Drake stood in the center of the diner as he watched her go, stunned by what she had told him.
Someone placed a hand on his shoulder and he jumped. He whipped around and found himself staring at Broomhilda’s weathered face.
“You still want your Key Lime pie?”
Chapter 49
Chase tapped her pen on her desk, filling her office with a tinny drumroll. Every few minutes her eyes flicked over to the other desk, before frowning when it remained empty. She remembered Drake sitting there, across from her, swearing as he tried to figure out how to get the department computer system to work.
After Drake had resigned, Rhodes had promoted her, but while he had promised to get her a new partner, there didn’t seem to be any movement on that front.
It got lonely inside her own head; she missed someone with the grace of a bull to occupy her thoughts.
She missed Drake.
It hadn’t occurred to her before, but now that they were working together again, albeit on an informal basis, it was something that she couldn’t ignore.
And she saw it in his eyes, too; he missed her—if not her, then at least the job.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, went her pen.
Focus, Chase.
But she couldn’t focus. This wasn’t like any other case that she had been a part of during her career—in Seattle or in NYC. She was working to find a killer whom no one but her party of misfits thought existed.
But maybe… maybe that’s our edge, she thought suddenly. Nobody knows that we’re looking for him, not even the killer.
Chase made a hmph sound as she considered this.
Nobody knows that we’re looking for a killer…
Except that wasn’t quite true. Dr. Edison knew that something was up. And he had ended up dead.
Everyone else was a drifter, a nobody.
It was clear that their killer preferred to take out the lower rungs of society, but wasn’t afraid to climb up that ladder if someone threatened to put them in the limelight. If someone got close, he wouldn’t hesitate to make them part of his macabre re-enactments, no matter who it was.
Chase tried to put the puzzle pieces together in her head, but this got her nowhere.
She picked up her phone and hit redial.
“Dunbar? Its Chase. You got anything yet?”
“Hold on a sec,” Dunbar whispered. She heard him shuffling and then the sound of a door closing. “Chase? Geez, you have to stop calling me every ten minutes. People are going to get suspicious.”
Chase grimaced.
“Yeah, sorry. You got anything for me?”
“No, nothing. I have to… well, I told you. I have to be careful where I look. If Rhodes does a simple back search, he’s gonna figure out what I’ve been doing.”
“’Kay. Just let me know as soon as you find something—anything. Anything in Dr. Edison Larringer’s background that is interesting, okay? Shit, you know what? If you find anything about Eddie, let me know.”
“Will do,” Dunbar said before signing off.
Chase hung up the phone and raised her eyes to the other desk, ready to say something to Drake, before remembering that it was still empty.
Tap, tap, tap.
Eddie got close, and that’s why he ended up dead, Chase thought. And if he got close, then so can I. It’s just a matter of retracing his steps, starting with where he had found the photographs, starting with Beckett’s office.
Chase stood and started to put on her trench coat, when her phone buzzed on her desk. She grabbed it and answered with one arm still hanging out of her jacket.
“Dunbar? You find anything?”
“Uh, Detective Adams? It’s Detective Yasiv.”
“Oh, shit, sorry. What’s up?”
“Well, we’ve got a strange situation here. There’s been an accident; a tow truck driver’s dead.”
Chase’s eyes immediately narrowed and she sat at her desk, instinctively opening the folder of photographs from the forensic pathology course.
Please, not another one.
“Yeah? And why is it strange? How’d he die?”
Chase heard Henry Yasiv swallow hard.
“It looks like… it looks like he was electrocuted. I mean, the cables are still hooked up to his tow truck battery, but the strange thing is, there’s no other car on the scene. I mean, there’s nothing out here but weeds and allergies. Nothing—Chase? You still there?”
Chase knew that Detective Yasiv was speaking to her, but she wasn’t hearing any of his words.
Instead, her eyes were locked on the sixth photograph from the exam.
The one that showed a man with a silver-dollar-sized burn mark on his neck, and another on his shoulder.
There was a single word printed on the top of the image: ELECTROCUTION.
Their killer had struck again. Only this time, it looked like he got sloppy.
Chapter 50
Suzan tucked her chin into her coat for warmth and glanced around. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, and it was all she could do to resist the urge to sprint back to her car and get the hell out of here.
It was dumb meeting the man who went by Arsonist514—no, dumb was too weak a word for it. Meeting him was perhaps one of the stupidest things that she had ever done. But she had taken precautions.
Suzan was standing on the corner of a busy intersection, with dozens of people milling about, coming to or going from work. It was close to five in the afternoon, and the corner that they had chosen to meet was so busy that she had to fight to avoid being swept away by the crowd.
Her hand slipped into her jacket pocket, confirming for the tenth or eleventh time that the can of pepper spray was still in there.
In there, with the cap off. In her other hand, she held her cell phone, pretending to be scrolling through text messages, while in reality, she had the camera at the ready to snap a pic of the man who called himself Arsonist514.
She wasn’t positive that he was the killer—had she been, there was no way in hell she would have agreed to meet him—and nothing other than his keen interest in the forensic pathology course alluded to any involvement in the crimes at all.
But the feeling in her gut told her that if he wasn’t the killer, then he knew who was.
Are you interested in pathology? The message had read. Suzan’s reply had been equally as simple and cryptic: Keen interest; need answers.
When she typed that message, she had been someone else; or, at least, she had tried to be someone else.
Suzan put herself in Dr. Larringer’s shoes, try to act as he had, a frantic student on the verge of failing his courses, desperate for anything that might help him get the edge he needed to succeed.
From there, things had snowballed quickly, more quickly than she had hoped, and now, before she had a chance to really think about what was happening, she had agreed to meet the man.
Suzan’s eyes darted around, trying to tease the man out from the crowd, even though he hadn’t even given so much as a hint of what he looked like.
Someone bumped her arm, and she yelped. Whipping around, she started to pull the pepper spray from her pocket.
“Excuse me,” a tall man in a suit muttered as he hurried past.
Suzan took a deep breath and offered a tense smile in return.
All she wanted to do was snap a pic, then head back to see Beckett and Chase. To impress them with what she had done. Sure, they might be upset at her, but when they saw that she had an actual photograph of someone who might be involved, then they would have no choice but to thank her.
But when the sun progressed from half-mast to nearly sunk, Suzan’s excitement waned with pathetic fallacy.
He’s not coming, she thought with dismay. He’s not coming. It was just a thirteen-year-old fat kid hiding behind a computer screen, getting his jollies by sending her on a wild goose chase.
And yet Suzan continued to wait. Even as the crowds began to thin, and the thin veil of comfort that they afforde
d her began to wash away, she waited.
When it turned seven, Suzan looked down at her cell phone.
With a sigh, she scrolled to Beckett’s number.
It rang three times before going to the machine.
“You have reached the mailbox of Dr. Beckett Campbell. If you’re hearing this message, you’re one of the lucky few who have my number. Congrats. And if it’s you—you know who you are—asking about the damn rash again, I told you a thousand times: add kerosene and scrub it with a wire brush. If it’s you, mom, I won’t be home for dinner.”
Suzan rolled her eyes and waited for the beep before leaving her message.
“Beckett, it’s Suzan. I’ve found something online. Give me a shout when you get this.”
Then she hung up and made her way back to her car. Part of her was disappointed that Arsonist514 hadn’t showed up, but part of her was also relieved.
“This was stupid,” she said to herself as she got into her car. And then, for some reason, she laughed.
It was a nervous giggle, one that she didn’t recognize. But more surprising than this sound was what came next: the tears.
Along with this unexpected deluge of emotion were thoughts of her dad, of the way he used to give her noogies even though she hated them.
“Stop it,” she admonished herself between sobs. “Just fucking stop it, Suzan. Grow up. He’s gone, and catching this guy won’t bring him back.”
She wiped the tears from her face and then put the keys in the ignition. With a sniff, she started her car.
Suzan Cuthbert reached for the gear shift, intending to put the car into drive, when she felt something cold and sharp touch the side of her bare neck.
She inhaled sharply.
“So you’re interested in pathology?” a gruff voice from the backseat said and Suzan felt her entire body go numb.
Part IV – Homicide
Chapter 51
It had been a while since Drake had spent so much time investigating a case… a real case. And it was wearing on him. He could feel his body trembling slightly as exhaustion began to take hold.
Six months at Triple D had made him soft.
With a sigh, his eyes closed and it took a deliberate effort to open them again.
Okay, maybe not soft.
Softer.
And despite the effort he had put in, he was still no closer to finding the killer. He had, however, witnessed domestic abuse and all of its disgusting inevitability. That was something he intended to deal with. In time, he would teach the prick Jake that he wasn’t as tough as he thought.
Drake pulled his leaden limbs from his Crown Vic and made his way to the front door of Triple D. He was surprised to find it unlocked, and even more surprised to find Screech inside, his face illuminated by the artificial glow from his computer screen.
“Screech? What are you still doing here?”
The man whipped around, and the way he blinked rapidly and his hands twitched, Drake knew that he was hopped up on caffeine or maybe even something stronger.
“Working, Drake, my man. Working. Dug up some shit that might help.” Even the man’s speech was rapid, clipped.
Drake suddenly felt awake again, the last vestiges of adrenaline leaking from his adrenals and flooding his system. He strode into the reception area, closing the door behind him.
“What did you find?”
“I found—”
But Drake heard a sound from his office and peered over Screech’s shoulder.
The door to his office stood ajar.
“Someone’s here?” he whispered. “Please tell me it’s not Mrs. Armatridge. I can’t deal with her right now.”
Screech shook his head and was about to answer when a familiar voice spoke from within his office.
“Honey? That you? Dinner better be ready in ten. And none of that microwaved crap again.”
Drake smiled a weary smile.
It was Beckett.
“Get your ass in here!” his friend hollered.
Drake turned to Screech.
“I thought your job was to keep the riff-raff out,” he said. Screech just shrugged. “Alright, let’s all meet in my office—you can tell me what you’ve found in there.”
Beckett was sitting behind his desk, his feet up. In his hand was a glass of scotch. He looked at it, swirled the liquid, and then took a sip.
“Not bad, not bad,” he glanced up at Drake. “Oh, I took one of those hefty checks. You know—for my cut.”
“Very funny,” Drake said, taking a seat across from Beckett. Screech sat beside him. “Let’s get a move on here. I’m tired as hell.”
The jovial expression slid off Beckett’s face.
“Aren’t we all. All right, Screech, why don’t you go first. Tell us what you’ve got.”
Screech cleared his throat and Drake turned to face him.
“Yeah, so I was following up on our doctor friend, Eddie, based on the fact that he’s the odd one out. I couldn’t really find anything about him—seemed like just a normal guy, lots of friends, lots of stress… over the last six months, however, he started to post less to his Facebook and Twitter feeds. I’m guessing he was either getting depressed or just had no time for it anymore. Anyways, I kept on looking, only this time I searched the ‘net and found two things of interest: one, the website that Eddie was posting on, and, two, something about Dr. Moorfield. Which do you want to hear first?”
Drake glanced over at Beckett, then at the same time, they both said, “The website.”
Screech gave them a look.
“Okay, well, website it is. Want me to show you the transcript?”
“Transcript? Jesus, just tell us what you found, Screech. And calm the hell down.”
The man swiped sweat from his forehead, then ran his fingers through his curly hair.
“Yes, right. Anyways, so apparently, Eddie was online asking questions about the test? Some sort of bulletin board for doctors and students. Anyways, there was nothing interesting until a few months ago when this one guy shows up, starts answering his questions about the test, saying he has the photographs from the exam.”
Screech paused for effect, and Drake impatiently waved a hand, urging him to continue.
“And?”
Screech shrugged.
“That’s it. I mean, the guy seemed to know a lot about the test, but nothing came of it.”
“Okay, Jacques Cousteau, you manage to track him down? Find out who this mystery man is?” Beckett asked.
Screech shook his head.
“Nope. He fell silent after a couple of exchanges. But then…”
“Then what?”
“Then he popped up again just yesterday—someone had revived the old thread.”
“And there’s no way you can find out who it is? Anything about him?” Drake asked.
“I tried tracing his IP address, but it just pinged all over Southeast Asia.”
Drake frowned and considered asking what the hell that meant, but when he saw Beckett nod out of the corner of his eye, he let it slide. He got the gist of it; they had no idea who was writing the messages.
“Alright, fine. And the other thing? The thing about Dr. Moorfield?”
“Yeah, way back when there was a, uh, incident.”
“Incident? What kind of incident?”
Drake leaned forward in his chair as he spoke.
“Hold up, I’m getting there. It was something that was serious enough to warrant a tribunal.”
Tribunal? What the hell?
Drake bit his tongue and allowed Screech to continue uninterrupted.
“There are very few details about the incident online. Far as I can tell, these things usually stick within the walls of the university. It looks like if something happens with a professor, something serious, then the university puts together a tribunal of sorts, usually made up of university board members, and they play Judge Dredd and decided what happens.”
Drake looked over at Beckett. He was
nodding.
“Yeah, it usually only goes to tribunal if it’s really serious,” Beckett said. “Otherwise, they just get an arbitrator to come in to sort things out.”
“And in this case…?”
Screech shrugged.
“No way to tell. But like Beckett said, it must have been serious to warrant a tribunal.”
Drake felt his frustration begin to mount. Evidently, he had mistaken Screech’s sugar high for excitement.
“Well let’s check with Chase then; if it’s serious enough for Arthur’s round table, maybe it was serious enough to get the police involved.”
Beckett clucked his tongue.
“Yeah, I doubt that. After all, the university’s reputation is critical to their success. I doubt it went to the police.”
Drake threw up his hands.
“Fuck. This is ridiculous. Well then, gimme some goddamn examples of what kind of shit leads to these damn tribunals.”
Drake felt like he was in a time warp, transported back to Dr. Kruk’s office speaking in thinly veiled hypotheticals again.
“Plagiarism, relationships with a student, drug abuse, shit like that,” Beckett said. “Theft, maybe. Sexual assault.”
Drake chewed his lip as he thought about this. It might not be much, but he got the feeling that they were on the right track. Now it was just a matter of filtering through the debris.
He turned to Beckett.
“Looks like we should pay this doctor a visit. What do you think?”
Beckett’s expression soured.
“Been there, done that. She’s, uh, she’s a real treat.”
“A treat? How so?”
“Well, you know how it feels going bareback with a woman with vaginal atrophy?”
Drake blinked long and slow.
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
Beckett shook his head.
“Nothing—never mind. She’s just an old crust bag, is all. I doubt we can pry anything out of her.”
Drake’s thoughts once again turned inward. If Dr. Moorfield wouldn’t talk, maybe they could pry information from members of the tribunal.
“Hey Screech, do you know who was part of the tribunal?”
Cause of Death Page 15
