of the longer one to his waist. He left one hand gripped tight on the nylon cord for extra support and said, “Search.”
The order seemed to come as a welcome surprise to the Belgian, her body jumping from a low-energy state into a poised crouch, her nose dropping to the floor.
Given the surface she was working with, Reed hadn’t expected it to take long for a confirmation. Even without having seen the victim yet, he knew his killer had been there.
Just the same, he wanted Billie to verify it.
His canine unit trainer had said that while she would never lose a scent once she had encountered it, the more it could be reinforced, the better. It took just over three minutes for Billie to hit something familiar, her entire posture changing the moment it met her muzzle. Her pose switched from searching to tracking, leaning forward, tugging Reed along with her.
Toenails tapped against the floor as she moved in a serpentine pattern up the back of the room, winding her way through stacks of paper. Several of the officers standing by turned and openly stared as she moved past the scene without ever glancing over, her entire focus on the trail left on the floor.
At the far end of the room, she led Reed in a sweeping loop that brought them back to the center of the warehouse. The trail popped in and out of every tight nook in the room before moving on, Billie never slowing her pace as she followed it.
“He was casing the place,” Reed said, staring up at the towers of paper waiting to be processed. From each corner he looked out over the room, checking the view it afforded, the angle of approaching foot traffic.
The trail took 10 minutes to follow, the killer having made a loop and a half over the space before settling down to wait. A significant amount of time must have passed as the scent appeared strong there, Billie taking a long time to decipher the pattern.
Once she did, she started toward the crime scene, pulling with urgency.
“Sit,” Reed said, cutting her off halfway there, extra bass in his voice for emphasis. The sound of it drew stares from all seven people, Billie coming to a halt and lowering her backside by his feet.
“Good girl,” Reed said, reaching down and rubbing her ears, ignoring most of the stares.
He walked to the closest officer and nodded, Billie remaining on her haunches behind him, the long lead pulling taught. “Officer Greene.”
“Detective,” Greene replied, glancing at him and back to Billie, his arms folded across his chest.
“What have we got so far?” Reed asked, finally seeing the crime scene for the first time.
Standing silent 15 feet away was a forklift, the tongues on the front having been swapped out for a pair of elongated paddles. Reed guessed from the size and shape, they were used for clamping and moving the rolls stacked nearby.
On the floor beside it was the victim, first appearances seeming to fit exactly with the established MO.
The man looked to be in his early 30s, dressed in jeans and what had once been a grey t-shirt, judging by the sleeves. A pair of work boots covered his feet, their toes aimed at the ceiling.
Across his torso were three wicked slashes, almost a complete disembowelment as rolls of intestine spilled out, resting on the t-shirt. On his chest was a single puncture wound, a deep gouge that painted his entire upper quadrant in blood.
As with Mentor, his right arm was severed mid-forearm, though the left one appeared to be intact.
“Victim’s name is Mason Durell, friends call him Mace. He operates a roll truck here.”
“Same shift every night?” Reed asked.
“No,” Greene said, adding a shake of his head. “Warehouse foreman said the whole place runs on a swing shift, week on each of the three, rotating through.”
Reed nodded, glancing down at Billie. The information fit with what she had just found, the killer having to do some reconnaissance on the spot, unable to survey the place for days on end.
“Who found him?” Reed asked.
“This time of night, there’s only a single driver on,” Greene said, reciting the information from memory. “He was found by a janitor pushing an industrial vacuum through the place.”
That brought a scowl to Reed’s face, the realization that evidence could have been sucked up without even knowing it. “What time was that?”
“Discovery was made less than an hour ago, though it’s unclear exactly how long he’d been like this before being found.”
Another look around the place confirmed that. At this time of day, the likelihood of there being anybody passing by would be slim. The perpetrator had likely known that, accommodating for it in planning both the murder and the getaway.
“Any cameras?”
“Just out front, on the mechanical stuff,” Greene said. “Used for quality control, that kind of thing.”
It, too, was in line with what Reed was expecting, though the news did nothing to soften the scowl on his face.
“Let me guess, nobody saw anything unusual?” Reed asked, letting a bit of sarcasm seep into his voice.
If it had been heard, there was no acknowledgement from Greene, his face remaining impassive. “Some uniforms from the 16th have everybody who was on shift up front in the cafeteria. They’re sifting through them now, trying to see if anything useful can be gleaned.”
Instinctively, Reed turned and glanced over his shoulder, nothing visible but stacks of paper.
Without cameras, he didn’t expect a lot of information to come out one way or another. There was no doubt the killer had been inside, having gained entry without drawing attention at some point, before making his way to the warehouse and committing the crime.
Taking a step back, Reed again shifted his focus over the room, his gaze settling on the row of railroad cars along the back wall. He took in the stripes of rubber on the floor and the pattern they seemed to lay out, covering every part of the room, always ending along the far wall, metal ramps leading up to the freight cars.
A thought occurred to him, sparking in the back of his mind, his hand tugging on the lead, drawing Billie to her feet.
“Excuse us, Officer.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Reed led Billie to the exit at the back of the building. A moment later the light from within was extinguished
, cool night air washing over his skin as they descended a concrete ramp to the ground below.
“Search.”
On cue, Billie once more dropped down into a crouch, canvassing the concrete ramp, using her nose to guide her back and forth over the area.
It wasn’t until he had seen the layout of the crime scene that Reed had thought much about the exit strategy. Up until then, he had been focused on the point of entry and the act itself, hoping that the killer might have made a mistake, left some trail to follow.
Once it appeared that that was not the case, he shifted to the aftermath, trying to determine how the man might have gotten away.
As best he could tell, there existed only two ways in and out of the factory. The first was back out through the front entrance, which would have required him to walk back the length of the building without drawing suspicion.
Given the amount of blood present, the odds of him not having at least some on him weren’t good.
That left the other option, which was to disappear out through the loading dock.
Three minutes after being given the order, Billie came across the scent, the same jolt of electricity flashing through her, propelling them both forward. Reed gave her more length on the lead, allowing her to increase her pace, the trail strong in her nose.
Deep within Reed felt the same sense of excitement, hopeful that they might be on to something.
The path cut across the concrete expanse at the back of the building in a diagonal pattern, linking up with the railroad tracks running straight away and passing through the fence encircling the property. It followed the steel rails for over 200 yards before cutting to the left, just at the point where the tracks began to curve toward the river.
Reed knew from years in the area that the line would link up with the major railway running alongside the Olentangy River, the waterway cutting through the middle of the city.
Leaving the evenly spaced ties of the tracks behind, Billie led him through thick weeds, the footing rocky as he stumbled to keep up. Chunks of concrete and garbage did little to faze Billie as she went, her pace never once wavering.
Any bit of hope Reed had felt, fell away as Billie pressed on, continuing to loop away from the tracks. Out to the side he could see the lights from the cruisers and camera crews rising into the sky, hear the din of voices carrying through the night.
The path was taking them back to the parking lot.
The killer had parked right out front, walked in the building, killed Mason Durell, and then walked back to his car and drove away.
Reed fought the urge to swear as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. A moment later it was answered, the voice low, the sound of muffled voices in the background.
“Gilchrist.”
“Officer, this is Reed Mattox. How long are you guys on here tonight?”
There was no delay as Gilchrist processed who was calling him, no questions about the seemingly odd request. “We’re on until seven. Judging by this zoo out front, maybe even longer.”
The path they were on leveled out, drawing parallel with the building and continuing in a straight line. Billie continued to move fast through the low-level brush, every step confirming Reed’s theory.
“I might be able to help get you away from that for a while,” Reed said. “This time of year, dawn should hit around 6:00. As soon as it does, can you check the loading dock out back, follow the railroad tracks until they turn, then loop around to the front through the weeds?
“My partner and I are walking it now, you should be able to see the path pretty clear.”
“Okay,” Gilchrist replied, just the slightest hint of confusion in his voice. “And what am I looking for? You think the killer just walked out?”
Toward the back of the parking lot their path veered again, this time headed for the corner of the blacktop currently half full of automobiles.
“No,” Reed said, shaking his head from side to side, “I know he did.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It took every bit of self-control the Boat Man possessed not to fly over the counter at the small Japanese man standing across from him. One frame at a time, he let the scenario play out in his mind, watching as he vaulted the glass case separating them in a single bound and drove the man’s skull into it.
The man had done nothing to the Boat Man, it was only the second time he had ever seen him. The problem was that he needed some place, anyplace, to aim his anger, the source of it now balanced across the case between them.
Resting on a pale green cloth was the ken sword the Boat Man had purchased over a year before. The handle of it was wrapped tight and completely clean, the blade polished to a mirrored shine, the sheen of oil catching tiny bits of overhead light.
Three-quarters down the length of the blade, a v-shaped notch was missing from the razor’s edge, a single hairline fracture running away from it. Compared to the rest of the weapon, it was an ugly blemish, the only mar on a perfect creation.
The damage had occurred as the Boat Man went to remove the right arm from his most recent victim. The man was already gone, his arm propped up for removal. At the moment just before dismemberment, the body had convulsed, a final spastic tic of a dying nervous system.
The move had caught the Boat Man by surprise, throwing off his aim, missing his target and driving the end of his blade into the forklift. The sound of breaking metal had entered his ears just a moment before his own cry of despair, the sound resonating as he finished the job, before disappearing into the night.
“How did this happen?” the man asked, his height rising no more than half a foot above the counter. His grey hair was still thick and his eyes clear, defying the sagging skin on his features.
“My dog,” the Boat Man said, reciting the story he’d concocted that morning. “He ran into the table it was resting on and knocked it from its stand.”
The man nodded once, looking again down at the sword. “I can’t imagine a wooden floor would take a notch this large out of such a blade. What did it hit?”
Again, the overwhelming urge to grab the man by the nape of his neck and smash his forehead into the glass came to mind, but the Boat Man shoved it down, forcing in long breaths.
“It caught the corner of the fireplace,” he replied. “The blade was no match for stone.”
A flicker of something behind the old man’s eyes told the Boat Man he knew he was being lied to, but to his credit he chose not to press it.
Doing so would have led to a most unfortunate situation.
“I can pay you,” the Boat Man said, throwing the statement out there before any more questions could be asked. “Whatever it takes to make it like new.”
The old man once more looked up at him, arching an eyebrow.
“It has extreme sentimental value to me.”
At that the old man nodded, seeming to, for the first time, believe what he was being told. He returned his attention downward and slid his hands beneath the blade, lifting it as carefully as a parent holding a newborn. Raising it to eye level, he rotated it under the light, examining it from every angle.
“Normally, I would suggest getting a new sword,” the old man said, pushing on, seeming to ignore the Boat Man as he opened his mouth, about to offer rebuttal. “But since I can see you are quite attached to this ken, I might be able to repair it for you.”
“Oh, thank you,” the Boat Man said, a heavy sigh passing from him.
“It will take some time though,” the old man said. “I have a few in front of you, and will need to obtain some things before I can work on a blade such as this.”
The Boat Man felt his jaw drop open as he heard the words. In his mind he could picture the wall at his home, the three red X’s already scrawled out, the others yet to come.
The entire plan depended on speed and precision. There was no time for him to wait.
“Please, I can pay you whatever it takes to get it back home fast.”
The old man seemed
to sense the desperation coming across the counter, one eyebrow again rising. “Money isn’t the issue. I told you, this is very special steel. I’ll have to obtain a few things.”
Heat rushed to the Boat Man’s cheeks, a veneer of sweat coating his feature. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, his heart rate rising more now than it had eight hours before.
“Please, it is very important.”
A long moment passed as the old man stared unblinking back at him before nodding, returning the blade to the cloth. “Tomorrow afternoon. That’s the best I can do.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
For the second time in as many days, Reed met Gilchrist outside the interrogation room of the precinct. Unlike their previous encounter, the look of enthusiasm was gone from the young man’s face, replaced by deep-rooted exhaustion.
There was no need to comment on it, Reed quite certain his own looked much the same. Both were used to working the overnight shift, though what they were now encountering was enough to wear down anybody.
Instead, he decided to get on with it, looking through the glass at the large man seated behind the table. He was African-American, though his skin tone was light, like he might be of mixed race. His head was shaved clean, and a couple days of growth outlined his jaw.
Dressed in work clothes, he sat with his hands resting on the table, one knee bobbing up and down at a frenetic pace.
“Looks nervous.”
“Just anxious,” Gilchrist said, weariness present in his tone. “Must have mentioned five times on the way in that he was usually the one to get his kids on the school bus.”
“We think he was involved at all?” Reed asked.
“No,” Gilchrist replied. “Name is Hank Winters, sheet’s completely clean. Been at the factory 15 years, married, two children.”
Reed nodded, not expecting to come across anything that easy. So far, the guy they were chasing had been very careful, to the point of paranoia.
Partnering with somebody didn’t seem to fit.
“Were you able to get out behind the factory this morning?” Reed asked, having spent the time since at his desk, scouring through the case files he had, trying to jot down as much as he could before the third one joined the mix.
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