That Darkness

by Lisa Black

  There were broken doors and the evidence of a scuffle in the dust—but she had thought right away that the place seemed too clean for chronic use as a criminal hangout. There should have been candy wrappers, cigarette butts, empty bottles, stains, and dirt.

  Yet the fiber evidence matched perfectly. What to make of that? Marcus Day’s clothing would indicate that the room had been in use for at least six months, yet all the damage there looked fresh. The edges of the broken door were clean. Maggie spent a lot of time looking at homes and businesses and evidence that had been exposed to the elements. She had developed her instincts and trusted them.

  Plus, she had not found any wood fibers on any of the victims. If they had been standing and perhaps falling on that bare plywood floor she would expect to find at least a few strands of cellulose.

  So she had a kill site that wasn’t the kill site, but yet had most of the right trace evidence to prove it was the kill site. Bullet holes that weren’t bullet holes, and blood that didn’t come from any human victim. With a neat trail of broken doors leading right to it.

  Almost as if someone wanted her to find it. But they would have had to know about her list, and the only people who had seen that list in advance were—well, Viv, who hardly fit the profile of a homicidal maniac, and Denny. And homicide cops.

  Cops.

  Jack had suggested the killer had done the police a favor. Perhaps that was true only because it was the police doing it.

  She dug the small square of tape out of her purse and used xylene to dissolve the adhesive, freeing and cleaning the collection of blue fibers from the car seat. Then she mounted the tiny items on a glass slide with Permount and a cover slip. She wanted to get a good look at them. She wanted to be sure.

  The fibers from the car seat were the same color, diameter, and cross-sectional shape as some of the blue fibers found on Day, Johnson, and Viktor. Not Masiero, which did not surprise her. Somehow Masiero was killed in situ, not brought to the same place as the other three. But it seemed the other three had spent time in a police department pool car.

  Maybe. Any Ford with blue interior would likely have the same fibers, spanning several model years. This still was not proof that an officer was involved.

  An officer with a taste for blood? Or some sort of vigilante?

  The four men had all been killed by the same person—she felt ninety-nine percent sure of that—and the four men had nothing in common except the police. Police who would know all about them, have access to the records and history easily viewed from any computer in the department. Police who had devoted their lives to the cause of justice, who saw its imperfect attempts every single day.

  Impossible, she said to herself.

  But of course it was entirely possible.

  Vigilantes were organized and often intelligent. They would take a methodical approach to their tasks. A cop vigilante, in particular, would know all about trace evidence, avoiding witnesses, and the investigator mind-set that would look for the most likely suspects first—and these victims each came with an entire contingent of likely suspects.

  Vigilantes believed in self-help, the idea that society’s institutions could not protect all people in all instances, so that private citizens had to step up and fill in when needed. As she had discussed with Jack, in their mildest form they could be perfectly law-abiding (such as the Guardian Angels) and saw themselves as protectors, not aggressors. This idea described the reason most police officers became police officers—not to bust heads and take names, but to help their fellow humans. It would be completely unsurprising for a cop to succumb to the temptation to give the court system a little extra assistance. It only seemed surprising that more of them didn’t.

  That she knew about, anyway.

  So. A cop. Maybe. Though she had never seen a cop evince that sort of passion. The tendency to plead down burglaries and car thefts could get annoying, but most violent offenders went to jail and stayed there for an appropriate amount of time.

  But which one? Jack Renner seemed her front-runner, but was that only because he had dumped her at a restaurant? His partner, with the young daughters? Patty, with a bulldog tendency to rival Maggie’s? Or someone on the periphery, a social worker, a prosecutor? A judge?

  And how did they choose their victims? Who would have been involved in the cases of all four men? Or did they just troll the RMS system, keeping an eye out for likely candidates?

  Maggie shook her head. She had lost her mind, that was all there was to it. She was theorizing without facts, trying to get to a conclusion without knowing if any of her propositions were true.

  Therefore . . .

  She needed more propositions. Mere observation, waiting for the evidence to come to her, would no longer cut it. She needed proof, before she could even mention such a theory to Denny or Patty or anyone with whom she needed to work in the future.

  And she had an idea where to get it.

  Chapter 25

  Friday, 6:15 p.m.

  It had been a frustrating day for Dillon Shaw. First the girl he had been sizing up the night before at Lola disappeared into a car before he had a chance to get her, and he had really liked the way her hair brushed her shoulders. He liked the already-defeated look in her eyes as she stared at nothing, as if her boyfriend had dumped her and then she lost her job in the same day. She wouldn’t have been hard to break; clearly most of the work had already been done. On top of that he had blown his beer budget on that one brew, so he couldn’t even try someplace else on his way home.

  He would have to stop being so fussy, he told himself. Like a starving man ceases to care whether the salad dressing is fresh or if the cereal is Kellogg’s as opposed to Post, he realized that he could live without finding exactly the right color hair or the right swing of the hips or even if they didn’t produce his idea of a properly decimated expression.

  Then he had done a lousy job of a weld on a heavy-machinery cab. It would hold but it looked like crap and his boss rode him about it. Then of course that shit-for-brains trainee chimed in like a parrot, acting like his comments were just friendly freakin’ camaraderie instead of jockeying for position, trying to push Dillon to the bush leagues.

  On top of all that the weather had turned cool and Dillon had a long walk to the bus station because he’d stayed fifteen minutes late trying to fix the stupid weld and missed the last of the every half hour 58s, and now another bus wouldn’t come by for so long that he might as well walk another four blocks and catch a 21.

  Then some guy pulls up and flashes a badge.

  Shit.

  Right outside the garage, too, where of course the boss hadn’t left yet because he never left until everyone else had gone. He didn’t trust anyone else to lock up. Especially Dillon.

  The tall guy with the badge seemed pretty cool, at least. He was saying something about a “young lady”—as if . . . Dillon had never met a person who could be even remotely considered a lady—implicating Dillon in a sexual assault seven weeks ago. He, the guy, was sure this had nothing to do with Dillon but had to ask him a few questions anyway, and he really needed to get this report done before the weekend or his chief would be on his ass, and if Dillon would make it easy on both of them he’d give him a ride home as soon as they were done. Dillon just wanted to get him the hell away from his workplace before his boss happened to glance out the window, so he got into the car. He insisted on sitting in the front seat though. If his boss saw him getting into the backseat . . . he knew damn well that Dillon didn’t have a chauffeur.

  Besides, the guy didn’t scare him. He might be pretty big, but so was Dillon.

  The cop, Jack something, didn’t argue about where to sit. Which seemed odd but then he started explaining something about how he was a psychological counselor and his only purpose here was to get Dillon’s side of the story. A few drops of rain fell from a disinterested sky, and Dillon felt even more satisfied with his decision to cooperate. The car seemed fairly clean for government iss
ue, with only a few bits of paper on the floor and what looked like the guy’s tie wadded up in the cup holder. The engine sounded like crap, though.

  “Supposed victims aren’t always completely truthful,” the guy said as he drove.

  “Translation,” Dillon said, “bitches lie.”

  “Well, yes. Sometimes. That’s why we’re beginning to do a psychological assessment before we decide on a course of investigation. Not simply a solvability checklist as if it were a burglary or an arson. It’s a pilot program.”

  The guy’s phone rang and he answered it. Dillon used the time to think his story through. Seven weeks ago would be that last one, the blonde with the scar on her neck and the big purple handbag. He had found her in a little barbecue place near the college. But how could—

  The guy was saying what, why . . . calmly, but then with some ums and a sort of choking sound to his voice, not at all as he had sounded just a few minutes ago talking to Dillon. He protested that he didn’t know some guy named Clyde. Then he hung up.

  “Who was that?” Dillon asked. Partly because the guy seemed discombobulated, but mostly because it screwed with law enforcement when you asked them questions. Especially lawyers. They hated that.

  “My partner.”

  “What makes you think it’s me this chick is talking about?”

  “What? Oh—we can go over all that once I have my notes in front of me.”

  They reached West 9th, and the guy turned right. They were about two blocks from the police station, Dillon already hoping that he wouldn’t see anyone he knew there. Though he could hardly be the only guy at the shop with a sheet. He probably had the shortest record of all of them—the shortest official record, anyway. But while the boss might be willing to work with burglary or assault, he wouldn’t be so comfortable with Dillon’s habits. He had two daughters and guarded them like they were statues cast in pure gold, the pussy-whipped idiot.

  It must be that last one who had caused this trouble. She must have remembered his jacket, maybe, or perhaps he had dropped something at the scene, a receipt or—no, he always made sure to empty his pockets beforehand. It might be the shoelace, choking her with it like he did with the chick who sent him away. That might have turned up in a computer or something. He knew he shouldn’t do it, but—he wanted to. What was the fun of it if he couldn’t do it the way he liked? Probably lots of guys did it that way. How come it got him caught?

  Why did these things always happen to him?

  Just don’t admit anything until you get this guy to show all his cards, he warned himself. Cops thought that the silent treatment got people like Dillon to talk, and usually it did. What they never seemed to figure out was that it worked both ways. Keep not answering, and they would tell you more and more. They wanted to sound like they had a pile of evidence, had the case against you all sewn up so you might as well confess. But Dillon had always been way smarter than that. Stay quiet until you know what it is you need to make up a story about. Stick to “it ain’t me” until you know they can positively identify you. Then, and only then, go to “the bitch made it up because I dumped her,” or “she was ticked at her boyfriend and screwed me to screw him, then thought better of it.” The cops will always say they can ID you. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time they will be lying.

  He couldn’t go to jail now, not even overnight. Not when he hadn’t done anything in almost two months. He wanted to stomp his feet in protest. This wasn’t fair.

  They turned up an alley. They were probably behind the police station someplace; Dillon hadn’t been paying attention. No, now the guy was chattering something about his office being here because it was “a more conducive atmosphere” than the Justice Center. Yeah, whatever. Dillon got out of the passenger side as soon as the guy killed the engine. Do not let them lead you around like a dog on a chain. Set the attitude. Get on top and stay there.

  He had talked his way out of this shit before, more than once. He could do it again.

  “Right up here,” the cop said, waving his hand at a little door, up three concrete steps.

  “Bring it on,” Dillon told him. Not aggressively, he schooled himself. Confidently. He put his foot on the first step.

  “Jack?”

  Dillon’s head snapped to the right. The cop, he could swear, jumped a foot. Neither of them had noticed this bitch come into the alley until she was practically on top of them. Nice medium age, decent tits under a blue T-shirt, hair past her shoulders. Something like his second victim. Or third, he couldn’t be sure.

  She ignored Dillon—didn’t they all?—and stared at the cop, obviously knew him from somewhere. The cop was the funny one, seemed completely dumbstruck and looked as guilty as if Dillon were a male prostitute. Which made Dillon think.

  What was going on with this guy? Why were they not at the police station? What had been all that bull he was slinging on the way here? Since when did a cop drive you around without you being in cuffs behind the cage? Didn’t they have some sort of rule about that? Maybe this Jack guy figured he had Dillon between a rock and a hard place, some bitch making accusations that good old Jack could make go away, if only Dillon would suck his—

  She and the cop were talking about the building, something about trace evidence, a bunch of words that didn’t make much sense. The cop freakin’ stammered as he spoke, face flushing, when Dillon could have told him: You got to have your story ready in advance or it won’t sound real, dude. Instead he checked out the girl’s ass, sticking out just beneath that little leather jacket she wore like she was tough or something—which no bitch was. Not one of them. Okay, one maybe—he still had a scar on his arm from her. But this chick?

  Dillon could feel himself getting hard. He liked it, liked the way the feeling seemed to flow to every fingertip, warming both his muscles and his soul.

  Good old Jack, on the other hand, was getting pissed. He’d been totally busted, the chick could see it, and she wasn’t letting him go. He kept refusing, saying she would have to do it another time, and she kept insisting, saying this couldn’t wait. Her eyes narrowed every time the guy spoke. Way too good an opportunity to pass up, and Dillon wouldn’t have left now if the cop had handed him a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  No one was going to leave now. Not until Dillon was done.

  When she pointed at the building, he spoke up.

  “Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here.”

  The cop and the woman glared at him, either because he had interrupted their argument or because he sounded crazy—the air couldn’t be much under sixty-five and he wore a jacket, but the sun was so far behind the city’s buildings that the alley had grown dim. He rubbed his arms for effect.

  So both of them looked at him, then at each other. The cop, fuming, came to some kind of decision and snapped, “Okay, sure,” pulled out a set of keys, and unlocked the little outside door. The bitchy chick immediately asked why he had a key to the place and the cop gave her some song and dance through gritted teeth, about the building manager giving them to him earlier that day because the place was on some kind of list—la la la, it didn’t matter because the guy was lying out his ass and anyone over the age of four could see it. Dillon certainly could, and he thought the chick could too. Or she was really stupid.

  Which would be helpful.

  Dillon patted his front pocket, where his folding knife nestled, waiting.

  Chapter 26

  Friday, 7:10 p.m.

  Maggie had not intended to enter the building on Johnson Court—she wasn’t an idiot and her life was not a television show. Unarmed and untrained, she didn’t go creeping down dark alleys chasing criminals. But two of the addresses on her list of unfinished asbestos jobs sat in the downtown area and if she took a roundabout way home she could at least take a glance at them in passing. It wasn’t even dark yet, not really, and if the buildings were completed and occupied and bustling she could scratch them off the list.

  The Johnson Court address interested her parti
cularly as it had also been the second of Asbestos Removal LLC’s jobs, as had the Lakeshore building. She would have bet on the Lakeshore building being their spot and now felt certain it wasn’t—but it might still make sense if the Johnson Court building turned out to be their kill site. The same company working at both buildings, the same workers shedding the same cat hairs and polyester fibers and asbestos. That might explain everything.

  So she had paused at the entrance to the alley behind the Johnson Court building, checking the address to be sure she had the right place. A dark car rolled to a stop outside a narrow side door. Every building along the street looked abandoned after business hours, with only a few lighted windows here and there and no noise.

  She would never have gone into the alley at all, had it not been for the concrete posts.

  They flanked the set of risers to the side door, designed to discourage cars from hitting the steps or their railing. About three feet tall they gleamed with fresh paint, banana-colored beacons in the dimming light. And Maggie remembered a smear on Brian Johnson’s shoe.

  There had also been a smear on Jack Renner’s coat sleeve.

  She approached, gingerly, all too aware of the two men getting out of the car. She would dawdle until they went inside, then inspect the posts for a scrape or a mar near their bases. This stayed her plan until she glanced at the taller one.

  “Jack?”

  The cop’s head swiveled toward her direction with an abrupt snap; his face reddened and he seemed utterly lost for words, his mouth opening but nothing coming out. Something like his initial reaction at Lola last night, she thought. In the meantime she noticed that the other man was not his partner, but a younger, leaner, taller man with shaggy brown hair and a mashed-up nose. He wore a Carhartt jacket and jeans with dark stains on them. He stared at Maggie with great interest.