Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  “No. Well, I don’t know,” Mason replied. “I didn’t get that far.”

  Peters chuckled. “We’re focusing on small stuff. Wolfe is not near the problem Dario is for us as individuals and an organization. It’s one thing to want to cover our butts. It’s another thing to protect our mission.”

  Mrs. Sorensen held up a hand. The room turned to her. Her age had no impact on her intellect or energy. Hiding both from the world was a challenging task. “We need to make some decisions—how do we want to proceed? There are several actionable items on the table requiring a vote. I think a show of hands on each will suffice.”

  “We are going to vote so all can see?” Mason asked.

  Margaret controlled the room. “Yes. There is no reason to hide our views—the majority rules here. For future matters, it will be helpful to know positions on these delicate matters.” She looked at her notes. “Should Lindsey Fetter be terminated for violating rule twenty-seven, discussing Dario Group secrets and mission with law enforcement? All in favor raise your hand.” She waited. “Okay, all opposed. Thank you Mr. Peters for the one vote to terminate Mrs. Fetter. However, the majority wants no action taken. The matter is closed.

  “Next, I believe we should decide if we wish to eliminate rule twenty-seven. All in favor of keeping the rule raise your hand.”

  All hands went up, except Lindsey Fetter’s.

  “Okay. Rule twenty-seven stays. However, I will amend it to allow for an ‘approval of action’ meeting with all members prior to enforcement. Possibly Mr. Woods would have received the same generous consideration as Mrs. Fetter.”

  “I can’t believe that young man is dead,” Mason sighed. “A terrible mistake.”

  “We have lost our sniper,” Mrs. Sorensen pushed onward. “I propose we put our pending clients on hold until we refill the position. I will contact our people in Detroit.”

  “We should employ three,” Dunn said.

  “That is an expensive and risky proposition,” Mrs. Sorensen said. “Why three?”

  “Our immediate focus must be to eliminate Dario. Although the CPD are hunting this man, the addition of three snipers with special skills could bring this dangerous period to a close much faster.”

  “I agree with Dunn,” Peters said.

  “I agree with Charlie,” Mason said. “We don’t know Dario.”

  “May I see a show of hands from those members who agree with Mr. Peters, Mr. Dunn, and Mr. Mason?” Sorensen asked.

  All hands went up except Fetter's and Day's.

  “We have a majority. I will hire three snipers,” she said without referencing Dario as the reason for the additions. “Ladies, may I ask why you did not vote in favor of this action?”

  Lindsey Fetter looked at Sally Day and then Margaret. “We don’t know if Dario killed your husband. If he did, we don’t know why. I’m sorry. We are not suggesting Dr. Sorensen deserved to die. We just do not know any of the facts surrounding his death or Dario’s actions. It would be wrong to order the termination of a life with no facts.

  “Regarding Norman Levitt, he was terminated after killing Barry Woods, a man who never hurt anyone. It is possible Dario did us a service. Maybe Mr. Levitt is the only monster.”

  Mrs. Sorensen would keep her Dario secrets for another time. The fire popped in the quiet room. Heads hung except for the one outside. He stood in the snow looking in the window. He always knew about the houses on Birch.

  Eighteen

  “That man’s going to die out there.”

  Commander Landers stormed out of the private room off ICU and marched up to the front desk. Ben Crowley and Joe Hutson followed at a safe distance. “Who the hell said Detective Aaron Wolfe could leave this facility? I want to talk to that doctor right now.”

  The floor nurse in charge was not impressed. She got yelled at everyday by the best. She had no plans to take orders from anyone who could not affect her pay scale. “Back off, mister. I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about. If you want my help, I’d start over and take it down a few notches.”

  Crowley stepped between Landers and the floor nurse. He read the plastic nameplate in a flash. “Nurse Pamela Rooster—”

  “It’s Pamela ROUTSER, mister—R O U T S E R. And it is head nurse.”

  “Of course. Excuse me. Head Nurse Miss Routser,” Crowley said ignoring nudges and pokes in the back from Landers. “Please ma’am, we are with the Chicago PD. We were expecting to find Detective Aaron Wolfe in room 432. We left there an hour ago. He was in an unconscious state. We went down for a bite and returned. His bed’s empty. The IV line is hanging from a full bag of something dripping on the floor, and all his things are missing. Was he taken somewhere like x-ray or for tests? We must know if Mr. Wolfe is somewhere else in the hospital, or if he has left on his own account.”

  Routser looked at her clipboard and flipped a few pages. “Nope. He is still assigned to room 432. Mr. Wolfe should not be moved. His next examination is scheduled for 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. That assumes he makes it through the night with no events.”

  “Then where is he? Has he been misplaced? Did he leave?” Crowley asked.

  “This is not a prison, mister. We don’t have guards walkin’ the halls."

  The three turned and headed for the elevator. Landers huffed, “This is not good.”

  “You know Wolfe. He hates hospitals and rules,” Hutson said. “I’ll bet he woke up, got dressed, and headed home. He does not trust doctors.”

  When the elevator doors opened on the ground level, they walked in silence outside the hospital. The commander put on the brakes. He waved for Hutson and Crowley to follow him off the sidewalk into the snow. They moved into the shadows and out of earshot of hospital pedestrians. “I gotta talk to someone about this,” he muttered.

  “What is it, Commander?”

  “It’s looking like Wolfe killed our sniper.”

  Crowley jerked upright like he had just taken a sharp jab in the back. “What’re you talkin’ about? Wolfe would never kill unless there was no other way, someone’s life in jeopardy. The ME said the sniper was beaten to death, his skull crushed by barehands. You realize what kind of strength that takes? Wolfe couldn’t do that. He called 911 and collapsed.”

  “Yeah,” Hutson said. “Whoever killed the sniper also attacked Wolfe and left him there to die. It took all Wolfe had to make the 911 call.”

  Landers grabbed each coat by the lapel and pulled the two detectives to him. With a look on his face they had never seen before, Landers said, “I met with the ME today. The DNA from the crime scene belongs to the sniper and Wolfe. Nobody else was there.”

  “Then the third guy didn’t bleed,” Hutson said under his breath.

  Landers yanked his coat again. “I find that hard to swallow after seeing the devastation in that garage.” He let go of both and looked up at the black sky for answers. “It had to be one hell of a battle. No blood, no DNA, except the sniper and Wolfe. I don’t see how it—”

  “You’re telling us you think Wolfe’s a killer?” Crowley kicked the snow and turned a full circle. Half way he remembered he was talking to the boss. “Okay, sir. You know Wolfe. I’ve known him my entire life. He moved into my home when he was twelve. His parents died in that apartment fire. He’s had it rough from the start, but Wolfe’s no killer. You know better.”

  “I’m not sayin’ he did it, but we do know he can be a little strange at times,” Hutson said. “You gotta admit he’s an internal guy. I’m just sayin’ if Wolfe killed him, then he’s way stronger than I ever imagined. I saw the crime scene. A cement pillar was missing a chunk like someone pulled it off with their hand. The car parked next to the sniper looked like a bulldozer had run into its side. And how many people can bend a rifle barrel like that?”

  “The sniper got pulverized,” Crowley said. “Beaten to death with wild rage.”

  Landers blew into his cupped hands. “All good points, but consider the whole picture. Wolfe spent that
evening working a triple-homicide, three guys dead from sniper fire. He just worked two other homicides, both dead by sniper fire. That makes five. Then he’s interviewing a witness, Barry Woods.”

  “The boyfriend of the girl killed and raped at Wunders Cemetery,” Hutson said.

  Landers nods. “Right. Woods and Wolfe are leaving the Burnham Hotel together. Bam! Woods takes a bullet in the head. Wolfe tackles Woods. They fly into the alley. Wolfe is trying to pull his witness to safety and discovers the man’s face is gone.

  “Hell yeah, Wolfe is mad,” Landers said. “He sees red. He is not himself. Wolfe went after the shooter he knows killed six people. What would you do if you found that man? Would you cuff him or would you beat the living hell out of him?”

  “I guess I might be judge, jury, and executioner,” Hutson muttered.

  “No way,” Crowley said. “You’re talking about the top homicide investigator in the city for the last ten years. Wolfe may keep things to himself, but he has it together more than most.”

  “Are you sure? Does he have it together?” Landers asked. “We know he went off the deep end five years ago. You’re his friends. You’re Wolfe’s family. He lost it at Lincoln Park.”

  “The Webster House,” Crowley whispered. “We all had a bad day, commander. It was bad. Everyone died. It put all of us into counseling.”

  “It never should have happened. The bastard would not let them go,” Hutson said.

  Landers squeezed his eyelids tight trying to block the memory. He spoke as if he stood alone in the snow a hundred miles away. “Joseph Durbin wanted a million dollars and a city bus. He demanded Stockton Drive be cleared north ten miles. He wanted a helicopter waiting. He said if he saw one police car he would use his MP5 on the Tinsley family—the children first, and then the mother. The father was already dead in their apartment.”

  “We did everything humanly possible,” Crowley said.

  Landers shook his head. “Wolfe was there. He volunteered. He hid on the bus. We all knew it was a death sentence. His chances of saving anybody were small, but we knew Durbin would kill everyone before he got on the chopper. He would kill the pilot. Durbin could fly.”

  “I remember like it was yesterday,” Crowley said.

  Landers blinked his way back into the present. “They all died that day, except Wolfe. He couldn’t deal with it. He felt like he failed and should not have lived.”

  “None of us would have been able to deal with that, commander,” Crowley said. “Wolfe saw everything. Nobody could have saved the children or the mother.”

  Landers nodded. “Wolfe got one shot off—a head shot—but it didn’t kill the bastard right away. Durbin had time to spray the inside of that bus with his MP5.”

  Hutson said, “It was bad but Wolfe got help. He went to all those sessions for two years. I know because we took turns making sure he went.”

  “You’re right,” Crowley said. “He stopped after two years. It’s been three since. He is a different person. I think we all are.”

  “We’ve all seen the change,” Landers said. “I’m concerned because he’s been shutting out the world. He is a loner more than ever.”

  “I say we assume Wolfe is innocent until proven guilty,” Crowley huffed. “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. Let’s focus on how the real killer got away without leaving behind DNA, prints, or any other telltale physical evidence.”

  Hutson shivered and coughed as he fumbled with his top button. “The killer we’re lookin’ for is a lot stronger than the Aaron Wolfe I know.”

  “Wait a minute,” Crowley said. “What about the PODs? There’s gotta be some eyes on this. We need to get with the POD people and check video streams around the time of the shootings—Chase Tower, Burnham Hotel, and the parking garage on Washington at Clark.”

  “It is standard operating procedure following all homicides,” Landers said. “After filing the police report, the POD command is notified. They are to assess active video feeds in the area of the homicide.”

  “I’m sure they’re behind like everyone else,” Hutson said.

  Landers started walking out of the snow. The other two followed. “Sergeant Irwin is over the POD program,” Landers said. “We go way back. I’ll get him out of bed if I gotta. This is our priority, gentlemen. We gotta see who went into and came out of that parking garage. If we are lucky, the video will tell us everything we need to know.”

  Nineteen

  The walk down the snow-covered driveway onto Birch was long, cold, and quiet. The members of the Dario Group were not friends. They shared an unimaginable world filled with tragedy and pain. All carried emotional baggage, but some held dark secrets with different agendas.

  Frank Peters took his time. He wanted to be at the back of the crowd when they all left Margaret Sorensen’s house that night. He wanted to follow Sally Day, the newest member. He had his eye on her ever since the meeting with Woods and Dumont, the young couple harassed by Frank Pazrro. Peters was twenty years older than Sally Day. She stirred the emotions deep inside that he could not control. Now that Dumont and Woods were gone, Day would be alone.

  As cars started, and red lights turned off Birch onto North Lake, Peters followed Sally Day to her Chevy Malibu. Because she was the first to arrive, she was parked deepest on the dead end and at the edge of the woods. He appeared at her car door grabbing her handle.

  “Oh. Hello, Mr. Peters. I didn’t see you,” Day said catching her breath.

  “Miss Day,” he said. “I’m sorry about your friends. It’s a terrible set of circumstances.” He pushed his Stetson up with one finger and looked down at the beautiful thing he wanted to take home with him.

  “Thank you for that Mr. Peters, but we’ve all lost friends or family. That’s why we are here. We believe there’s a better way to stop evil in the world. I only wish I could have been more help to Ellen and Barry. They were very dear friends. I can’t believe they’re gone.”

  “It’s unfortunate the Dario Group allowed Mr. Woods to be terminated. I don’t think it was right in his case, although he could have jeopardized the group. I guess if we are going to change somethin’ big in the world—like the justice system—we gotta have some rules.”

  As the last set of taillights left Birch, Sally cringed. Standing alone by the woods with a man she did not know felt unsafe. He had only recently joined the group. “I suppose so,” she said. “Well, I need to go. Thank you again for your concern.”

  “Would it help to talk more, Miss Day? I hate to see you go home alone after all this bad news. It’s a dangerous world. A pretty lady like you has men watchin’ your every move. Some are just waitin’ for an opportunity to have their way with you, Miss Day. You know they hurt pretty women like you all the time. I’d be pleased to follow you home and make sure you’re safe until things settle down ’round here.”

  Oh my God. What is he talking about? Is he threatening me or trying to be helpful? I got to get away from him. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Peters. Thank you for the consideration.” She looked down at the door handle. “I need to go.”

  Frank Peters held onto the handle a few uncomfortable seconds beyond normal. When he opened the door, interior lights popped on and captured his blank stare. Sally forced a smile as she slid onto the seat reaching to close the door behind her. Again Peters controlled the door long enough to send shivers up her spine. The old gentleman with the Stetson, who sat in the stuffed chair by the fire moments before, had transformed into a mysterious entity, one with hollow eyes, a chilling presence, and questionable motives.

  He stood by the woods like a scarecrow.

  When she started the car, the doors locked. She nodded and pulled away watching him in her rearview mirror. He did not move all the way to North Lake. She spun her wheels off Birch and disappeared.

  Peters spit in the snow and lumbered up to his Chevy Tahoe. He stood at the grill staring at the only light in Margaret Sorensen’s window, the old lady still sittin
g by the fire. This time she was not knitting. Sorensen was on the phone setting up a meeting with Detroit.

  The drive to Day’s condo took thirty minutes. The Tahoe caught up to the Malibu in ten. She never knew Peters was behind her. You’re like all the others, he thought. You don’t think to look around. You never see us. We’re always watching you pretty things. I remember my first, a most beautiful lady, and a real fighter. I didn’t want to kill her. I just wanted to have some fun. The drinking got out of hand. The sex wasn’t even that good. Come to think, none of it was worth doin’ the first time. I should have cut her loose and left town. Maybe my life would have been different. What made me decide to kill that first time?

  The Malibu exited the main highway and Peters followed. He stayed two cars back. There were a lot of black SUVs in the city. He blended.

  “Why did you kill that girl, Heather Palmer, summer of 1989?” Peters asked himself in his bold voice.

  “Because she said she was tellin’ the cops,” he answered himself. This is crazy. I have this same conversation with you every single day.

  “Then why didn’t you stop after that? Why did you keep hunting ladies, raping ladies, and killing ladies?” He asked this time in the voice of his judge.

  “Well judge, I don’t got no answers. I just like doin’ it. I feel bad sometimes. But most the time I want to do it.”

  “You’re one lousy son of a bitch,” the judge bellowed. “I sentence you to death for the crimes you’ve committed against humanity. You will be tortured first and burned at the stake.”

  Sally Day turned onto West Irving Parkway. Peters knew her address. He would park at the north end of Kenmore. He would have a view of her bedroom window. It was a short walk. Peters had been to Day’s place several times. He walked the different routes to her condo and chose the best for this night. He even had a favorite tree. It was a big one, off the road, the perfect distance away, and surrounded by thick bushes. With his binoculars he could blend even during the day. Peters knew where Day kept her spare key. He borrowed it one day when she was at work. He made a duplicate at the corner hardware store and returned it to her secret hiding place. He went in the condo three times. He knew the layout and her panties drawer by heart.