Hutson rocked and inched his body counter clockwise. As he rotated on his side, with one eye he struggled to make sense of his dark surroundings. No matter how much he tried, he could not open his other eye.
He found a horizontal line of light. Hutson had no sense of distance or dimension. It could be a few inches or several feet away. He would need to move to it to solve the puzzle. When Hutson blinked wet debris from his good eye, two vertical lines of light came into view. They were connected to the ends of the horizontal line. Both shot straight up and disappeared in the dark. He rocked and squirmed. Then his knees touched something. Hutson froze. The soft and spongy obstacle did not move.
Could this be another person? He thought. Are they alive? God. Are they dead? Or is it a torso or large body part? Hutson’s imagination went wild. His heart beat faster and harder. Desperation washed over him. He had never taken his gun out of its holster. He preferred to avoid uncomfortable and dangerous situations—and he did just that most of his career.
“Calm down, Joe,” he whispered. “Think. What do you remember last?” He derived some satisfaction from hearing his voice. It meant he was still alive. Or was he dreaming?
He forced his eyelid, but it did not break free. It seemed to be glued closed.
“What are those smells?” Like his eye had adjusted, his nose started to wake up. Is it urine and talcum powder and dirty rags? I smell a flowery perfume mixed with mothballs? “Who uses mothballs anymore?” Old people use mothballs, and that’s old-lady perfume. Hutson gagged. “It smells like those flowers nobody ever sees—gladiolus I think.”
He scooted, avoiding the spongy object. The bottom line of light disappeared. I’m at the Sorensen’s brownstone. I wonder how long? I remember sitting in the living room looking at the fire, the log sinking into the coals.
The muffled pounding in the distance broke his train of thought. The hard pounds could be imagination. Hutson sucked into a ball. “I am a prisoner,” he said under his breath grasping the seriousness of his situation. “I’m in a closet. Those lines, I am looking at the door.”
The pounding stopped. Hutson held his breath and started to remember more. I didn’t see your face. In the mirror, I saw the back of your head and your shoulders. You were in the hallway dressed like me, a dark coat. You were listening and waiting. I jumped up reaching for my gun. That was stupid. I’ve never been a smart cop. You were ready. You hit me one time.
The creaking floorboards outside Hutson’s closet got louder. Someone approached.
Is that you? Hutson wondered. Did you come back for me? Did you kill that old man? God, did you kill the old lady, too? What’s this all about? What did I walk into? Hutson scooted a few more inches. He saw the bottom line of light. It broke in the middle. Someone stood outside the door. The creaking boards were silent. The knob rattled.
You knocked me unconscious. You put me in here until the time was right. You’re back for me. You’re going to hurt me now.
Hutson’s heart beat hard. The closet door whined open. Light poured in. The object next to Hutson’s knees came into focus. He saw the old lady. Mrs. Sorensen was dead.
Eleven
“Ellen purchased the condo across from me six months ago, Mr. Wolfe. She takes her Shih Tzu—Presley—for a walk every morning and night rain or shine.” Moving a few strands of hair from her eye, Linda Day smiled and crossed her long legs. She was more than attracted to the handsome detective who had knocked on her door at 9:00 p.m.
She stiffened. Her smile faded. The morbid reason for the visit crept back into her wandering thoughts. “It’s been a few days since the terrible tragedy. Do you know more? I just can’t believe Ellen is gone.”
“I’m sorry. We have many questions to answer, Miss Day.”
After Wolfe had studied the crime scene, he followed the blood droplets to the west wall of the Wunders Cemetery. Standing like a statue in the shadows between the seven-foot Nellie Stevens Holly, the killer held a bloody knife ready to kill again. When Wolfe found him, so did a sniper’s bullet. Later the dead man would be identified as Frank Pazrro, a serial felon recently released from prison for second degree murder. Wolfe’s case had taken another turn. He had two lifelong criminals dead by sniper fire, and both had ties to the Marcantonio family.
“I understand, Detective,” Day said with a sobering tone.
Wolfe perused the attractive witness with a discerning eye. He estimated thirty-six, but could be off a few years—his best guesses were dead people lying on the ground. Walking from the door to the sofa, Wolfe absorbed details of his surroundings that would help define his witness. He noted no signs of pets or plants or anything that needed nurturing and attention. The wall bookcases were lined with softcover mystery/thrillers and erotic romance novels—including the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. The window seat had stacks of magazines—People, Time, Newsweek, Glamour, Esquire—and neatly folded op-ed sections of the Chicago Tribune.
In less than a minute, Wolfe concluded Sally Day was an intelligent, independent, self-centered, and sexually adventurous woman. That meant she would be a curious and observant person. He could learn something meaningful if he asked the right questions.
“How long did you know Ellen Dumont?”
“We met two years ago, when I joined the Tribune.”
“You both worked at the newspaper?”
She nodded. “We write . . . I mean she wrote . . . I mean we write opinion columns for the paper. I’m sorry. This is very hard for me.”
“It’s okay. Losing a friend is hard. Just take your time.” Wolfe smiled at her for the first time, something she had been trying to get him to do since their eyes first met.
“I told Ellen about the condo the day it went on the market. I knew she’d want to take a look, it being near the cemetery where her parents are buried. They died three years ago on the day Ellen was killed. They were in a horrible automobile accident. Ellen never got over it.”
“What can you tell me about Barry Woods?”
“He loved her very much. They were going to get married in the summer. They met after her parent’s accident. Barry handled the paperwork—life insurance and settlement of the estate. He’s with West Town Legal, probably the smallest law firm in the city. He specializes in wealth management.”
“A lawyer, I see. They planned to get married, you said?” Wolfe aimed her.
“Yes. He always says he fell in love with Ellen the day they met. He waited six months before calling her. He said he wanted to give her time—her loss and all. I think Barry needed time to get up the nerve to call her. He worshipped Ellen. I hope he will be okay.”
“Do you know how much wealth?” Wolfe probed.
“Ellen told me once. I recall it being around $300,000.”
“Good. Did Barry and Ellen live together?” Wolfe knew the answer—testing openness.
“Yes. Three months.”
Good. No hesitation. I can—
She reached out and touched Wolfe’s hand holding the pen. His eyes lifted from his small leather notepad. “Is Barry going to be all right? I heard he was hurt. He fought the killer.”
“Who told you he fought the killer?” Wolfe asked.
She pulled back and sat up unsure. “It was one of the young policemen. He mentioned it to me that night. He was going around looking for witnesses and friends of Ellen and Barry. Please, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. He said it was his opinion—that it didn’t mean much.”
“He’s not in trouble, Miss Day. Do you recall the officer’s name?”
“It was Officer Trent, William Trent,” she said with a nervous smile as Wolfe wrote.
I need to keep an eye on Officer William Trent. He’s the only one who got the crime scene right. “Do you know if Ellen Dumont had enemies, someone bothering her like an old boyfriend or neighbor?”
“No old boyfriends or neighbor issues, Detective. Ellen was a nice person. She stopped dating when her parents were killed. She just went to work, wrote her column, and wal
ked Presley. She went to the Wunders Cemetery every day. I guess the rest of the time she was with Barry or in her condo or at the library doing research for her column.”
“What kind of column did she write?” Wolfe asked.
“Local events. Light politics. In the beginning. A few years ago she changed focus. Took on causes—rescue animals, helping the homeless, feeding the hungry, protecting the poor from invasion of human rights—things like that.”
Sally Day leaned back on the sofa and adjusted the hem of her skirt with a smile. She was a selective and determined woman. Few men made it inside her condo. Those who did spent the night—one time. She continued to look for the one she wanted to stay.
“Over the last year Ellen wrote about the gross injustices of the legal system.”
Wolfe’s eyes froze. This could be important. Did she get on someone’s radar? Did she irritate the wrong people? “What gross injustices?” he asked.
“The most horrific homicides committed by the sickest killers with long felony records. The people caught red-handed.”
“Killers caught red-handed,” Wolfe said under his breath. “Explain her—”
“Our criminal justice system fails too often. It fails to take real predators off our streets. Ellen called them ‘monsters with serial intent’. She said some people are like wild animals, human carnivores. They kill, get caught, get put in jail, and get out for all sorts of crazy reasons. Then they kill again and again. Her column focused on those cases. She did her research and revealed the legal technicalities that tossed vital evidence or minimized eyewitness accounts. She showed how creative defense attorneys tied the legal system into knots. She shined a light on how they made monsters look like misunderstood citizens in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I save all the op-eds. Her series was entitled—Serial Intent. I can give them to you. She did extensive and detailed research on each case. I’m sure it’s in her files at the Tribune.
I suspect Frank Pazrro was a recent topic in her columns—that’s an easy check, Wolfe thought. Miss Dumont was stirring a dangerous pot in this town. I wonder if her work can point me to someone on the dark side of the legal community, someone who would engage a sniper, someone with more than a passing interest in Eric Ramsey and James Pender.
“Did Miss Dumont get threats?” Wolfe asked again.
“Yes. She got threatened all the time. My God, I’m such an idiot. How could I not think of that when you first asked me that question?”
“Sometimes the obvious is not so obvious, when one loses a friend or family member. Our minds can do some crazy things. Tell me about the threats you know about.”
“We both get hate mail. I didn’t think of it because we never took it seriously. I suppose if we did, we would do nothing but worry. Threatening phone calls, I have no idea how many of those came in each day. The Tribune screens everything. I used to think it was a service. We later realized it was probably their way to keep us writing—no distractions.”
“We will get with the paper on those calls,” Wolfe said. “You’ve been helpful. I appreciate it.” Wolfe got to his feet.
“Would you like a drink? Surely you don’t work twenty-four hours a day.”
“I would love a drink—” He checked his phone, a text message from Crowley. STUCK IN SNOW OUTSIDE CITY. HUTSON MIA. CHECK SORENSEN BROWNSTONE. SEE ADDRESS. MISSING PERSON NOW HOMICIDE. “—but I have to take care of something.” Wolfe pocketed his cell. She walked him to the door.
“Maybe you can come back after you take care of business, Detective.”
He turned to her at the door. “I do have one more question, Miss Day,” he said.
She smiled and stepped closer. “Sally, please.”
“Sally. How did Barry Woods feel about Ellen Dumont’s op-ed focus—the deteriorating state of the criminal justice system?”
She leaned inches from his chin and looked up with glassy eyes. “Barry applauded her work. He understood the problems better than most. Barry graduated Harvard Law School, top ten percent of his class.”
“Interesting. And he chose a small law firm,” Wolfe said as he lost himself in her eyes.
“He said the American criminal justice system is severely flawed for today’s world. Even if there was agreement, the fix would take decades—corrective rulings and acts of congress. He said it would be like shoveling sand in a tsunami. Barry co-authored several of Ellen’s most recent columns. She even gave him credit in the byline.”
He took a cold quiet walk to the car feeling her eyes on him from the only lighted window in the complex. Sally Day had no intention of hiding her interest, but Wolfe had a new set of problems rolling around his head. Maybe both Ellen Dumont and Barry Woods were supposed to die that night. Maybe Frank Pazrro blew it. Maybe that failure put a bullet in his head. The list of potential motives grew.
Wolfe slid into his car and turned on the ignition changing his focus. Where in the hell are you Hutson? He wondered. And where in the hell’s Sorensen’s brownstone in this snow city?
He rolled from the curb crushing ice under his tires. He turned an eye to Sally Day still standing in her window. Wolfe smiled. He would be back and she knew it.
* * *
“What in the hell did you get yourself into now?” He stood at the opened door.
The pile of rags next to Hutson turned out to be an old lady. Wolfe reached down and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. He grabbed Hutson’s calf with the other and pulled him from the back of the closet. “What’re you doing—hiding?” he teased.
Wolfe pressed two fingers on the old lady’s carotid artery. “She’s alive,” he muttered and turned back to Hutson. “I’ll get you in a minute. Looks like just a bump on your head.”
He pulled out his cell and tapped 911. “We need an ambulance at—ah—get the location off my phone GPS?” He waited for confirmation.
“Good. Okay, this is Detective Aaron Wolfe, Chicago Homicide. Everyone’s alive, but I have an old lady in a catatonic state, a strong pulse and breathing. I’ve got a CPD detective with a bump on his noggin and a shiner—lucid.” He pulled the gag off Hutson’s face.
“Wolfe,” Hutson gasped. “Wolfe, be careful. He may still be here. The guy who did this may be in the brownstone. I heard sounds.”
Wolfe nodded, pocketed his cell, and pulled out his Glock. “Stay here,” he whispered. “Don’t go anywhere or I might shoot you.” He closed the closet door.
A few minutes passed before red lights washed into the living room and hit the wood floor in the hallway. Hutson heard Wolfe talking. He heard him tell the paramedics the place was secured. The closet door swung open. They took care of Mrs. Sorensen first.
Wolfe climbed in the closet, untied Hutson, and sat him up. Those ropes weren’t very tight. He should have been able to get out of ’em. Wolfe studied the man he knew for ten years. “They need to take a look at you, Joe. Don’t try to get up.”
“I’m okay. I remember things, Wolfe. I gotta talk.” Hutson tried to stand and fell back down. “I gotta talk, Wolfe.”
“First, you need to sit your butt down right here and let them check you out, Joe. You’re no good to me unconscious. You could have a stroke or heart attack—throw a blood clot. You could die from a concussion—uncontrolled bleeding in your head. Or it could turn you into a vegetable, Joe. Or one of those—”
“Jesus Christ, Wolfe,” Hutson boomed. “Fine! I will stay here. I won’t move.”
Wolfe winked at the paramedics as they surrounded Hutson with their stethoscopes, blood pressure paraphernalia, tape and bandages, and IV starter set. Wolfe knew Hutson had lost some blood. They would hook up an IV and give him normal saline to restore fluids.
After setting the IV and confirming no major injuries, the paramedics backed out and Wolfe went into the closet. “They said we can walk to the ambulance when you’re ready, or I can take you to the ER later. We will need a doctor to take a look at you tonight.”
“Can I tak
e this thermometer out of my mouth,” Hutson mumbled.
“Hell yes. I told them to leave it there to shut you up a while.” Joe pulled it out and threw it on the floor. “What happened here? Don’t leave anything out. You’re on the other side of the investigation, a victim.”
Hutson stared at his cell phone. “Damn, I just saw this text from Crowley. They found my missing person—Dr. Jacques Sorensen.”
“That’s a start,” Wolfe said.
“They found him dead in Algonquin. Crowley says it’s a homicide.”
“I remember the Sorensen case posted this morning—missing person reported Saturday. You took the case. How did Crowley get involved?”
Hutson touched his puffy eyelid and winced. “I must have been unconscious when Ben sent me this. I sent him a text first—needed help. I had asked him to send the Algonquin PD to the Sorensen cabin. I thought the old man could be there. I guess I’ve been in this closet all day. I’ve got no sense of time. I don’t know when I regained consciousness.”
Hutson grabbed Wolfe’s arm in desperation. “The old lady—Mrs. Sorensen—is she okay? Is she dead, Wolfe? Tell me the truth. Don’t hold back. I can handle it.”
“She’s alive, Joe. No trauma. Whoever put her in here with you was careful. There was a folded blanket under her. She didn’t lie on the hard wood like you, and she was not tied up. They liked her better than you,” Wolfe poked.
“I bet she fainted,” Hutson muttered. “Probably fell asleep after that like old people do—you know they sleep on and off most of the day?”
From the closet Hutson saw her waking up on the gurney in the living room. “Wolfe, I don’t know a lot, but I think I know some things. I gotta tell you now or I could forget it. You know I’m not good at remembering.”
“Okay, but slow down. We’ve got time to talk. When you’re ready to move into the living room, I think you will be more comfortable.”
“I want to stay here until they leave,” Hutson whispered.
“That’s fine,” Wolfe said.
Serial Intent Page 8
