Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  The snow whipped into the room and snaked through the house. Now there were more ways into the house: the hole in the dining room, two windows, and the kitchen back door. Jevon returned to the den and positioned himself behind Sorensen—the person they would try to save.

  “You like being hunted?” she pushed.

  “Be quiet ole’ lady, or I’m gonna take time now for you.” Whoever got Deke and Liddell, they had to get ’em one at a time. Ain’t no way they take both of ’em at the same time. And ain’t no way they take Andre’ down easy. That ain’t ever gonna happen. That boy’s smart and strong as five. He’ll fight after he’s dead.

  “You want a chance to live, Mr. Jevon? You want me to call off my people?” she asked.

  Jevon came up to the back of her stuffed chair. He reached over her shoulder, smelled her hair, and put his blade to her throat. Watching the archway and the dark entry to the kitchen he whispered, “You gonna call everyone off, old lady. You gonna do it now or I stick my knife in ya belly. I don’t care what happen to me. I ain’t afraid to die. But you, it gonna hurt bad and ya gonna live a while. The next stick gonna be in ya chest. It gonna hurt, too. And while you be thinkin’ ’bout that, I’m gonna carve my name on your face.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work,” she said.

  He dragged the tip of his knife down her shoulder. Blood flowed from the four inch cut in her skin. “Oh God!” She gasped. Her eyes watering as she struggled for air and her surroundings faded. Then he put the metal tip on her other shoulder and pushed. Blood broke to the surface. A drop rolled down her chest. “No,” she screamed. “Please. I can’t take—”

  “Ya get ya people to back off. Tell them to send in Andre’ and they go home now. We gonna go back to Detroit. We got two and ya got two—we be even. I tell Doran we worked it out, reached agreement. Ya good for the money.”

  Stunned and lost, Margaret Sorensen shivered in pain.

  “If ya don’t want the deal, the next place you feel my knife is ya belly.” He cackled in her ear. “Ya think ya shoulder hurts, ole’ lady? I promise ya the belly hurts more. Ya don’t want me to—”

  “Okay. I accept your proposal. I will do it your way.” I’m not made for this. I’m too old. I can’t handle the pain.

  “Tell ’em back off—go home. All’s good here. No one else dies. Tell ’em to send Andre’ in here, now. No tricks, ole’ lady.” Jevon leaned over Sorensen and put the tip of his knife to her stomach. “One mistake, one surprise, the knife goes in. I do it before I die, ole’ lady.”

  “Please stop out there,” Sorensen yelled into the night. “Stop now. We have reached an agreement. No one else dies. Go home now. They will let me go when you leave, and only if you send Andre’ in here now, alone. Please. No tricks. No surprises. This is an order.”

  The next ten seconds of silence were like ten hours in hell. The frigid winds transformed the warm cottage into a walk-in refrigerator. The fire battled to stay alive, candles flickered, and shadows danced.

  The back door whined. Jevon leaned over Sorensen and readied his knife for a deep plunge. If they varied from the deal in the slightest, he would push the blade into her abdomen so hard that the point would stick out her back. Then he would dive out the window and disappear.

  They both saw the enormous shadow in the kitchen doorway. It was Andre’ the Giant. He paused, and then lumbered forward through the wavering shadows. When he reached the archway, he stopped and stared at Jevon and Sorensen by the fire.

  “Ya okay, Andre’?” Jevon asked. “They hurt ya?”

  Andre’ nodded and took an awkward step into the thin light of the den.

  “What’s wrong with ya, Andre’?” Jevon asked.

  Andre’ nodded again, but not from his neck. The fire flared. The flash of light fell onto Andre’s face. His eyes were open but empty, his head bloated like Deke’s.

  Jevon studied Andre’. Then he saw the arm wrapped around his waist, an arm holding up his giant friend. The arm moved. Andre’ fell forward like a dead tree and crashed to the floor. The wind fed another flare. Jevon saw the larger man standing alone in the archway, the man strong enough to walk a dead behemoth into the house, the man unlike any man Jevon had ever seen before in his life.

  None of it surprised Margaret Sorensen. She had had her suspicions when the first body slid down her window. Her suspicions were confirmed when the second body crashed through her dining room window. It would only be a matter of time before Andre’ and Jevon would die.

  In the space between seconds of shock, her fingers found her weapon. Margaret sunk her steel knitting needle through Jevon’s carotid artery and deep into his brain stem. His heart stopped immediately. She removed the knitting needle and pried the knife from Jevon’s paralyzed claw. Jevon slid off the back of her armchair dead before he reached the floor.

  Most knew Margaret had met Jacques in medical school, but few knew she was a medical student specializing in brain surgery, a career she ultimately chose not to pursue. However, she was an expert on the anatomy and function of the human brain. When Jevon dropped to the floor behind her, Margaret had a short moment of sadness. From her position in her stuffed armchair, it had been impossible to place the tip of her knitting needle in the most ideal region of Jevon’s brain for the production of unbearable pain.

  Twenty-Nine

  On the horizon, the top of the orange molten ball pushed out of the purple morning haze. Its fingers reached across the frozen tundra and touched each of the infinite crystal prisms left behind by God. Yet there was another presence in the cold dark night. On the loading dock of the Cook County morgue, seven frozen bodies were left behind by a monster.

  Detective Aaron Wolfe had left the city—the message said he had to go to Detroit on a long shot. Detective Joe Hutson did not answer his phone—still on medical leave following the Sorensen brownstone incident. Commander Landers lay in a bed in ICU—vitals improving but still in a coma. Detective Ben Crowley, senior homicide detective, had been made interim head of the Bureau of Detectives, a position he would hold until Landers returned or top brass made a decision on a replacement. When the call came in from the medical examiner’s office, Crowley drafted the greenest detective to ride along. Zach Huntsman’s mistake was being the only homicide detective on the floor when Crowley put down the phone.

  The toe tags read John Doe #1 through John Doe #7 with the date to differentiate between prior John Does. The naked bodies, covered in an inch of powdered snow, were lying face up in a line. There were four black males in their twenties, two white males in their sixties, and one white male in his thirties. After documenting the macabre scene on the loading dock and after CSI gathered all their physical evidence, the seven corpses were placed on gurneys and wheeled into the autopsy room to thaw.

  “Thirteen please,” Provost said with his head inches from the neck of another dead man on his table. The diener knew the doctor meant he wanted a thirteen-centimeter probe. The ME had his nose near a five-millimeter round puncture wound not caused by a bullet.

  Provost adjusted his Ymarda magnifying specs hinged to his visor, and he looked over them at the suspended monitors a few feet away. “How’s my ultrasound, gentlemen?”

  “Good to go, Dr. Provost.” The words flowed from a Siemens representative standing outside the lighted area.

  Provost held out a bloody gloved hand. The diener slapped the requested probe onto his palm. Provost leaned in and inserted the metal tip. They watched the monitors. It moved on a line parallel to the neck vertebrae toward the base of the skull.

  “I’m at fifteen-point-two-four centimeters, gentlemen. There is a slight narrowing of the canal. The change is from five to four millimeter diameter and narrowing more.” Provost paused. He did not want to bore a new hole. His goal was to trace the pre-existing canal to its true endpoint, something that could not be accomplished by way of dissection. And the possibility of trauma-induced perforations in the canal made dye injection impossible—th
e precise depth of the canal could be lost.

  Halfway into the procedure Provost realized the visual guidance provided by ultrasound was not enough. He had to feel his way. Switching hands and holding the probe in a fixed positon, he held out his right hand. “Somebody take off this glove, please. I need to feel the rest of the way.”

  After the glove was removed he held the probe with the tips of two fingers and pushed. His eyes were locked on the monitors as the probe moved deeper without interruption. Like disarming a bomb, Provost closed his eyes and relied on his experience and sense of touch.

  Seeing the closed eyes and the doctor’s hesitations, the dedicated diener had to ask. “Is there a problem, doctor?” He was eager to assist and not used to just standing and watching surgical procedures on the dead. But, although he had carved and harvested dozens of bodies a day over the last ten years, he did not possess the knowledge or skills necessary to do the probe. Provost opened his eyes and found his loyal diener. He winked and closed them again.

  When the medical examiner is silent, the autopsy room is silent. When the medical examiner is speaking into his microphone or to his medical team, the autopsy room is silent.

  Provost snapped open his eyes and watched the probe approach the heart of the brain stem. When it stopped, the room could not help itself—gasps floated in the dark and then returned to silence. At that moment Provost knew, and he knew his team knew, the cause of the man’s death. But that’s not why the gasps. Everyone in the autopsy room knew at that moment the killer could only be a brain surgeon.

  Always teaching, Provost asked, “Who can tell us what we are seeing?”

  Winston Foster stared at the body through his round wire glasses and pursed lips. Provost knew he knew first, probably even before the probe. And Provost knew Winston would not spoil the fun for the rest of the team. The answer came from the newest medical assistant. “I see perforation of the brain stem, sir.”

  “And what else do we see? Winston please amplify,” Provost ordered.

  “Perforation of the brain stem does not necessarily cause death. It can cripple a person and threaten death, but other areas of the brain can take over. In cases when brain stem tissue is scrambled and left intact, the heart often stops and respiration is inhibited.”

  “Well done, Winston,” Provost crowed. The man should be a forensic pathologist.

  Detective Crowley walked into the autopsy room and stopped at the feet of the deceased, a position often saved for homicide detectives who come and go.

  “Detective Crowley. Hello, sir. I was expecting Wolfe.”

  “He’s in Detroit on business. You’re gonna have to put up with me.”

  Provost chuckled as he busied himself with the corpse and routine. “On the contrary, I’ve always preferred your more organized approach to solving crime. And I can say your timing is once again impeccable. We have some interesting information on John Doe #6 found on our back steps with the others—seven in total. The cause of death here may be more than helpful.”

  “I’m all ears,” Crowley said as he watched Huntsman struggle with the smells and the visuals. The rookie homicide detective would learn to handle blood and guts one day.

  “People have been dropping a lot lately,” Crowley said. “Not typical gang kills.”

  Provost pointed to the puncture wound beneath the jawline of the naked black male on the table, his chest open and internal organs exposed. “We have a puncture wound here. It is not a bullet entry or exit wound. It is not a knife wound. The depth of this puncture wound is precisely twenty-point-one-five centimeters. The diameter of the distal canal narrows from a maximum of five millimeters to a gradual point.”

  “You think the guy was stabbed by an icepick?” Crowley asked.

  “That was my first thought after eliminating projectiles and the possibility of a shallow puncture wound,” the doctor said.

  “Something changed your mind,” Crowley muttered. Huntsman peered over his shoulder.

  “The route of the canal is precise, not something the average killer could accomplish. It travels through the center of the right carotid artery and takes the shortest path to the midpoint of the brainstem, a well-protected anatomical structure.”

  “What are you saying, doc?” Crowley asked as Huntsman backed away to puke again.

  “We are dealing with a weapon in the hands of a very lucky killer, or we are dealing with a lethal instrument in the hand of a brain surgeon.”

  “A brain surgeon wielding something other than an icepick,” Crowley muttered.

  “I believe it was a knitting needle.”

  “Just when I thought I was starting to understand life,” Crowley teased.

  Provost removed his other glove and wiped blood from his hands. He nodded for Winston to follow and issued new orders to the medical team. “Finish up here and let me know when you have the next ready.” He signaled Crowley.

  Winston, Crowley, and Huntsman followed Provost down the hall and into the walk-in refrigerator. There were forty naked bodies on gurneys, twenty on each side with an aisle up the middle. The group stopped at the feet of the other six found dead on the dock.

  “I will give you my thoughts on all seven so you can begin to connect your dots. I will complete all inquests by the end of today. Although you can access my findings the normal way, Winston will be available to address your questions 24/7. He will bring me up on matters requiring my attention.”

  “I’m good with that,” Crowley said. “And this is Detective Huntsman. He is new.”

  Dr. Provost acknowledged Huntsman with a nod. He would not give the rookie any more of his time or attention until after a commitment to the profession had been demonstrated, and that would take two years. Over the interim, Huntsman would be a face in the room.

  “Before we get started, give me an update on Louie’s condition.”

  “Still in a coma. Vitals strong now. They say the bullet followed the skull and got in the best place possible. Don’t know what that means. We need time and some help from above.”

  “I see. We must hope for the best.” Provost flashed a smile. He knew precisely how the bullet could find a survivable course, albeit rare. “I will look in on him tonight.”

  Provost turned to the first body on a gurney. “This healthy black male in his twenties died from acute bilateral pressure to the temporal lobes—massive cranial fracture, brain tissue rupture, and hemorrhage.” Pointing to defense wounds on the hands and arms, Provost continued. “The deceased put up a fight to no avail. Clearly his opponent was far superior in strength and agility. The deceased was demobilized in a matter of seconds. Death was instant.”

  Crowley rubbed his chin like he had just taken one in the jaw. “I think I know what you just said, but I want to be sure I understand. Can you dumb it down some, doc?”

  “This man’s head was crushed by hands compressed over the ears of he victim. The skull shattered. Brain tissue seeped through the cracks and out orifices. The jugular veins and carotid arteries ruptured. He bled to death, internally.”

  “That sounds like a terrible way to die,” Crowley sighed.

  “Yes. And it seems to be happening a lot lately,” Provost said.

  “The same for the others delivered to the dock?” Crowley asked.

  “Not all and some prior. We’ve seen it two times before today. Our John Doe sniper killed at the parking garage on Washington Avenue—he had a crushed skull. And Frank Peters had a crushed skull. I’m confident after I complete the microscopic analysis today those two will be connected to three others from my dock.”

  “Frank Peters is the guy whose DNA submission to CODES got all the hits. Connected him to a dozen cold cases,” Crowley confirmed.

  “Yes, the man was a monster. Serial rapist and mutilating killer,” Provost said.

  “This black male died like the sniper and Frank Peters?” Crowley asked.

  “Yes. He is one of four from my loading dock with identical head crushing morphology:
three of the young black males and the one white male in his thirties.”

  “You had seven on the dock. Four crushed skulls and one killed with a knitting needle. That leaves two.”

  “Correct. One white male in his sixties was stabbed in the chest, a single thrust nicking the heart—but enough. I suspect the knife was thrown. There was evidence of bruising around the entry wound—we have a shield pattern. The man died in fifteen-twenty seconds, exsanguination.

  “The other elderly white male died from a single punch in his face. His nasal bone collapsed pushing the nasal spine, supraorbital processes, lacrimal bones, ethmoid and sphenoid bones, and portions of the maxilla into the brain.”

  “Front of his face collapsed,” Crowley said.

  “Brain damage and internal hemorrhage. The blunt force trauma was significant, but not anything I have not seen before. The old man was hit by the large black male.”

  Provost lifted the hand of the leviathan on two gurneys against the wall. “These knuckles fit the damage to the old man’s face. This clenched fist fits the topography of the contact wound and shatter pattern. I am 100% positive this black man killed this white man with a single blow to the face, the old man knocked unconscious and dead in three to five minutes.”

  Crowley stared at the huge black man hanging off both ends of two gurneys. “Please tell me this is the one crushing skulls around here,” Crowley said.

  “Sorry. This man is big and strong, but he does not possess near the strength necessary to generate the opposing compressive loads that would collapse a human skull like I see.”

  “Wonderful. What am I looking for?”

  “You are looking for the man who killed Andre’ the Giant,” Provost said as he pointed to the tattoo above the dead man’s breast. “I suggest you take a trip to Detroit. You may be able to get an ID on the four black men. They share a tattoo on their left shoulders.”

  Crowley shined his penlight. He and Huntsman leaned over the behemoth—DETROIT BLOODS. “That’s where Wolfe is now.” How’d he get ahead of all of us on this? Crowley wondered. “What about the white guy in his thirties, I’m sure he’s not a member of this club.”