Cause of Death

by Patrick Logan

  Chase chewed her lip.

  “A disgruntled student, perhaps? Someone who is trying to get away with the perfect murders?”

  Beckett shrugged.

  “Maybe—could be. I dunno. But I can tell you one thing, whoever the killer is, he’s not going to stop until he completes all eight. And even then, I doubt once he has a taste, he’s not going to even stop there.”

  The image of the babies, illustrated by dolls in Dr. Tracey Moorfield’s test prep notes, passed through his mind.

  “We have to catch him before he kills again. Only thing is, we can’t do this by ourselves. We’re going to need help. We’re going to need someone who has experience with serial killers, but someone not involved with the NYPD. Someone who doesn’t mind bending the rules a little. Know anyone who fits that description?”

  Beckett smirked. Even though Chase had asked the question, it was clear that she already knew the answer.

  They both did; there was only one man they knew who fit that mold.

  “Suzan can’t know,” Chase said quietly.

  “No, she definitely can’t find out,” Beckett replied.

  Part III – Suicide

  Chapter 33

  “I assure you, Mrs. Trout, that everything here at Triple D Investigations is done with the utmost discretion. Only myself, my associate, and whomever else you approve will ever see any video recordings from inside your home.”

  Mrs. Trout, a large woman with beady eyes and a nose that continually dripped, smiled, revealing teeth so large that Drake would have bet all of his newly acquired wealth that they were constructed of anything but organic material.

  “I have heard great things about you and your company, Damien,” Mrs. Trout said in a watery voice before sniffing and then wiping her nose with the sleeve of her white sweater. “And it makes me sleep well at night knowing that you are watching over me.”

  Drake’s eye twitched and he debated telling the woman that he wasn’t a private security company, and that he was only using the cameras to look for theft, indecent acts and the like. But when the woman grunted and attempted to rise, he bit his tongue and hurried over to her.

  Sliding the woman’s walker into her thick-knuckled fingers, he said, “Of course. But as with all things in this world, there are no guarantees—other than hard work and discipline, of course.”

  He smiled as he said this, and Mrs. Trout returned the expression, once again revealing her dentures which were clearly fashioned after Mr. Ed. Up close, her breath reeked of Alka Seltzer and sour cream.

  “Thank you, Damien,” she said as he held the door open for her.

  He stopped smiling the moment she was gone and then collapsed into his chair, motor-boating his lips.

  It had been a long morning; after Mrs. Armatridge, he had seen four more of her blue-haired acquaintances, and had spent an ungodly amount of time assuring them of… well, anything that required assurances. And this approach had taken him to unusual places, places that he would have never even fathomed exploring as a detective.

  But it also meant four more meaty checks. He had made more money in the past three days than he had in two years as a Detective in the NYPD.

  Was it Screech or Alyssa who had asked him if he missed?

  Both, I think.

  The answer was becoming more obfuscated with each passing day. The only response that he could offer if put to the question again was wholly unsatisfying, but irrefutably honest: maybe…

  His eyes flicked to the growing stacks of checks on his desk.

  Or maybe not.

  Drake’s stomach growled, reminding him that it was past noon and he had yet to eat today.

  “Screech?” he hollered. “How ‘bout some lunch? I’m buying!”

  There was a pause.

  “Screech?”

  The door to his office suddenly opened, and the man’s curly head poked in.

  “We have one more client, boss,” he said in a strange tone.

  “Who? Another one of Mrs. Armatridge’s associates?”

  Screech shook his head.

  “Naw—a man and woman, say they know you. Wouldn’t give their names.”

  Drake’s eyes narrowed.

  They know me?

  “Fine, send them in. In the meantime, go grab some lunch, would you? And then you better stock up on those button recorders. You’ve got some installation to do today.”

  Screech laughed and then leaned out the door, motioning for two figures to enter.

  Drake smiled too—Screech’s laugh, as bizarre as it was, had a way of just making you grin—but when his two newest clients came into view, he immediately frowned.

  “Hey Drake,” Beckett said with a smirk of his own, “fancy meeting you here. You change your number or something? Because goddamn you never seem to answer the damn thing.”

  Chapter 34

  Drake wasn’t really sure how to react.

  Should I stand? Shake hands? Hug?

  It was strange, given how well he knew Beckett, how long he had known him, and how close he and Chase had become even in their short time together. And yet, time apart—six months, short on any global scale—could squeeze more than temporal distance between relationships.

  Thankfully, the decision was taken out of his hands.

  “Well? Stand the fuck up, you rude bastard and give me a hug,” Beckett exclaimed with a smile.

  If Drake had any reservations, Beckett striding over to him instantly quashed them. Drake stood then embraced his good friend, clapping him twice on the back. Chase, while less enthusiastic than Beckett, also strode forward, and Drake hugged her as well.

  No back claps this time, however.

  “Nice digs, Drake,” Beckett said, looking around.

  Drake chuckled. Triple D Investigations was hardly what he would call ‘nice digs’—they were a two-room outfit with peeling paint on the walls in a strip mall that paled in comparison to Dr. Mark Kruk’s lavish office—but something told him that maybe, just maybe, Triple D was due for an upgrade. Provided, of course, that the steady stream of paranoid octogenarian women didn’t suddenly dry up—literally or figuratively.

  Still, Beckett wasn’t being mean-spirited; Beckett was just being Beckett.

  “Pays the bills—not all of us can pretend to be doctors on TV, you know.”

  Beckett snorted.

  “Touché, my friend.”

  Chase smiled at him.

  “Nice to see you again, Drake. It’s been… well, it’s been a while.”

  “It has,” Drake replied. “Take a seat guys, for once it’ll be me behind the desk. I’ll try for best Sergeant Rhodes impression, just to make you comfortable.”

  Drake had meant his words as a joke, but seeing the way that Chase’s face dropped at the mention of Rhodes’s name, he knew better than to push it.

  He also knew that his two friends weren’t here to put up cameras to catch cheating or stealing spouses. For one, Beckett wasn’t married and Chase… was she married? Drake wondered. He thought not, but couldn’t recall ever asking her directly. She didn’t wear a wedding band, that much he knew, but they seemed to be less popular these days, especially for a career woman such as herself.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Please, sit.”

  Chase took the seat that Mrs. Trout had vacated moments before, and Beckett pulled one from the side of the room and placed it next to hers.

  “Something tells me that this isn’t a social call, much as we need to catch up,” he offered, trying again to keep the mood light.

  “No, it’s not,” Chase said flatly. “I wish it was, Drake, and I’ll be the first to say that I feel terrible about—”

  Drake held up a hand silencing her.

  “No need, Chase. I didn’t call, you didn’t call, and Beckett… well, fuck Beckett.”

  Beckett grunted.

  “Oh, I called… and texted and left messages, but someone seems to have a hard time figuring out how to use their phone.” Beckett’s ey
es drifted to Drake’s new cell phone that lay on the desk. “But I forgive you. After all, it must be hard operating that thing with your dinosaur claws and lizard brain.”

  “I’m thirty-eight, Beckett. Less we forget who—”

  Beckett made a clucking sound with his tongue.

  “A woman never tells.”

  Drake shook his head in amusement. He was about to add something, but he caught sight of Chase’s expression in the corner of his eye and stopped himself. Even though he and Beckett were having a good time ribbing each other, the joviality didn’t seem to extend to her.

  Chase leaned forward as she spoke.

  “But after what happened… you saved my life, Drake. Not only that but you fell on the sword for me, too. And that’s something I’ll never forget.”

  Drake nodded briskly, accepting the compliment in stride.

  “Alright Prince Fucking Charming,” Beckett interrupted, “as the French say, ‘let’s get to le point’.” He pulled a folder from his messenger bag and laid it on the table in front of them. When he moved to open it, Drake placed a palm on top.

  He sighed heavily before speaking.

  “Guys, I know that I’m going to come off sounding like a dick, but, please—please—don’t open the file.” Chase started to protest, but Drake continued, “Like I said, I’m a dick, I get it. But I’ve been through a lot, and I’m happy to say that I’ve moved on. Moved on from a lot of things, actually.”

  An awkward silence fell over the quaint office. It suddenly felt too tight for Drake, too constricted, and he was beginning to think that a move might happen sooner rather than later.

  Slowly, with one eyebrow raised, Beckett peeled Drake’s hand from the top of the manila folder.

  “Okay, Eeyore, keep your panties on. We just want to show you a few images. Get your opinion on a couple of things. That’s all. We’re not entrusting you with North Korea’s nuke codes, alright?”

  Beckett’s act was flawless, and Drake would have fallen for it, too, if it hadn’t been for Chase. The woman’s green eyes darted over at Beckett as he spoke, giving them both away.

  And I thought you were the poker player, Chase? He thought absently.

  Regardless, while Drake might be a dick, he wasn’t a prick. He leaned back in his chair and held his hands up, admitting surrender.

  “First consultation’s free,” he said. But when Beckett flipped the folder open, Drake realized that this was no joking matter.

  Chase leaned forward and spread five photographs on his desk.

  “Two weeks, five dead bodies,” she said simply and then paused.

  Drake, realizing that she wanted his immediate input, leaned forward and briefly glanced at each one of the photographs in sequence. When he was done, he said, “A bunch of people committed suicide. That’s what you came here for?”

  “Ha!” Beckett exclaimed, turning to Chase. “See? Told ya. You owe me twenty.”

  Chase frowned and shook her head.

  “What? What am I missing?” Drake asked.

  “Nothing,” Chase replied, shooting a look at Beckett. She took out another folder, and laid another series of photographs above the ones that Beckett had displayed.

  Drake looked them over, his brow furrowing in confusion.

  “I don’t get it—they’re the same.”

  “Ah, my dear Watson, they are not the same. Close, but that only counts in horseshoes and hand-grenades my friend. And this is neither. This is murder.”

  Chapter 35

  Number six was probably the most difficult to recreate. The man knew this; he knew it even before starting this entire task by slipping the ethanol into Trevor’s drink. But he was up for the challenge. After all, he had had more than a decade to plan this out. Fifteen years to study, to research, to plan.

  Electrocution required very specific equipment, and very important safety measures. After all, he couldn’t die slitting someone else’s wrists, hanging someone, or shooting them in the face. But electrocution? One little mistake, one simple touch that lasted a second too long, and the current would enter his body as well. Only for a split-second, mind you, but that was all the time needed to fry his organic circuit board.

  Yes, electrocution required a special sort of technique.

  But he was up for the challenge.

  The man wound down his window several inches as the tow truck driver approached.

  “I don’t know what happened, mister,” he said with a shrug. “It just… it just stopped. It was in the shop a few weeks ago, and they said something about the cables going to the battery—corroded? Does that sound right? Anyway, I didn’t do anything about it, because I just thought that they were trying to stick me for more cash, you know?”

  The left side of the tow truck driver’s upper lip curled.

  “Should always listen to your mechanic,” he replied in a gruff voice.

  The man in the car put a hand to his chest.

  “I know, I know. A lesson lived is a lesson learned, as they say.”

  The driver muttered something under his breath, something that sounded to the man in the car like, fucking queer, and then went to the front of the car.

  “Pop the hood,” he shouted, scratching at an oil stain on his over-sized t-shirt.

  “No problem,” the man hollered out the window as he pulled the hood release. “You know what? Let me help you.”

  The tow truck driver held up a meaty palm before raising the hood.

  “Nah, that’s alright, stay in the car.”

  “No, no,” the man in the driver seat said, a smile on his face. “I insist.”

  Chapter 36

  Drake suddenly understood Chase’s expression when he had made the joke about Sergeant Rhodes.

  “Lemme guess,” he said, “Rhodes didn’t want to touch this with a ten-foot pole.”

  Beckett scoffed.

  “Rhodes wouldn’t touch this with a goddamn Kraken tentacle.”

  Drake shook his head and made a face.

  What the hell does that even mean?

  Rather than humoring Beckett, however, he turned his attention back to the images on his desk. He was still having a hard time seeing how they were different; to him, it looked like the same crime scenes, only the photographs were taken at slightly different angles. Which would make sense; he’d been at hundreds of crime scenes, and the photographers weren’t shy with their trigger fingers.

  “Anyways, you sure that these aren’t, uh, natural—I mean, as much as suicide and accidents can be considered natural?”

  “There’s no way,” Chase replied. “It’s not just the similarity, but it’s the order in which they occurred. First the, uh—”

  “Asphyxia,” Beckett offered.

  “—asphyxia, all the way to the gunshot wound. Next is electrocution. Problem is, Drake, we’ve got nothing. And with Rhodes being… what’s the word… resistant, we aren’t going to get anything. That’s why we need your help.”

  Drake looked at Chase, at the photographs, then at Beckett. They were desperate, he saw, and despite his reservations, he could feel something tug at him the way a fat kid might pull a polo shirt that hugged him just a little too tightly around the hips.

  Short, nagging little tweaks.

  They needed him, and he felt the urge to help.

  “This here looks like a drunk,” he said, pointing at the first photograph then to the drowning victim, “and this one’s definitely a junkie. What about the others, they all the same?”

  Beckett shook his head.

  “That’s what Chase and I discussed earlier. They’re all the same, except,” he planted a finger on the man hanging from the ceiling, his back to the photographer, “this one.”

  “And?” Drake asked, “What’s so different about this guy?”

  Something changed in Beckett’s face. It seemed to pinch somehow, fold in on itself.

  “This guy’s a doctor. A student of mine.”

  And with that, everything came
flooding back: Dr. Edison Larringer’s visit, spouting off about suicides that weren’t really suicides, and Drake telling him to take a hike, to go to the police if he thought crimes had been committed.

  “No,” he moaned, unable to control himself.

  “Drake? You alright?” Chase asked, but her voice seemed far away. Very, very far away. Tunnel vision closed in just as Beckett jumped to his feet. He clapped a hand against Drake’s back as if he were choking.

  “Drake? What the hell’s wrong with you? Drake!”

  Drake shook his head and snapped back to reality.

  “Please tell me this isn’t,” he racked his brain for the name, “Eddie.”

  Now it was Beckett’s turn to be shocked.

  “What? You knew him?”

  Drake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he resolved himself to just shaking his head over and over again, until he got dizzy and his hangover returned with renewed fervor.

  “Yeah, I know him. At least, I met him. He came in here about a week ago.”

  Chase shot to her feet.

  “What? What did he say? Why was he here?”

  Drake licked his lips, which suddenly felt dry nearly to the point of cracking.

  “Dr. Edison… Larringer? I think his name was Larringer—he came here with the exact same story that you guys are telling me now: a photograph of a suicide he thinks was actually a murder. Said he was a student of yours.”

  Beckett gawked.

  “What? For real? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Drake shook his head.

  “I told the—shit, I told the young doctor to go to the police, that I wasn’t a cop anymore.”

  “And what’d he say?” Chase asked.

  “Said he couldn’t go to the police, that if he did he would get his medical license revoked—that’s what I think he said, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he stole the images from you, Beckett. He was trying to cheat on the test, and he took them from your desk.”

  All of the air was sucked from Beckett’s lungs, leaving him with an expression that reminiscent of what Drake thought Mrs. Trout might look like sans dentures.