He reached his destination; the only interaction he had received from the agents being one of them storming forwards, almost intently digging his shoulder into Mike's arm as he darted past. Still, managing to conceal his anger, Mike approached Dr. Stanton, raising his voice to no more than a whisper – While the agents generally avoided the morgue since they were too up themselves to even trouble themselves with the thought of seeing an actual dead body, he could never be too careful.
“Is it just you down here?” Hissed Mike, the pathologist responding with a tip of his head.
“Good, I need to ask you something. I need records. I need to know where these women were stationed, and I need to know what they were given as rewards for their service. Do you know where one might find such records?”
“Obviously,” retorted Stanton, “I'm legally obliged to tell the agents any facts that I know about this case. That's why I can only speculate that a man called Hans Schneider 'reportedly' has possession of such documents. But, that is of course, only a rumour.”
Mike nodded, thanking the pathologist as he slouched his body, going back into the guise of a photocopy boy as he scooped up a meaningless pile of papers from a desk to complete his disguise, before strolling into the corridors beyond the elevator doors once he had ascended to the peak of the steel shaft.
Meanwhile, Andy, after a short search, discovered a Hollywood standard dog trainer that had worked with all the canine stars on the big screen. In other words, he was the dog's bollocks. The best in the business. Even if he didn't train the dogs, he would probably know who did. Andy's car crawled onto a gravel path, the fine stones crunching beneath his chunky tires as he made his way towards the facilities, which were more akin to a five-star resort than a kennel block, and pulled up next to an array of luxury vehicles – even travelling in his own BMW, he felt out of place when he peered at the beauty of the cars around him. Dangling his leg to the side of his cream leather interior, Andy leapt down from the cockpit of his vehicle, and approached the middle-aged man that patrolled the property, a border collie walking obediently to his heel.
“Steven Laettner,” Said the man politely, extending his hand in greeting, “How may I help you?”
“Andy Ruskin,” Responded the detective, “I'm with the metropolitan police force working a case – I was hoping to find somebody, well, rather a group of canines. I was wondering if you could help me?”
“I can't guarantee it, but I'll certainly try,” Spoke the man.
“Say I wanted to train a dog in crowd control,” Andy quizzed, “Would you be the man to come to?”
“Well, not to blow my own trumpet, but I'm more than capable of doing so, yes. I train dogs in all manners of behaviour – Guard dogs, obedience dogs, trick dogs – I do it all.”
“Right, well that's a good start – Specifically, I'm looking for four huge dogs. They were all black in colour, eye witness reports describe them as if they were as big as wolves, and they were ordered to keep a crowd of around twenty people at bay.”
Steven nodded. “Yes, I had a client not so long ago, actually. They were German shepherds. These dogs are extremely loyal to their owners, very easy to become violent against those that upset their masters, but the ideal dog to train thanks to their loyalty and eagerness to please their owners.”
“Thanks,” responded Andy, “That sounds exactly like the ones that I'm looking for. I'll need to ask you a few questions about them – the owners – do you have a few moments spare?”
Andy could see the concern begin to manifest upon Steven's facial expressions – The poor man obviously had a barrage of questions running through his mind at the current point in time. He was nothing more than an animal lover, yet here he found himself in the midst of a robbery investigation.
The afternoon began to draw to a close, the sun setting behind London's skyline to fill the streets with dancing ribbons of light as the rumble of the evening traffic began to fade away as commuters settled down for the weekend. In a tenth-floor office of the police headquarters, however, the two detectives were as busy as ever, comparing their notes after their afternoon apart. They spoke frantically, making the most of the hour or so between the departure and arrival of different teams of special agents between their respective shifts.
“It's frustrating,” Spoke Andy, “I found what we already knew – four Alsatians, professionally trained by a top dog trainer. I don't have a lot more – apparently, the guy paid in cash. I have a name, but I highly suspect that it's bogus. Nobody with a bright mind would leave the correct details.” He released a sigh, “How about you, Mike?”
“Well, I found out some rather unpleasant details about our mystery women.”
“Oh yeah? What might that be?”
Mike let his teeth roll against his lower lip for a few seconds before he let out a brief sigh, as if to ready himself to deliver some bad news.
“Well, it turns out that these women were the lowest of the low, the scum of the earth. They weren't just guards, Andy... They were the ones that really did the damage; they tortured people. Which brings us to our motive – I very strongly believe that our suspect had Jewish relatives in the war. The way this is going, hell, I'll give the guy a pat on the back when we find him. Do you know what those sick bitches used to do?”
Andy glanced around, considering it best to hush his partner – who was now speaking in a booming, angry tone – for fear of unwelcome ears over hearing their conversations. He raised his index finger to his lip, giving Mike a rather stern look with his eyes. His partner, in turn, lowered his voice to a hissing whisper, his tongue furiously producing the words as they flew like punches from the back of his throat.
“They ripped people's eyes out while they were wide awake! That was her favourite punishment. It makes me sick – they got everything that they deserved. A shame really, that the old croons were in their twilight years, they deserved this so much earlier in their lives.”
“Okay, Mike, Okay...” Whispered Andy softly, “Take a few breaths. We don't want you to pass out in here,” Andy patted his partner on the back, realising that Mike was so worked up that he was barely taking a few moments to breathe.
Mike inhaled deeply before tilting his head backwards as far as his chair would allow him, peering up at the ceiling's circular lights. He could only imagine what it must have been like to be one of these ladies' victims – covered in warm, fresh blood that oozed from every facial orifice, screaming in pain as their fingernails were ripped out one by one. He shuddered at the thought, using all his mental strength to push the images to the back of his mind.
“What about the jewellery,” Asked Andy, “Did you find anything out?”
“Yeah... the jewellery, right. Well, A lot of it was worth pocket change, but undoubtedly enough to tide them through for years. What really caught my attention was this,” Mike said, producing a photocopy of a document, sliding it onto the table opposite his partner, “Look at this – A Fabergé broach – I spoke to Stanton and he thinks it must be worth millions. They would have been sitting on that for years, it's the only thing they'd have had that was worth steeling. Must have been their rainy-day fund.”
“Do you have any way of knowing for certain that it was the broach that was stolen?” Inquired Andy.
Mike sighed deeply, offended that his hunch was being questioned – although he didn't have the evidence, his mind grasped the idea with a deathly grip. Mike was the kind of guy that refused to believe that there was any other possibility than what his mind wanted him to believe, and more often than not, it leads the two detectives to the conclusion of their cases. Still, Andy often used the question as means of getting Mike to find concrete evidence to his theory, rather than a means of calling into question his colleague's hunch – it was a tactic that spurred on the younger partner of the two.
“Not yet,” Responded Mike, “But I will. I think that finding this broach will close the case for us – it's gonna be sold somewhere, definitely, and whoever
sells it will be the one that did this.”
“Yeah, it's definitely something worth looking into,” Agreed Andy, not wanting to over-inflate Mike's sometimes cocky ego by telling him he was right, “Well, we need to find out whom it was made by, who the rightful owner was – I mean, who owned it before the Nazis seized it, anyway – and if there are any descendants of the original owners. Perhaps they found out about it and wanted it back in the family – that'd explain the revenge killing, too, I reckon.”
“Doesn't Stanton know a jewellery valuer? Maybe we could get his opinion – he might be able to tell us a little more about it,” Pondered Mike, “They all seem to know all these Nancy little details just by looking at the shapes of the bloody things. Worth a try, right?”
The two detectives darted into the hallway, noting that the next flock of agents were beginning to migrate into the office, hoping to make it into the morgue before they would lose their privacy and risk giving any information to the other agents.
A twitchy elevator ride later, they found themselves in the morgue, thankful that Stanton was alone in the room.
“Hey Doc,” Began Andy, “You know that valuer, right?” Andy peered round, noticing an agent lurking in the shadows, keeping his game face on expertly, he cleared his throat before extending his question, “I've got this, uh, watch, you see,” He said desperately yet confidently as his mind raced to remember any jewellery that was on his body to hide his motives from the man that was peering at him from behind a set of half-rimmed glasses from the darkness, “I've always had an inkling that it might not be a legitimate rotary.”
“Oh, sure,” Smiled the pathologist, winking sneakily with his left eye, “I'll get you the address, you can go and get it checked out!” Stanton pulled his notepad and scribbled the address on the paper, folding it up before handing it back to the senior detective. Andy tucked it carefully inside his pocket, and swiftly turned to make his way to the parking lot. Once they were well clear of the leeches looking into their case, Andy flicked the creased paper onto Mike's lap, ordering him to unfold it so that they could follow the address.
“Humph,” Smiled Mike, “I don't know why that old bastard works in the morgue, he should be upstairs with us! Look at this, he knows exactly what we wanted!”
Not only had Stanton given them address, but at the bottom was a small note saying that the Pathologist had spoken to his friend since Mike had stopped by earlier to thank him for the information – The valuer would already be considering the case, saving them much valuable time when they arrived at the location, which proved to be a twenty-minute drive into the west end of London.
The detectives clambered up a narrow passageway between several rows of houses, eventually coming to a cul-de-sac consisting of several Victorian era buildings. Perching on the edge of a front door-step, Mike glanced down at the sheet of paper, comparing the addresses to ensure they were at the right building before he rapped his knuckles against the thick, wooden door which had been painted in a glossy black paint.
An older, yet cheery looking man, perhaps a few years older than Stanton, opened the door slowly. “Ahh,” He smiled, stroking his somewhat bushy beard, “You must be Mike and Andy, correct? Come in, there's a cuppa waiting for you, and I've already began to filter through some leads that I have – I'll need to see a photo of the said broach before I can confirm any of my findings, though.”
They followed the man into a dimly lit study on the first floor of the building. Although Mike was not one to appreciated tidiness, Andy could only admire how neatly kept the man's house was, even the research that he was still in the process of completing was stacked into neat folders.
Mike reached into his pocket for an illustration of the broach that he had found alongside the documents, and handed it over to the man, who then unclipped his glasses from his shirt pocket and flicked them over his ears, adjusting a small desk lamp so that it shone onto the paper.
Several minutes passed, with the man seemingly unconscious in the chair as he concentrated wilfully, the only sign of his livelihood being the occasional flicker of his eyes as he focussed on another part of the broaches design. He immediately rolled his hand over three of the five folders on his desk, and dropped them into a paper shredder at the foot of his desk, allowing the mechanical whirr of the machine die down before he once again took a stance of heavy focus, comparing the illustration with the images within the two folders, which, to Mike and Andy, seemed identical, though they daren't say anything.
After a brief pause, the valuer dropped another of the folders into the waiting razor-blade teeth of the shredder, sending the paper to its slaughtered demise. He removed his glasses, tucking them back into the pocket of his shirt before turning his chair to face the detectives. With the relevant folder balancing in his lap, he began to read the facts from the pages in front of him.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “If I am correct, this thing was part of a necklace - but it was whom it belonged to that strikes the most interest into me; before the Nazis took it, it apparently used to belong to a Prussian princess.”
“I already knew it was worth a lot of money,” Exclaimed Mike, “But Jesus. That could take the value to obscene amounts.”
Andy, though, was thinking from a more logical perspective than his awe-struck colleague. “What about descendants, do you know is this lady had any?”
“There are rumours that she had two sons that fled to Finland,” Began the valuer, “But they're just that – rumours. And I couldn't tell you whether they're true or false, I'm afraid, it's all highly classified information that I can't get my hands onto. Rumour has it that they found their way to England over time, seeking better employment before they eventually retired. I believe the Grand Duke of Luxembourg originally had it commissioned as a gift for the princess in the late twenties. Here, everything you could need to know is in here.” The valuer handed over the file, and the two detectives shared their appreciation for his work before they made their way back out into the night.
Chapter Four
It was only once the detectives began to converse with one another that they realised they had a real dilemma growing on their hands.
“That's classified information,” breathed Mike, “If we so much as whisper the idea around the office, someone's going to be breathing down our back for the rest of the case. But it's the only way we can get the information.”
“Well, it's all very well sneaking behind peoples' backs about this, but ultimately, a set of homicides took place and it's our job to bring them to justice. I say, regrettably, that we need to go into the office tomorrow morning with the intention of sharing this information. It's the only way that we can push forwards and get the profiles that we need on these people.”
“Humph. Justice,” Retorted Mike, “I think that's been served already!” After a little reasoning, though, Mike came to the agreement that sharing their case would be the way forwards.
After retiring to their own apartments, the detectives got a good night's sleep before returning to the office. The scent of stale coffee drafted into Andy's nostrils as he waited in the drab, rundown staff quarters. As usual, he had arrived much earlier than his colleague, whom was far from being a morning person. In fact, at this moment, Mike was still carrying out his daily routine of deciding whether to take out the mounting piles of trash that waited wishfully by his back door, and as usual, he decided that the few seconds of effort that it would involve to do so could wait another day or two.
. He soon ventured into the office, greeting the senior of the two detectives with a nod. They each took a few minutes to fill their stomachs with a comforting golden brew, the warmth from their mugs filling them with the confidence to approach the captain with their findings.
They approached the floor's largest office, rapping the door with their hands before they were invited in, both feeling much like school students waiting outside the principle's office in doing so. Having only woken up half an hour or so ago, Mike ma
de a beeline for the single available chair in the room, leaving Andy to lean awkwardly against a block of cabinets as they began to converse with their boss, the three men reaching the conclusion that they would indeed have to share these findings in order to proceed.
At the captain's order, then, Mike and Andy were paired with their counterparts from the robbery division – Reed and his younger associate, a fresh-faced lady by the name of Eva – as well as, much to Mike's dismay, Tim Rollins – one of the special agents. Mike felt somewhat like he was being babysat by the man that was high up in the hierarchy than he, and even Andy too felt a little patronise by the six-foot giant that trailed behind the four other men.
The group entered a conference room, the dull buzz of the overhead lighting strips filled the airwaves as they flickered on. Andy immediately stepped into the role of the group's leader, and began to bark his ideas as the others watched on, none daring to challenge his leadership.
“Right, we'll split up – Robbery, you can search for the guy with the dogs. I mean, he'd need to have rented a place fairly near by, and he'd have needed a place that would allow four dogs. There can't be many pads like that in the middle of London, right? Meanwhile, myself, Mike, and, err... Tim, will go and find all we can about this broach,” Andy spoke, deciding that himself and Mike may make use of the extra man, since he was there. He glanced at the polished silver surface of his watch before continuing. “We'll meet back here about mid-day to summarize what we can find.”
The two teams went their own way, with Mike rather dissatisfied that Andy had chosen to keep the agent with them. Every fibre of his body was resisting the urge to display his discontent, but instead, he managed to redirect the energy into grinding his teeth mechanically. Noticing his partner's state of thoughtfulness, Andy mistook Mike's look of disappointment for one of inspiration, and turned to his partner. “What're you thinking there, Mike?”
His question almost invited the younger detective to spurt his true opinion of the special agent, though he brilliantly managed to think up a theory about the case in order to avoid sharing his original thought. “Well,” he began, “It's apparent to me that the killers and the robbers are the same people – that's definite in my mind – but, if they've got the broach, surely they're going to sell it some when, right? What if we get on that? There's got to be some whispers going around on the black market about it already.”
Death by Torture: Gripping Detective Murder Mystery (Detectives Ruskin & Ashley Book 3) Page 3
