The dieners passed organs to the ME for inspection. After the external examination and weighing, he carved each like a Christmas turkey and selected a representative tissue sample for microscopic examination to take place later in the day. Each sample was preserved in a labeled jar of formalin for processing in the forensic histology lab. This time Dr. Provost demanded his slides be ready by noon. He had to eliminate disease process from the list of possibilities rolling around his head. Although this John Doe was a healthy male in his thirties, well nourished, athletic, and normal in all ways, the ME had never seen the extent and nature of the injuries produced by hand-to-hand combat as described by the CPD.
“I don’t need to tell you they’re waiting,” Winston Foster said from the edge of the light by the head of the deceased. His words were meant for Provost.
With his nose in the empty cranial cavity, the ME held up one finger.
The only people talking during a Provost inquest were the medical examiner and the field agent who handled the case, unless Provost asked a question of a member of his medical team. Winston Foster was brought to Chicago by Provost on the day Provost accepted the position of Chief Medical Examiner for Cook County. Winston was the best forensic investigator Provost had ever encountered in his thirty years.
The introverted man trapped in a boy’s body—a sinewy stature, long unkempt wavy hair, long narrow face, and small nose supporting oversized round glasses—looked more like the quiet neighborhood nerd employed by a major fast food franchise. Winston looked like he could screw up an order of cheese fries. Instead, he was a forensic investigation genius often the most pivotal contributor in Provost’s rulings on his most complex cases. Without Winston’s field expertise, the ME could miss too much on the autopsy table.
Provost backed out of the cranial cavity wiping his bloody gloves on another towel. The two stared at John Doe under the LED lights. They had another difficult one. “The CPD is always waiting. I can’t rush these things. You know that.”
“Yes. I know that, but they don’t.” Winston breathed.
Provost turned the deceased’s head on its side and examined the hole pushed into the temple. It was the size of a thumb. From the corner of his eyes he saw Winston push his glasses up the bridge of his nose and step back. Provost knew it was time he listened. “Talk to me Winston. What’s going on in that mind of yours,” he said as he hovered over the body.
“The person who killed John Doe is not your average strong guy with martial arts expertise. The crime scene—the damage in that parking garage off East Washington—is epic.”
“Epic!” Provost said snapping his other glove. “That’s a word I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you use,” he said with a turn of the head and curious smile under his paper mask.
“The cement column near the body was missing a significant chunk of concrete.”
“I see. But, what do we really know about it, Winston? It could have been damaged by a car prior to the killing. People are running into those things all the time. I need more.”
“It’s not old. And it’s not mechanically induced. CSI is taking samples for closer examination. We are checking for prints and DNA.”
“Fingerprints? DNA?” Provost rose up from the corpse and turned to his field agent. “Why would you go to such great lengths with random rubble? What does it have to do with the killing? Where are you going with this?”
Winston kept staring at the head without a brain. “I think the killer removed a chunk of cement from the pillar. I think he did it with his hand.”
“It must be an old pillar.”
“We have seen a lot of strange things. This is important because whoever did that is still out there, the person who killed John Doe. He has incredible strength and rage. I think this guy got beaten to death by someone who is very angry and not done.”
“I’m seeing the rage,” Provost muttered. “The bruising all over the body. I believe the killer held him by his ankles and swung him like a ragdoll into the ground a dozen times.”
“There was blood spray twenty feet from the body. The floor of the parking garage looked like the floor of a slaughter house. I never saw so much blood from one victim.”
“This is not good,” Provost said as he looked at the deceased’s hands for defensive wounds—there were none. “Wrists are broken.”
“There was a rifle at the crime scene—the Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle.”
“I heard. I understand ballistics has it now. I’m sure we’ll find it connects to the other sniper kills that night.” Provost looked over at the chalkboard on the wall, the list of pending cases. “Mr. Marcantonio, his two bodyguards, and a man by the name of Barry Woods. All head wounds. Sniper fire.”
Winston checked his notes. “Eric Ramsey, James Pender, Jake Newman, Charles Bordon, and Frank Pazrro are the other .50 caliber GSWs to the head in the city over the last six months.”
“Commander Landers wants to get with me later this afternoon to compare notes. I would like you there, Winston.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If John Doe is the sniper, we should see an end to the exploding heads around here. That would be lovely,” Provost said under his breath as he considered the next case.
“Have you seen the Barrett rifle?” Winston asked.
“No. I came here from the airport. These homicides are priority.” Provost accepted the bloody heart from a diener. He rinsed it off and studied the tissue and structures under the brightest light—each ventricle, atria, and coronary artery. “Pink. Pliable. Perfect. The poor guy could have lived to a hundred. Probably a runner. Too bad.
“What about the rifle, Winston?”
“The condition of the rifle is another reason why I’m asking for a closer look at the cement pillar,” Winston said. “The barrel was bent 180 degrees in the middle. The rifle was hung on an antenna, a random car parked next to the body. The killer is sending us a message, sir.”
Provost passed the heart to the histologist and turned to his field agent. Resting his bloody hands on his bloody scrubs above his protruding stomach, he smiled. “Sometimes you wait far too long for me to catch up, Winston. We’ve talked about this before.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you saying the sniper in Chicago is John Doe? Are you saying although he’s a heinous killer, you believe he is far less dangerous than the man who killed him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you are saying this unusually strong and angry person will likely wreak more havoc upon our city, more than anyone can imagine at the moment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are urging me and the CPD to not mess around. We must examine each and every clue to identify and locate this man post haste.”
“They found Detective Aaron Wolfe in the parking garage one row over. He is still unconscious. The CPD believe after Barry Woods was shot, Wolfe pursued the sniper. They say it appears Wolfe got to the parking garage while the fight was underway. Wolfe’s blood and prints were all over. He was a participant in the fight. The CPD was surprised Wolfe found the strength to call 911 before he collapsed. He is in ICU.”
Provost’s eyes narrowed. “Detective Wolfe—ICU?”
“Yes, sir. But there’s something more you should know,” Winston whispered.
Provost turned. “What more?” Then he saw Winston’s face, the look that said empty the room. Oh God . . .
“Ladies and gentlemen, I must ask you to leave us alone. You may leave your things where they are. We need about fifteen, please. Thank you.”
The two waited in silence over the body until the last door muffled closed. They listened to the laminar airflow fans another minute.
“Okay. We’re good now. What is it, Winston?” Provost asked.
“It’s peculiar, sir. I’m not sure what it means, or if it means anything.”
“I can appreciate that. Go ahead. We will sort it out together,” Provost reassured.
“The blood and DNA found at th
e death scene—”
“Yes. What about it?”
“—although we’re still waiting for finalization of the DNA analysis, the preliminary results are confusing. The only matches we are getting are John Doe and Detective Wolfe.”
“That’s impossible,” Provost said.
“Is it?” Winston muttered.
Seventeen
“Someone killed Levitt! I did not see that one coming. The guy’s a professional.”
People living in the Miller Beach area east of Gary want privacy more than anything else. Outsiders are rare. There are only two reasons to turn off North Lake east onto Birch, either you are lost or you are a member of a secret organization—the Dario Group.
In 1975 the Sorensens purchased the house at the dead end on Birch. Ten years later they purchased the one across the street. They wanted complete privacy, and they had money to burn. Jacques Sorensen’s booming psychiatric practice needed tax shelters. Although poor liquidity, real estate offered the best opportunity to hide money for extended periods. The cabin in Algonquin belonged to Jacques. The two worn down houses on Birch belonged to Margaret. To maintain secrecy, they were deeded to her dead stepmother.
“Is anybody gonna say something?” Charlie Dunn prodded the group.
Robert Mason looked around the dismal living room in the tired house. The pitiful fire across from him produced cartoon shadows on the walls and little heat. Amidst the backdrop of torn sagging curtains and peeling wallpaper, all heads hung except Margaret’s. “I think Charlie’s right,” Mason said. “We need to talk. No one signed up for this. There’s a dangerous man out there. Mr. Levitt was a professional and now he’s dead. We’re out of business, and I think we’re being hunted.”
“There’s a good chance that psycho killed your husband, Mrs. Sorensen,” Dunn added.
“The newspaper said you and a Chicago homicide detective were found tied up in a closet,” Mason said. “Although the police are not saying it, they think the person who killed your husband came for a visit. You need to tell us. Who came to see you? What did he want? Why did he put you in the closet?”
Margaret stared out the window as if she could see through the snow-filled stick woods all the way to Calumet Lagoon. Years ago she and Jacques hiked the rabbit trails and had picnics on the beach. They talked for hours. Back then they had big dreams. Now it was different. Now everything was dead or dying.
“Jacques knew the risks,” she whispered. “He took on a patient, one he should have referred. He couldn’t help himself. The case was so very different and special, a unique combination of psychiatric and physical manifestations completely new to medical science. Jacques tried to make progress, but he failed. He was tired. He made a decision to transfer his patient to younger more capable doctors. He reluctantly had to step away from what would have been his greatest contribution to psychiatric medicine.”
Margaret sipped her steaming tea and cradled the warm cup in her lap. “This patient proved to be far more than he could handle at the end.” Far more than either of us could handle in a lifetime, she thought with eyes on the fire.
“Who is he? What is he?” Mason asked. “And is he coming for us?”
“I don’t have all the answers,” Mrs. Sorensen said.
“How can a doctor take care of a patient with no identity?” Dunn pushed.
“I cannot speak for my husband. I can only tell you this patient can change from very weak to very strong, from gentle to angry, and from subdued to dangerous. Jacques explained the changes as being beyond known science.”
“This situation is inexcusable,” Dunn said.
“Do you see why the people in this room believe we are being hunted?” Mason asked.
Margaret continued to stare into the fire. “Jacques said when he was with this patient he felt exposed—like standing in a tiger’s cage with a raw steak hanging around his neck.”
“Then why’d he do it?” Dunn barked.
“He was a psychiatrist. He had to know why a man was a tiger,” she said.
“The patient has a name,” Mason said.
“He calls himself Dario.”
“My God in heaven,” Dunn gasped. “Have mercy upon our souls. We are all going to die horrible deaths.”
“He read Jacques’s diary,” Margaret said. “He came to the brownstone to give it to me. We did not talk. We started to, but he changed before my eyes. I fainted.”
“And you and a homicide detective end up in a closet,” Mason said. “I read that in the newspaper, but nothing about Dario.”
“Dario is a confused man,” she said. “I believe he has adopted our mission—to kill all the monsters. I’m afraid I do not know his definition of monster.”
“It appears he has defined your husband and our sniper as monsters,” Mason said.
“We’re screwed,” Dunn gasped. “We are associated with both.”
“You should take comfort in knowing he did not kill me or the detective,” Margaret said. “We were left alive in my closet.”
“That is true,” Mason said.
“Our mission has not changed,” Mrs. Sorensen said turning to the group. “There is no turning back. We have had many successes, all in accordance with our bylaws. Some of the most heinous killers in our city have been eliminated. We should hold our heads high. The Dario Group is protecting and serving survivors of great tragedies. We are doing what our criminal justice system has failed to do.”
The room fell quiet as they digested the words that had brought them there—personal loss, pain, and a commitment to find justice denied.
Charlie Dunn broke the silence. “I never really understood the genesis of our name—Dario Group. Now it’s tied to a psycho. We should come up with another.”
“Our name is in honor of the Dario child taken in 1980. The boy was mutilated. They caught the killer. He was convicted and sentenced to life in prison, but he got out on good behavior. That monster found and killed the grieving family. On that day Jacques and I decided we would fix a broken criminal justice system. The Dario Group was born in 1987.”
“If your husband had not made mistakes, we would not be sitting here worried about our survival,” Mason said looking around the room at troubled faces. “I can’t speak for anyone but me. Mr. Peters, say something. Mrs. Johnston, what do you think about this? Mr. Crothers, Mrs. Fetter, Miss Day, someone please speak up.”
Peters cleared his throat. Heads turned to the old Texan wearing the brown flannel shirt and black Stetson. “I share your frustration Mason, but I don’t see how anything’s changed ’round here. We still have terrible people out there to put in the ground.”
“I know our mission,” Mason replied. “The problem is Dario. He is going to do more bad things. He’s unpredictable and wild.”
“He seems to operate on his own,” Sally Day said. “I agree with Mr. Dunn and Mr. Mason. We could be in danger. This man named Dario could be hunting us.”
“This Dario character adds a major wrinkle,” Dunn said. “I think he killed Dr. Sorensen. We know he killed our expensive sniper. What we don’t know is his thinking. Without a sniper on the payroll we can’t take care of business and we can’t stop him.”
“Dario went after our sniper because he shot Barry Woods, an innocent man,” Mason said. “When Levitt was shooting serial killers, this Dario guy left him alone.”
“But Barry Woods talked to a Chicago homicide detective about our group. He knew better,” Peters said. “It’s stated very clearly in our bylaws. It’s in the contract we all signed. We are not permitted to talk to law enforcement about the existence of the Dario Group.”
“I’m sorry but we can’t start killing innocent people,” Mason said. “The boy lost his girlfriend. He had been beaten up bad. If he had not screwed things up, Ellen Dumont would be alive today. I’m sure he wished he had died at the cemetery, not the girl he loved. The man was in shock, heartbroken. So what if he talks to the police? He should not have been executed.”
“No dear,” Mrs. Sorensen said. “You had to talk to the detective. Your case is still being investigated and the police are doing their jobs. You did not go to the police.”
“I asked a detective to come to my place to talk. All of this is hard for me. I told him two men came to me the night Ramsey was shot. I explained they gave me a gun and told me I had a choice to kill Ramsey or to leave Chicago. I told the detective there was a group that could no longer live with our inadequate justice system.”
“Nothing Miss Fetter said can help the police find us,” Mason said. “So what if there are people in the world keeping track of released criminals and helping victims? There’s no law against it. There’s no reason to do anything to Miss Fetter.”
Margaret Sorensen took a deep breath. “Why did you call the detective, Lindsey?”
She sat down on the tattered sofa. “I know him. He’s like me. He hates the failures of the legal system. His life is about putting dangerous people in jail. He sees too many of them beating the system, and he sees too many innocent people dying. I thought he would understand. I thought he would want to help us.”
“Did he understand?” Sorensen asked.
“Yes.”
“Does he want to help?” Sorensen asked.
Lindsey swallowed hard. “I don’t know. He had to leave. He is thinking about it.”
“Who are we talking about,” Dunn asked.
“Detective Aaron Wolfe,” Fetter said.
Mason got up and poured a drink. “That’s just great. Aaron Wolfe happens to be the top homicide guy in the city. He’s a very smart man.”
“Are you suggesting we need to find a way to stop him?” Peters asked.
Serial Intent Page 13
