Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  “They all got out of jail early,” Cranston said. “The five served less than six years for murder. The reduced sentences were accomplished a number of ways—parole for good behavior, obscure governor pardons, special probation, and various and sundry work-release programs not shared with the public.”

  Michaels injected, “Pender and Ramsey committed heinous crimes. Their atrocities were covered by the news media. The other four were less prominent. Their crimes were just as frequent, cold-blooded, and vicious.”

  Fitz poured another scotch. “These five scumbags should have been executed after receiving a fair trial. They finally got what they deserved, a hole in the head.”

  Fourteen

  “Escaping an icy winter wonderland would be difficult if not impossible.”

  * * *

  He watched the last PI get in a taxi. It pulled away from Chase Tower spitting dirty slush onto the salted sidewalk. Their little chat had gone better than expected—PIs tend to be tight lipped. Most information obtained served only to confirm what Wolfe already knew.

  He backed to the curb and looked up at the boarded windows on the twelfth floor. CSI had finished an hour ago. The ME authorized transport of the three in body bags to Cook County morgue—cause of death single gunshot wounds to the head, manner of death homicide. Wolfe did not need to wait for ballistics—.50 caliber, copper jacket, hollow point. He lit a cigarette, raised his collar, and started north on Dearborn.

  When he passed the Truven Health complex, he felt eyes on him. When he turned onto West Calhoun by Adler University, he thought he was being followed. When he turned up North State Street he knew someone was closing from behind.

  The plows had piled the snow high along the curb. After ten, sparse downtown traffic crawled icy streets and sidewalks. Wolfe turned the corner at Washington and hid in the shadow of the building.

  Could it be the sniper? He wondered. No—wouldn’t make sense. Why hang around after your targets are down? What could you possibly want with the homicide guy investigating more of your kills? You’re not gonna risk it. That would interfere with your real agenda. It’s gotta be someone else following me.

  Members of the Marcantonio crime family would be working late. Their patriarch had been eliminated. They had questions that could not wait. Someone would pay. The family would reassert its control. For once in their miserable life the CPD would be working for them. They would hunt Marcantonio’s killer.

  When Wolfe backed into the shadow, it dawned on him he was at the Burnham Hotel. He had parked at the other end of the block. Wolfe leaned back against the cold brick after stepping out his cigarette. The man who rounded the corner did not see him. Wolfe pounced. He pulled his prey into the shadow and crushed him against the wall with a forearm.

  “Who the hell are you?” Wolfe asked while pressing the man’s neck to the bricks and patting him down for a weapon. “Talk to me,” he ordered.

  In the scant light Wolfe saw the face. It was disfigured, bruised, cut, and bandaged. Wolfe saw the swollen eyes below the knit cap. Then it registered. He knew his stalker. “Barry Woods.” Wolfe released neck pressure. “Why’re you here?”

  “I needed to find you.”

  “Why?”

  “We gotta talk,” he said as he choked beneath Wolfe’s forearm.

  “We did. The hospital, remember? You had nothing to say.” Wolfe dropped his arm, brushed his sleeves, and looked up and down Washington Avenue. He turned back to Woods and lit another cigarette. “You’re lucky I didn’t bust your stitches.”

  “Are you closer to identifying the shooter, Detective Wolfe?”

  “What are you talking about? What shooter? This investigation’s only a few hours old. There’s no information out there about a shooter.”

  Woods swallowed. He was as tall as Wolfe but a hundred pounds lighter, and his muscles were rarely used for anything but mobility. “You don’t have to be too smart to figure out what happened here tonight. There’s plywood where windows should be on Chase Tower. Three bodies were taken out in black bags. The FBI and DEA vans are parked everywhere, and the Chicago police are all over the place like ants after someone poked their nest.”

  Wolfe had to agree. They don’t hide much even when they try. “What do you want?”

  “I know William Marcantonio was executed by a sniper tonight,” Woods said, “The same sniper who executed Frank Pazrro and Eric Ramsey.”

  Wolfe straightened grabbed Woods collar and yanked. “Are you in this, Woods?”

  “I’m having second thoughts. I don’t know what to do.” Wolfe let go like he was dropping a small fish back into the water. Woods said, “It was the right thing to do at the time, but it’s gotten out of control. Ellen is dead and it’s my fault.”

  “What are you talking about?” Wolfe stared.

  “She was not supposed to get hurt. She was bait. That was the plan.” Woods dropped his head. “I failed her.”

  Wolfe looked up and down the empty street a second time. “Come with me. We’re going inside the Burnham Hotel. You’re going to tell me everything.”

  “The place is crawling with FBI and DEA. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t—”

  Wolfe grabbed his shoulder and spun him up the sidewalk. “They won’t bother us. They don’t like local homicide boys. We know enough to screw with them.” He let go. “Just stay close and don’t look so damn guilty.”

  Two stuffed chairs by the fireplace off the lobby waited. They removed their coats and sat by the popping fire. “Tell me about your second thoughts and Miss Dumont’s death. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. Should you be unable to afford an attorney, one will be—”

  “I know all that. Remember, I am an attorney. And it’s could be used not can and will be used. I get it. I could tell you that I killed Ellen and you would not be able to use it unless—”

  “Trust me, I’d lie,” Wolfe said as he waved for a drink. Woods appeared to be a stronger personality than the one he showed the night he was beaten to a pulp. “Talk to me.”

  “Ellen writes a column for the Chicago Tribune. A few years ago she read about a man who lost his family—a home invasion. His teenage son was beaten to death. His wife was sexually assaulted and then killed. They left the man for dead. He lived. The outcome of the trial caught Ellen’s attention. The killer was caught and found guilty, but he only got twelve years and served six.”

  “There are always extenuating circumstances. Not everything is as it seems.”

  “Legal tricks got him out, Detective Wolfe. The prints and DNA—the important physical evidence—were thrown out based on trumped-up accusations and creative legal maneuvers. The sole survivor, the husband, had his testimony discredited. The defense convinced the jury the poor man was biased.”

  “Probably supported by a team of doctors,” Wolfe muttered.

  “Yes. Their professional opinion suggested he manufactured the events while in a six month coma. The prosecution was forced to plea bargain or risk setting the guy free. First degree murder became second degree with extenuating circumstances.”

  “You say this case caught Miss Dumont’s attention. So what?”

  “In 2014 there were 419 murders in Chicago, 1,479 criminal assaults, 11,823 robberies, 6,341 aggravated battery, 15,557 thefts, 12,615 motor vehicle thefts, and 2,084 shooting incidents. Sorry, I have a photographic memory,” Woods said.

  “Good for you. Welcome to my world,” Wolfe scoffed.

  “It shocked Ellen to see the level of crime in this city. Like so many, she did not know the extent. She felt she had to do something. Ellen decided to focus on the crime of murder. From 1991 to date the murder rate in this city stayed above 450 a year. That’s when I got interested in the statistics and joined her research. We discovered almost 87 percent of the killers had extensive prior arrest records and awful felony histories.”

  “Is this going anywhere soon?”

  “T
he criminal justice system knows all about these bad people before they kill.”

  “Get to the point, Woods.”

  “But it’s important to—”

  Wolfe turned to the waiter. “Two scotch on rocks.” The waiter disappeared.

  “I don’t drink alcohol,” Woods said.

  “I didn’t get anything for you.” Wolfe lit a cigarette and tossed the match in the fireplace.

  “Maybe a Coke—”

  “Ellen Dumont wrote for the Tribune,” Wolfe said. “One day she finds out about the big nasty city she lives in and decides to make it her cause. She is gonna clean up the rat hole, home of 2.7 million people and a law enforcement agency with small brains. She is so smart she knows we can’t figure out the obvious. Cut to the chase. Tell me how all this got her killed and got you responsible.”

  They paused as two scotches were put on the small table between them. Wolfe slid both to his side. The waiter left them alone again. “Ellen started writing about this, the failures of the criminal justice system,” Woods said. “Her column was entitled—Serial Intent. Each month she focused on one case. As you know, there are plenty to choose from. I started helping with legal research. I could explain the law—like justifiable homicide, first and second degree murder, felony murder rules, the role of prosecution and defense, rights of the accused, jury selection, and plea bargaining—”

  Wolfe crushed a cube between his molars and glared. “You’re killing me. Do you always use so many words to say the obvious? I understand. You’re an attorney, a Harvard man. You know the law. You know the courtroom. You supported your girlfriend by teaching her all that stuff as she wrote her column and got even more pissed off. Now, get on with it.”

  Woods leaned back in the chair and stared at the fire as he spoke. “She got hate mail all the time. She got terrible phone calls at the Tribune. It was routine, mostly from the sick friends of the convicted. It got bad when she wrote about the Janice Franklyn case.”

  Wolfe knew about Franklyn, the young school teacher followed home by a monster. She lived alone in a quiet neighborhood, had her whole life ahead of her. Wolfe was the first homicide detective on the scene—it was a bloodbath. The medical examiner did not find all of Franklyn’s body parts. She had been butchered. Like hiding Easter Eggs, the pieces were all over the house. They did find enough to prove rape and that Frank Pazrro wielded the knife. Like so many, Wolfe had lost track of the human refuse. There were too many active homicides in the city of Chicago to investigate.

  “Frank Pazrro called Ellen at her home,” Woods muttered. “We called the police, but they couldn’t do anything until he did something. Using the phone was not a crime, and the threats were his word against ours. We could not believe the guy was out of prison after six years—good behavior qualified him for some experimental work-release program.”

  “Continue,” Wolfe pushed.

  “We got a call one night, anonymous, an elderly man. He asked if we needed help with Pazrro. He said he was a member of a private organization that protected people from monsters. There was no charge for their services.”

  “Sounds too good to be true,” Wolfe sighed.

  “It did to us, too. We rejected the offer,” Woods said. “Pazrro kept calling. He took great pleasure in describing how he would have his way with Ellen. He said that once she had satisfied all his sexual needs, he would dismember her—remove parts of her body in a way that would keep her alive as long as possible. He wanted Ellen to experience what Franklyn experienced.”

  Woods face turned white as he sunk into the chair. “We found dead animals around the house. First birds, their heads cut off. Then mutilated cats and rabbits. The police came. A report was filed. They talked to Pazrro. He claimed he did not know Ellen Dumont. He said he had no idea why she would say he did such terrible things. He said she was trying to sell newspapers. The police could do nothing.”

  “Another scotch, and add a Coke,” Wolfe said to the waiter standing behind Woods. “Okay, continue counselor.”

  “The man I told you about, the one who offered to help us, he called again. They knew everything Pazrro was doing. They knew the police could do nothing. It happens all the time. He explained the hands of law enforcement were tied—it was not their fault. More often than not they were blocked from protecting and serving the innocent like they wanted. The man on the phone offered a solution. He proposed a meeting. We agreed to listen. We met in an abandoned building on the corner of 64th Street and Green, an old Masonic Lodge building.”

  “When did you meet with the guy?”

  “Midnight, August 27. It was a foggy night in the city—spooky. We almost didn’t go because of the weather. We met in the old crumbling building. Never saw him, though.”

  “How’d he manage that?” Wolfe asked.

  “He stayed in another room. It was dark in there. We understood his desire to hide his identity. We didn’t need to see him. The man spoke through a hole in the wall. He said their anonymity was a requirement. He said he belonged to a secret organization of shepherds for justice. He said they had operations in three cities—Detroit, Memphis, and here.”

  “Wonderful. Do they have a name?” Wolfe asked.

  “The Dario Group, I had never heard of them before.”

  Dario! Wolfe took a swallow of scotch. A possible connection.

  “He said they weren’t listed anywhere. Unlike most people frustrated with the judicial system, the Dario Group has a singular mission. They represent victims and protect survivors. They talk about serial intent—those people who intend to kill often.”

  “Interesting,” Wolfe said. “That’s the same mission of law enforcement and our judicial system minus the subjective judgement of vigilantes.”

  “They don’t believe you guys have done a very good job with the real monsters.”

  “Real monsters—you’ve used that a few times. What’s their definition?” Wolfe asked.

  “I said they are known serial killers that the criminal justice system cannot or will not keep out of society. The Dario Group is done waiting.”

  “Nice,” Wolfe muttered. “I assume Frank Pazrro is one with serial intent.”

  “Yes. He qualified. The Dario Group does their research. Pazrro killed five times. His legal representation got him off two times on legal technicalities, and two times witnesses disappeared. The fifth time their representatives pleaded down to second degree—six years.”

  “The Dario Group has their own legal experts.”

  “Yes they do. And they are not encumbered by a fledgling legal process hell bent on eliminating proof to insure the most horrific serial killers get a fair trial at the cost of justice.”

  “Enough on philosophy, tell me about the process,” Wolfe pushed.

  “First, we had a planning meeting to decide the best way to handle Mr. Pazrro and his death threats. We agreed it best to terminate Pazrro. He would never change.”

  “There’s a surprise,” Wolfe said under his breath.

  “We would lure Pazrro to a designated location—the Wunders Cemetery. Once there, it was my responsibility to kill him.”

  “Really, I didn’t see that coming.”

  “They were very clear on that procedural point. The Dario Group was not in the business of killing people. They were researchers, organizers, coordinators, and protectors. If the victim was unwilling to kill their monster, the project was unworthy of their time.”

  “So this Dario Group gets you all fired up with a plan, then they put you out there alone? And you didn’t walk away?”

  “We did walk away. I couldn’t kill anyone. But Pazrro didn’t walk away. He increased his harassment, his relentless threats. I became convinced he would hurt Ellen. She was too exposed. So, we reconnected with the Dario Group.”

  “You agreed you would stop Frank Pazrro, a hideous serial killer? No offense Woods, but I’ve had more fight from girls than I had pinning you to the wall.”

  “I am not a fighter. I had t
o prepare.”

  “I would think so,” Wolfe said. “Guess you stopped working out.”

  “I was given instructions. The knife you found at the crime scene belonged to me.”

  “This is not going to help you.”

  “Ellen was to let it be known she walks her dog in the cemetery every night alone. Each night for weeks I went first, entered the cemetery from the back. I hid behind a large grave marker with my knife. I waited for him.

  “Then it happened. Yes. Pazrro was more than I could handle. He knocked me out.”

  Woods dropped his head. “I regained consciousness and saw him on top of Ellen.” Woods looked up at Wolfe. “Pazrro was raping her. She was not moving.” Woods squeezed the arms of his chair. “I went crazy. We fought a long time. He was about to kill me. Headlights moved through the cemetery, someone going by I guess. He kicked me in the head and ran off. I called 911 and passed out.” Woods sunk deeper into his chair.

  Wolfe casually surveyed the lobby. He saw DEA activity, but they were leaving them alone. “You’re a smart guy, a Harvard grad. I don’t get it. How did you convince yourself you had a chance against a killing machine like Pazrro?”

  “I knew I couldn’t stop him,” Woods said. “But the Dario Group said I had to try. For Ellen’s sake, I had to show we were willing. They would cover my back. They didn’t tell me how, but I believed they would be there for us if necessary.”

  That explains the sniper, Wolfe thought.

  “I lost Ellen. They were late. They shot him in the head too late,” Woods mumbled.

  That information has not been released. “How do you know this?” Wolfe asked.

  “A phone call at the hospital.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Don’t worry. I know the information is not out there,” Woods said.