Now I remember. I read the weekly update on Landers desk before going to the hospital. Whitten was released early. He was convicted of raping and killing Susan Mason. I worked the case five years ago. Robert Mason was left for dead, beaten like his wife, but survived. Whitten was a Marcantonio bottom-feeder. The high-priced lawyers on Marcantonio’s payroll worked the legal system like Toscanini works a symphony orchestra.
They got Whitten’s charge reduced—second degree. Not premeditated. Not committed in the heat of passion. Death caused by dangerous conduct. Some legal technicality tossed out the DNA evidence, and Whitten had an alibi—albeit lies from other bottom-feeders. They put the prosecution in a box. Didn’t have enough legitimate evidence to get a conviction on murder one. Forced to plea bargain just to get him off the streets. Whitten got out in less than five years . . .
Crowley closed his eyes. Maybe these people have a legitimate beef. Maybe it takes a Dario Group to shake things up, to make change happen. Human garbage like Whitten should not be allowed to walk the streets—happens too damn much.
“Detective Crowley.” This time the words came from inside the wall by his head. He squinted trying to understand if he was imagining things. Then he saw the vent, and then the shadow, and then made out the head looking in from another room.
“I am Lindsey Fetter,” she whispered.
Crowley did not respond. He knew about Lindsey Fetter, but was she a victim or a member of the Dario Group. Was this a trap?
“Aaron Wolfe is here,” she said with desperation in her voice.
Crowley’s heart beat faster as he struggled to understand the situation. If she saw Wolfe, he is either dead or he’s one of them. Maybe everything Crowley suspected was true. Maybe Wolfe is Dario.
“Detective Crowley, I think he is the man they call Dario. I know it sounds crazy, but I saw him, Dario. He resembles Aaron Wolfe. I know Aaron Wolfe.”
Can it be, Crowley thought as he struggled to make sense of why they tied him up and put him in a room with a convicted serial killer, and why was Fetter in another room?
“Although Dario’s face is swollen and twisted in anger, it is Aaron Wolfe’s face,” she said as if she too struggled to rectify in her mind what she saw with her own eyes.
“The man’s as tall as Aaron Wolfe, but he’s much more muscular,” Fetter said. “And his strength is shocking. He lifted me off the ground with one arm as if I weighed nothing. He handled me like a minor irritant, something unworthy of his time or attention. He acted like he did not know me.”
I can’t believe any of this is possible, Crowley thought. It makes no sense. No man can change like that. He can’t just turn into some kind of monster.
“You are imagining things, Miss Fetter,” Crowley said.
“You may be right,” Fetter sighed. “I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I don’t understand any of this. Maybe something’s wrong with me. I’m scared. They won’t let me leave here.” Her words melded into the echoes of the tin vent as her hopes for survival waned.
The door opened. Crowley continued to play dead. His ankle ropes were grabbed. He was dragged from the room. When he stopped, his collar was yanked up into the air, his body raised off the floor. Crowley stayed limp—the only strategy left to him. When he was let go, he dropped. His sunk into a sofa cushion. Crowley slumped back. Through slits he saw he was across from an empty stuffed armchair and fire. He saw large silver knitting needles sticking from a canvas bag filled with yarn.
The ultrasound, Dr. Provost, the person who sits in that chair killed the Detroit Bloods and probably had something to do with all the others. I get it—you have an organization and a sacred mission. You believe you can do better than our criminal justice system. But how are you going to justify killing me—a Chicago police officer?
Out the corner of his eye, Crowley saw moving shadows at a table in an adjoining room. There you are—Dario Group members. Is court about to be in session?
The man called Dario dragged Whitten into the room and flipped him onto the sofa like a small child.
Who has that kind of strength? Crowley wondered. Is that Wolfe in some kind of altered state? But Dario never gave Crowley enough to be sure. The face was always shrouded in shadows and the body covered in bulky clothes. I never should have said a half hour. SWAT needs to get here now! I called Wolfe and Hutson three times on the road coming out here. They never picked up. Crowley’s eyes found his glove draped on the arm of the chair by the fire.
His pocket vibrated—his cell phone. They never took it, only my gun. But he could not get to it. Take the hint. I need you now, people. Get your asses over here!
The old lady walked into the room and sat in the stuffed armchair. Margaret Sorensen picked up Crowley’s glove and smiled. “I think we can begin, now,” she said. The shadows in the adjoining room stopped whispering and moving.
“Detective Ben Crowley, you can open your eyes now,” Mrs. Sorensen said. He did not move. “Pretending to be unconscious will not help your situation. Although I understand the strategy, pleading your case is all you have left. I suggest you take part in your defense.”
Crowley opened his eyes and sat up. “I don’t need to plead my case, Margaret Sorensen. You have committed more than enough heinous crimes to die in prison along with your members who believe somehow they will avoid prosecution for mass murder. I don’t care how guilty you think someone is. You have no right to kill anybody.”
After the gasps ceased, Mrs. Sorensen said, “It’s not your time to talk, Detective Crowley.” She threw his glove into the fire and watched it become engulfed in flames.
“Are you serious about this—holding a Chicago police officer captive? Your members may want to rethink their involvement. They may want to revisit the reasons why they joined your little club in the first place. I believe your charter says something about stopping the monsters. That would be you, Margaret Sorensen, not me. This group needs to stop you!”
On Crowley’s last word the meaty hand swept through the air and smacked the side of his head. Blood dripped from Crowley’s ear as the impact rocked his brain. Blinking through the pain he straightened his head and smiled at the old lady. “This will be over soon.”
Margaret Sorensen pulled a knitting needle from her bag and ran her fingers down to its point. “You are right. This will be over soon, Detective Crowley.” She turned to the room of shadows around a table. “Next to Benjamin Crowley we have Mathew T. Whitten. As you know from our last meeting, Mr. Whitten qualified. Among others in his twisted world, six years ago this man sexually abused and then killed Susan Mason, the beloved wife of honored member Robert Mason, may he rest in peace.”
“I served my time,” Whitten exploded. “I got rights. You can’t do nothin’ to me ’bout a crime where’s I already did time. They call it double-jeopardy—tried, convicted, and sentenced. I’m a free man, lady. Those are the rules. Don’t you know the law?”
“There’s not much more to be said.” Margaret Sorensen ignored the outburst as if the man was already dead. She turned to the table of shadows. “A show of hands will do. Those in favor of implementing the Dario Group sentence, raise your hand.” She looked. “Thank you. It is unanimous. Mr. Whitten will be removed from society and do no others harm.”
Dario walked up behind Whitten and held his head. Stunned, Crowley watched.
“At this time sniper services are unavailable to us,” Sorensen said. “I cannot predict when we will have a new contract, or if we will continue to do business with other external services. I recommend Dario carry out the termination order at once.”
Members were unaware of Dario’s action—his hands firm on each side of Whitten’s head. It was not until Whitten’s words turned into desperate screams and he began to squirm like a worm being put on a hook. When Whitten’s skull collapsed, the bursting of bone quieted the man and the room. In a casual sweep, Dario pulled the limp body over the back of the sofa and onto his shoulder. He left the silent room. T
he front door opened and closed.
Crowley muttered, “What are you people doing? You have no right.” He shook his head in confusion and disbelief. Crowley saw Dario’s face. Now he knew, but did not want to believe.
Margaret Sorensen stroked her long steel knitting needle like a musical instrument she knew well. “Justice, Detective Crowley. Mr. Whitten is an animal. He’s too dangerous to walk among us. No more cages to escape from. We would rather he die than another innocent person.”
“We have a process to find and remove these people from society. You have no right to decide who dies. You have no right to kill anybody. You and your members are the monsters.”
“Enough,” she shot back. “You do not speak, or you will be gagged. If that happens, you will not be able to defend yourself. It is your choice.”
He leaned back on the sofa with sizzling eyes. Crowley could do nothing tied up and surrounded by unknown numbers. They were in so deep they had no choice but to eliminate everyone who could hurt them—and Dario was unstoppable.
Crowley’s head throbbed and he could not hear out of one ear. He remembered entering the last driveway on Birch. He saw the cars on the edge of the woods in the dead end. It was a perfect place for meetings to go unnoticed. He had just dropped his glove in front of the house that he knew belonged to the Dario Group. When his glove hit the ground, a crashing blow came from behind. He awoke tied up in a dark room.
It’s been more than a half hour, now. Crowley thought. Where’s my back up? Where’s my SWAT, goddamn it! Huntsman, are you just puking out there? Did you forget what we came here for? Damn rookies can’t keep up. You’ll never amount to anything.
“The Detroit Blood,” Sorensen said, “The one sent here to find the others, we need to return his body to Mr. Doran tonight. Maybe they will learn to leave us alone.”
You killed another. You’re going to start a war you can never win, don’t you understand? Crowley watched Dario lumber back into the room, but something was different.
Still holding her knitting needle in her boney hand, she said, “We have two matters to attend to this evening. We must deal with Detective Crowley and Miss Fetter.” Sorensen turned to the members. Dario stopped in front of the fire and turned to her chair.
It’s you, Crowley thought as he looked at Dario’s profile in the flickering firelight. How is this possible?
Sorensen’s eyes found Dario, but she spoke to the members. “These terminations will be difficult, but they are necessary to protect you and me. Detective Crowley and Lindsey Fetter have exposed our group and jeopardized our mission. If we do nothing, they will end everything we have built. They will stop true justice from growing in the world.”
Crowley saw the angry look on the side of Dario’s face. He saw the lip lifting and the teeth. He heard the raspy growl. Was this sick man controlled by Margaret Sorensen, or was he wild? What was happening?
“Stop,” she ordered. “Stop now,” she said with a tight grip on her knitting needle.
But Dario did not stop. He stayed in front of her by the fire looking down at the old woman. “You are the monster,” he said. The room gasped. “You are like him. You both are the monsters in my world.”
My God. He talks. Crowley thought as he struggled with the knot behind his back. Is this how he changes? Is this the split-personality?
Dario grabbed the sides of his head and dropped to his knees, the crash to the floor sent a spray of sparks from the fireplace. “You do not listen,” he groaned. “I stopped your assassins. I stopped the bad men—the killers, and you still hurt good people.”
Crowley could only stare at the man’s titanic trembling body and huge arms.
“Who am I now?” Dario bellowed. “What’s happening to me?” He slid his massive hands over his face and dropped his head. Whatever was happening, Crowley sensed the pain had to be unbearable if it crippled a giant.
“No, Dario,” Margaret Sorensen yelled. The shadows in the other room stirred. “None of what you say is true. You are a good man. Your father and I are good people. We only want to help victims of horrible crimes, the people who lost everything in a world that has proven to be unable to protect them. You will be okay, son. Trust me, like always.”
Son? Crowley sighed.
Margaret Sorensen’s hand slid down her knitting needle. At that instant Crowley knew she was the brain surgeon who had killed the Detroit Blood. With Dario struggling in some sort of transition, possibly she was preparing for her next surgical strike, the one that would end Detective Crowley’s life.
But before she could do anything Margaret Sorensen had to regain control. The beast was unraveling before her eyes and the members were stirring. Maybe the evolving dynamics can provide the window of opportunity Crowley needed. Maybe he could turn the man on his knees against the killer brain surgeon. Maybe she did not have the control she thought she had. After all, Dario killed Jacques Sorensen. He may have the ability to stop her, too.
“Don’t allow this to happen—Aaron Wolfe,” Crowley yelled.
Dario stopped trembling. His hands dropped from his face and he lifted his head. Staring at Margaret Sorensen he said, “I am not Aaron Wolfe.” When he turned his head to the detective, Crowley froze—he had no words for what he saw.
Cold air entered the room. The fire popped. “I am Aaron Wolfe.”
This time the words did not come from the man on his knees in front of the fire. Crowley searched for the voice he knew well, the man he had doubted. Crowley struggled to shift his broken and bound body to see more. He found Huntsman, the skinny detective he left on Birch. The rookie was entering behind a SWAT team pouring into the room of shadows with arms going up. Then Crowley found Aaron Wolfe standing behind the stuffed armchair with a gun pressed to Margaret Sorensen’s head. Behind Wolfe, Lindsey Fetter stood with a soft smile.
“Joe, it is over, my friend,” Wolfe said, his eyes on the man they called Dario.
Joe Hutson looked up at Wolfe. “I can’t live like this anymore, Aaron.”
“We can help you,” Wolfe said. “You don’t need to go it alone anymore. You’re a good man. You’re my friend. We will get you the help you gotta have, the help these people have kept from you.”
Margaret stared down at her son at her feet, Joseph Hutson Sorensen. She always thought he looked like Aaron Wolfe, but she knew he would never be half the man. “Joseph, don’t let these men mislead you. They won’t help you. They will put you in prison for killing all those people. Your only chance is to stop them here and now. Let Dario do it for you. Dario is special. He was sent to us to right the wrongs in this world. We must kill all the monsters, Joseph.”
Maybe Margaret could not hide the contempt that oozed from her lips, the cold emptiness Joseph had felt every day of his life. Joe had believed them—he would never get better. That’s why he ran away. But Joe returned. On that snowy night at their cabin in Algonquin, Joe saw his father’s syringe. At that moment he knew he had to stop them. They never wanted to help him. They only wanted to find a way to keep Dario alive so he could serve their twisted mission.
An eternity passed in a handful of seconds. Detective Huntsman reached behind Crowley to untie the knot. Two SWAT members leveled guns on Joseph and Margaret. Wolfe began to back his gun from her head—it was over.
When the front door opened, all heads and guns turned to the plume of snow and the next unknown. When Commander Landers broke from the frozen mist, Dario lunged for Margaret’s throat. In an instant her knitting needle plunged into Dario’s neck and slid into his brain. Before anyone could react, and before Dario could be stopped, Margaret Sorensen’s neck snapped with a suffocating crack. Her body fell limp in her chair. She was dead.
Commander Landers cradled his head in his arms. He had less than ten seconds to say goodbye to the detective he loved like a son.
Next to the fire in the quiet room Commander Landers, Detective Crowley, and Detective Wolfe saw Detective Joe Hutson in the eyes and the smile of the dyin
g man.
Dario let Joe die alone . . .
Epilogue
Summer – Ten Years Later – Sheridan Beach, Lake Michigan
* * *
The sapphire water edged the southern banks of Lake Michigan under a hot afternoon sun. The laughter of children and calls of Red-throated Loons and Whimbrels were only interrupted by the occasional car crawling down Lake Shore Drive. Aaron Wolfe sat on his favorite dune with tan toes dug into the sand and Ray-Bans keeping his long shaggy hair out of his eyes.
“I appreciate the opportunity to talk to you, Mr. Wolfe,” The young true-crime author said as he squinted at a legend and got comfortable on the sand. “Do you mind if I record this?”
Wolfe did not turn from the sparkling water. He nodded.
“Commander Zackery Huntsman said you have never met with anyone to talk about the Dario Group and the events at the house on Birch. Just for me, why did you agree to this meeting?”
“I’ve read you. You get things right. Maybe it’s time.”
“Coming from you, that means a lot, sir.” He pulled out a small leather notebook and flipped a few pages battling the gusting wind. “Three months after that night on Birch Avenue, Commander Louie Landers died. There were unexpected complications, the shooting at the Congress Plaza Hotel. It’s not clear who shot the commander that day or why. Can you help me with that?”
Sand sprayed as a small dust devil jumped their dune and slid up the bank toward the house fifty yards away. Wolfe ignored the brief visitor—he was used to them.
“Louie was looking for me,” Wolfe said. “Margaret Sorensen shot him. She shot me, too.” He smiled touching the scar on his arm. “I would take a closer look at the Timberman file.”
Wolfe rubbed his three-day beard and said under his breath, “Paul Timberman was a member of the Dario Group. However, his actions that morning were his alone.”
“Are you saying he went rogue?”
“He was not acting on the orders of the Dario Group.”
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