Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  “You said visiting her parents.” Huddle swallowed hard.

  Wolfe aimed his penlight at a nearby tombstone. “We passed it. Marion and Benjamin Dumont, they died three years ago on this day. Most likely an automobile accident—they were both in their seventies. Ellen Dumont took her dog for a walk tonight to say goodnight to them on the anniversary of their death.”

  The lieutenant flipped a page and kept writing. “If the dog’s here, we’ll find ’em.”

  Wolfe hovered over the body with a slow light studying every minute detail. His education was not typical for a homicide investigator. Wolfe had a Masters in forensic science and another in criminology. Another minute with a body and Wolfe would know more than most investigators could reconstruct in a week.

  “Miss Dumont was stabbed in the chest,” Huddle said.

  Wolfe opened the torn coat with a gloved hand to study the wounds without disturbing the evidence for the ME. There were two knife wounds. One was a superficial cut on the neck—the carotid. The other was a deep penetration wound to the heart. Most don’t know the near-center anatomical location of the organ. This killer did.

  As Wolfe’s light stayed on the chest wound, Huddle provided more information. “We are looking for the knife. We think the guy we’re holding tossed it out here. We’ll find it.”

  “You have an ID on the guy in cuffs?” Wolfe asked.

  “Yes sir. Mr. Barry Woods, an attorney, West Town Legal. He called 911 on his cell. Before he stopped talking, he said he lived with Dumont.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “He kept saying over and over—he got away. I think he got in a fight with his girlfriend and stabbed her. He’s got her blood all over him.”

  Wolfe got back to his feet and stood over the body scanning the cemetery. “Mr. Woods is not our guy, Lieutenant.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Huddle asked.

  “The boyfriend got here after the fact.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Woods got into a fight with the killer. Ellen Dumont was already dead. He came upon the guy raping his dead girlfriend. I just don’t know his route because of the disturbances.”

  “You got all that in five minutes?”

  Wolfe turned to Huddle with steady eyes. “Ten minutes. Barry Woods has defensive knife wounds on his hands and arms. His face is beaten to a pulp. That enormous egg on the back of his head is probably what saved his life—knocked him out over there.” Wolfe aimed his light at a tombstone. “See the blood and torn up turf? That’s where most of the fight took place after Woods dragged the killer off his girlfriend. Woods fought hard. He fell. Hit his head on the bloody edge of that tombstone.” Wolfe turned away. “Make sure the forensic boys get it.”

  “I’m no expert, but it seems to me it could be possible Woods and Dumont had a fight.”

  “Do you think Barry Woods got all those wounds from defending himself against Ellen Dumont’s vicious knife attack? Dumont was killed without rage. She had two wounds. One wound held her captive—the knife to her neck. When she started to fight, he knew exactly where to put his knife, the center of her heart, a single thrust—done. That’s not rage or passion. That’s a cold-blooded murder and postmortem sexual assault.”

  Huddle rubbed his chin as dogs barked in the distance and flashlights merged.

  “If Woods and Dumont lived together, Woods did not need to drag her out here with her dog to have sex with her dead body,” Wolfe said as he turned back to the girl. “That little lady did not give Barry Woods the beating I just saw.”

  “How do you know sex happened after death?” Huddle asked.

  “The ME will confirm. For me it’s an educated guess. I’ve seen it before, the way she’s laying there. Her arms and legs—it’s not a living position. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

  Huddle flipped another page and made another note. Wolfe checked his cell phone. “Mr. Woods was in an intense battle. I suspect he did not know his girlfriend was dead until after he regained consciousness and had instinctively called 911. When he discovered she was dead, he slid into a catatonic state—shock. The man just lost the girl of his dreams in the most hideous of ways, Lieutenant. The young attorney is not a necrophiliac or killer.”

  “I’ve heard about you, Detective Wolfe,” Huddle said. “Good to know someone can help the rest of us figure this stuff out.”

  “Appreciate that, Lieutenant. Truth is I’m lost most of the time.” Wolfe patted Huddle’s shoulder and turned away. “We need a tent over Miss Dumont. Snow’s gonna screw up forensics and irritate Winston Foster. The field agent for the ME is good and most particular.”

  Wolfe scanned the cemetery of shadows and bobbing lights like a wild animal sensing a presence. Something’s just not right, he thought as he backed away from the crime scene. Huddle and a cluster of blues would erect a tent. Wolfe knelt down behind the grave marker on the next row. From there he moved a slow light and discovered more blood.

  It was a few drops on a dry oak leaf protected from the snow behind a gravestone. The drops on the leaf told a story. The tails of the drops pointed Wolfe in the direction of the fleeing killer—that was all he needed. Next he found a boot mark on the next row, again the dry side of the headstone—the assailant made a four foot leap to avoid leaving a print in the snow. It was snowing when you killed her. You went west staying on the dry ground.

  The police dogs and flashlights merged at the north end of the cemetery. There they formed a line from the east to west borders and moved south sweeping the area. Wolfe followed blood droplets west from Ellen Dumont’s body. A row of thick evergreen shrubs came into view and behind them an eight-foot stone wall.

  At first Wolfe did not see the man in the shadows. When he looked up from the boot track in the snow, the silhouette of a man took shape between the shrubs, and then a cracking sound filled the cold night air. It was like a single lightning strike on a hot summer night. The sound seemed to roll from the east, and then a sizzle in the air zipped past Wolfe’s ear hitting the silhouette. Wolfe dropped to his knees and lowered his head—he had an idea of what happened. He could be next. From behind a large tombstone, Wolfe watched the man fall to the ground. Wolfe aimed his flashlight. The back of the man’s head was gone.

  Six

  “I think something’s gonna happen, Sarge. Maybe something we’re not planning on.” Officer Stahl typed more instructions and waited. The micro-POD turned forty-five degrees. A few seconds later it zoomed in on the dilapidated hotel less than a mile away.

  Sergeant Irwin pulled his coffee mug out of the microwave and blew in it as he joined Stahl at the screens.

  “We’ve been watchin’ this place a couple weeks,” Stahl said. “I questioned our initial information, but I’ve got a feeling.”

  “Convince me we should not abort,” Irwin said. “I’ve got a long list of hot spots and people all over my butt.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got eight hours to put five new PODs into play and to reassign a dozen others. This is one of them.”

  The experimental police observation devices (PODs) were introduced to the city in 2001—the “eyes in the sky” program. The new technology gave the CPD real-time surveillance capability. They deployed the first PODs in the highest crime areas and saw success. New and improved micro-PODs were released six years later. The wireless systems were bulletproof and had night vision. It allowed the program to expand to another hundred rooftops and towers around the city. Squad cars were equipped with monitors and joysticks for PODs in their areas. The CPD had dedicated staff at each station for 24/7 surveillance. When the POD program was tied to street intelligence, they experienced a significant drop in crime.

  “Sarge, I saw somethin’ move in the shadows on the east side of the hotel.” Stahl’s fingers pecked across the keyboard like a concert pianist. The video feed was one block on the top-right of the giant monitor. It zoomed in on a shadowed section.

  Irwin squinted over Stahl’s wiry hai
r. They stared at the shadow in silence.

  “Refresh my memory. Exactly what are we doing with POD 1282? Why’re we watching this broken down, cheap hotel on West 26th?”

  Stahl opened the fat binder beside him and flipped a dozen plastic-sheeted pages. He stopped and ran a finger down the center of one with a squeak. “Actually, we’re watchin’ the abandoned trailer sitting on the vacant lot behind the hotel. Vehicular access to our target site is on West 27th.” He turned back to the screen. “I don’t see any activity now.”

  “So, we’re supposed to monitor a parked semi-truck trailer with no cab as a possible new drop site for the South Side?”

  “Yes sir.”

  At any given time there were two-hundred PODs available for operation. Assignment requests for PODs came from all departments and included definition of target sites, observation timing parameters, and objectives. Each POD assignment had to be approved by Sergeant Irwin. He was doing good to remember fifty actives at any given time. Another fifty PODs around the city were available to squad cars on an “as needed” basis. Activation of a POD by an officer required approval of the on duty POD manager—Officer Stahl.

  “What’s the story here?” Irvin asked as he had a hundred times before. The on-duty POD manager is responsible for knowing all assignments in his sector.

  “Illegal drugs: blow, casper, green dragons, apache—”

  “Use English please,” Irwin huffed.

  “Sorry. Crack cocaine, assorted depressants, fentanyl, methamphetamine, and heroin to name a few.” Stahl pointed to the trailer in the center of the lot. It was surrounded by a healthy crop of four-foot weeds busting through the crumbling tarmac. Two street lights lit half the trailer and a small area in the back.

  “Intelligence thinks it could be the new primary drop site they’ve been looking for. They can account for about half the trafficking routes into the South Side.”

  “Is that a fact?” Irwin said into his coffee mug. Probably just another rabbit hole.

  “That trailer’s been sittin’ there about two months. We’ve been watching it for twelve days. As expected, there’s been a lot of gang activity in the quadrant. Unexpected, no one got near that trailer. That supports our theory a mafia family is controlling the site.”

  “You were expecting some gang visits?” Irwin asked knowing the answer.

  “Yes. They don’t leave new rocks unturned long in their territories. The DEA diversion people confirmed it. The trailer is off limits. They want to see who goes there.”

  “Narcotic arrests are down forty percent,” Irwin said as he pulled a chair up to Stahl’s workstation. “People are saying it’s gotta be because the DEA is doing all the work or because the CPD narc division is less active. They don’t give credit for better training, better intelligence, or better technology.” Irwin set his mug on the file cabinet and studied the video feed. The site was well lit for a drug drop site. “Who owns the property?” he asked.

  Stahl looked back at his master binder. “The vacant lot behind the South Loop Hotel is one of three lots on that road. They are owned by the Babcock, Boyle & Brayden Law Firm.”

  “A law firm? Are you sure?”

  Stahl unlocked a metal file drawer and pulled out a fat phonebook-like reference manual. He flipped the tissue-paper pages and scoured the small print with a magnifying glass. “Nope. Take it back, Sarge. Owned by William T. Marcantonio.”

  “Willy Tee, the Chicago mafia kingpin. His name seems to pop up whenever somethin’ really clandestine surfaces in the South Side of the city. Been that way for decades.”

  “His name’s on the deed of trust for each of the three properties. He holds legal title as security for an unnamed debt.”

  “I wonder why the BB&B law firm is in debt to Marcantonio.” Irwin got up and looked out the window at the snow swirling under the street lights. “Regardless of how this goes down, I want to know more about that cozy arrangement,” he said. “We will need to pass it on to our DEA people.”

  “I think you need to watch this,” Stahl gasped. “What’re the chances?”

  “Chances for what?” Irwin broke from his daze and spun around to the screen. The two watched headlights turn off West 27th and crawl up to the gate, the beams reaching into the lot and touching the trailer. “Since I’ve taken over, I’ve never seen one real time.”

  “I knew they’d come sooner or later, but not while we were sitting here talking about them,” Stahl said.

  They watched a man get out of the car. His coat lifted in the wind. He hunkered over with his hands in his coat pockets and flapping tails. Standing at the gate he looked east and west.

  “The sleet hitting the city must be coming down stronger there.”

  “Bet it’s stinging,” Irwin muttered. They watched the man open the chain-link gate and wave to the sedan. It crawled up next to the trailer and the lights went off.

  “The guy who opened the gate has a limp,” Stahl said.

  “That could be important later,” Irwin said. “Go to full screen.”

  Stahl pounded commands on the keyboard. The video expanded and filled the fifty-inch screen. The POD zoomed in. Night vision flickered and adjusted. Two men got out of the car and joined the limper. The three walked to the rear of the trailer and looked around.

  “Okay boys,” Irwin said under his breath. “Open the doors. Show us what you got.”

  “This is the first time anyone’s been on that lot since we’ve been monitoring.” Stahl’s finger trembled over the mouse. The three just stood there. “What are they waiting for?”

  “Better get our people there now,” Irwin ordered. I could use a success this month. “Tell them we have activity. We’ll wait on getting DEA involved. Let’s see what we have first.”

  Stahl picked up the phone as Irwin leaned in for a closer look—a crime was getting ready to happen. His eyes moved down to the rolling numbers at the bottom of the screen—02.14.07.49 and counting. The hour and minutes hung solid. The seconds ticked off methodically, but the milliseconds rolled by relentlessly, like the years of Irwin’s life. Just yesterday he had joined the force and started a family. Thirty-five years later he was looking at mandatory retirement and a miserable life in a one-bedroom apartment with only pictures of the family he lost to the shield. His depression—and liver condition—were being treated, but progress had been slow. Drinking was the only escape that worked.

  He estimated they had less than five minutes to move. Successful drug operations happen fast to minimize exposure. The operation he studied in the monitor was a drug inspection operation—there were too few to transport. His guess was two drones (workers) and an entry-level wannabe, a family member or junior boss. Irwin was leaning toward a junior boss, a scumbag with a record the family had been grooming, someone who owed them, someone who would commit heinous acts with no hesitation or questions.

  “This is Officer Ben Stahl, POD. We have possible criminal activity in progress. Location is South Side, 300 block of West 27th. We have an unmarked semi-trailer parked in a vacant lot and three visitors. We’ve been watching this target for twelve days—suspected drug drop site. Dispatch three squad cars immediately, no lights or sirens until on West 27th. Activate mobile monitors, POD 1282 to observe in transit.”

  “They’re opening the doors,” Irwin barked. Stahl hung up and turned back to the screen. “One went back to the car. He’s opening the trunk—looks like they will be taking something with them. How far out are we?”

  “They are close.” Stahl scanned the screen pecking at the keyboard. He was an expert. The image sharpened. The contrast adjusted. Then he saw it. “Sarge. The shadow. It’s back.”

  Irwin’s eyes moved from the trailer to the shadow on the east edge of the hotel. “I got him. Is there a chain-link fence between the properties?”

  “A six-footer with another two feet of coiled barbed wire on top. Seems a bit much.”

  Irwin smiled. “Guess the hotel got tired of guest automobiles get
ting ripped off.”

  “I got that impression when I visited the target site prior to approval,” Stahl said.

  “The guy next to the hotel appears to be quite interested in our three visitors. Give me a quick biometric scan,” Irwin ordered.

  Stahl worked the keyboard with his fat fingers. Instantly a series of inlaid green circles with graduation marks found the man and proceeded to rotate opposite directions searching for definitive image markers. When the dialing stopped, the brilliant green turned into throbbing red. The info-box popped onto the screen with rolling numbers populating three of the ten lines.

  “Only three data points,” Irwin whined.

  “He’s a Caucasian. Six-four and 240 pound range. A mesomorph—someone with a muscular build.” Stahl turned from the screen. “I got that with my own two eyes,” he boasted. Irwin did not react. “There are no facials and no hair color. I believe the sleet’s messin’ with the POD lens.”

  They watched their mystery man leave the edge of the hotel like a lion stalking its prey. He crouched down at the fence. “I need a facial,” Irwin demanded.

  “That’s the best we can do. Bad weather and the target’s almost a mile from the POD.”

  “We gotta have one closer. Find it now.”

  “We do, but it is not the ideal view or it would have been selected.”

  “Just find me one.” Irwin clasped his hands and squeezed.

  Stahl searched on another monitor. “I do remember DEA asking for a view from the south. I did not ask why.”

  “I know the protocol,” Irwin barked. “Look fast, Lieutenant. We don’t have time.” He leaned closer to the monitor as if he would see the mystery man’s face better. “He’s not spying on them,” Irwin muttered. “I think he’s waiting to pounce.”

  “Got one—a closer POD. A tower a quarter mile away, but it is east of the property. I’m bringing it up now.” Stahl typed a flurry of commands. The large picture on the neighboring monitor flickered and transformed into a split screen. The new video joined the other and came alive. Stahl’s fingers crawled across the keyboard. The eastern view zoomed and focused on the coordinates.