Kill Them All (Drexel Pierce Book 2)

by Patrick Kanouse

  As Noelle walked up the steps, Drexel understood that Marshall’s killing gave them a potential to break open the case. “Noelle, he screwed up.”

  She walked up and stared down at the body. “He did, eh? Seems like he got himself taken by Simon.”

  “No, Simon fucked up. The body’s not frozen. We interviewed Marshall a couple of days ago. He was alive and kicking. We have a timeline, a range we can focus in on.”

  Noelle crouched down. “Yes.” She pulled on her nitrile gloves and rolled Marshall’s head to the side. “Some livor mortis on the neck.” She rolled the head back and then lifted the torso. “Yeah, livor mortis here.” The dark collection of blood appeared along the majority of the back, though the shoulder blades and other places that bore the weight of the body were white. “I don’t think a rectal or liver temp is going to do much good. The body split apart like this is going to mess up all the calculations. The torso feels colder than it should, but that may be me.”

  Drexel touched the chest. “Yeah. It feels colder than a normal stiff.”

  “So he may not have frozen the body, but he may have cooled it. Livor mortis looks fixed, so that suggests eight to twelve hours. But if he kept it cool, we’re looking between twenty-four and thirty-six hours before lividity is fixed. Also, we have some early stages of decomp. The greenish color down here on the skin here around the intestines suggests twenty-four to thirty-six hours. The head is beginning to get that same color and a bit of marbling.”

  Daniela said, “So that means?”

  Noelle looked up at her and then at Drexel. “Going out on a limb a bit here because I’m assuming an attempt to cool, but I think your vic here was killed shortly after he was kidnapped. He was cooled a bit, chopped up not too long ago, and then left here.”

  “Simon,” said Drexel, “laid him out like he is now. Lividity got itself fixed. Then he began the chopping?”

  “Yeah. Look at the back of the torso.” She lifted it up on its side again. “Notice that along the cut edge and back a bit. See that? That’s displaying lividity. If it was bearing the weight, it should be white. So lividity was fixed before the cutting.”

  “Daniela, get back to the station and start looking at the surveillance photographs. Start from just after Marshall was last noted alive and entering his building. Work your way forward. I want to get a listing of all the cars that came and went and who it was in the twenty-four hours from when Marshall was last alive.”

  “On it, boss.”

  As Daniela packed up her equipment, Drexel took off his gloves. “Doctor, I’ll let you wrap up here. Daniela, I’m going to start talking to neighbors. I told the unis to go ahead and start their canvass. Maybe we get lucky and someone saw something.” He was feeling the rush of excitement, the sense they had evidence they could work with, and it was a matter of time. “We’re closer.” As he walked out the door, a nagging question troubled him—a question that appeared the moment they identified Marshall in the photographs at the station. How did the killer know about the police’s interest in the plumber?

  * * *

  The patrol officers had made good progress through the surrounding neighborhood. Sergeant Robin Jersey had coordinated the canvass after instructions from Drexel, which amounted to the standard knock on doors and ask questions. “Got updates for me?” she asked as the detective walked up.

  “Yeah, our vic wasn’t dumped here any earlier than two days ago. Probably less, but there’s that. Got anything?”

  She flipped over her clipboard, which she had held against her thigh. “Yeah, Officer Yeng said the guy across the street—a Roosevelt Cranston—said he thought he saw curtains the other day.”

  They both looked at the windows facing the street. Drexel said, “Yeah, there aren’t any curtains now. Whoever did this stapled or nailed temporary ones to the downstairs windows. Where’s Mr. Cranston?”

  Robin pointed behind her to the house directly across the street. “He’s the only promising response so far. No one saw anything weird.”

  “No plumbers or electricians or cable guys?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing like that. Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “We got something though. Thanks.”

  She nodded and he walked between two squad cars, across the street, and up the sidewalk to the house. A block away, Drexel saw the media vans and the lights shining on individual reporters talking to cameras. He knocked on the door and rang the doorbell, still looking down the street at the media. He thought he saw Sobieski even, standing before the brightest lights.

  A man, his thinning, several-inch-long hair rising from his head in multiple directions, answered the door. He wore plaid White Sox pajama bottoms and a dark brown, V-necked T-shirt. His black socks were embroidered with purple and blue diamonds. He adjusted his glasses so that they sat somewhat even on his face.

  “Mr. Cranston?”

  The man nodded.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Drexel Pierce. I understand you’ve made a statement to a police officer already.”

  “I have. Hold on.” Without waiting for Drexel to reply, Cranston closed the door.

  Drexel sighed and looked back down the street toward the lights and radars of the news crews. He was pretty sure that was Sobieski in the dress blues. He debated whether to watch the nightly news broadcast.

  The door opened, and Cranston walked out carrying two glasses of what looked to be whiskey and gestured for Drexel to sit on the steps. “Here.” He shoved a glass into Drexel’s hand and sat down on the top step. He now wore blue L.L. Bean slippers.

  Drexel set the whiskey down on his right side on the step. Cranston sat on his left. “Thank you. An officer—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Call me Rosey. I can’t remember the officer’s name, but yeah he stopped by.”

  “You mentioned something about curtains?”

  “Yeah. See, that house has been abandoned for like a month or so. Not sure how long, but a while. The folks couldn’t keep up with the payments I don’t think. But yesterday, there’s curtains. Before that there weren’t, at least since, yeah, since it’s been abandoned. Today no curtains.” He jabbed at the house across the street with a finger from the hand holding the whiskey, which sloshed around. “No curtains. But, yeah, they were there yesterday.”

  Drexel thought Rosey was done, and as he began to ask a question, Rosey continued, “See, I’m retired. Day in and day out I sit up there in my office looking out onto the street.”

  “Did you see who put up the curtains?”

  “No, I wish I had, but I didn’t. I don’t know how long they were up before I noticed them.”

  “So could it have been two days ago instead of yesterday?”

  “No man. They weren’t there yesterday morning. Not right away at least. By lunchtime I’d noticed them. Then I tried to keep an eye on them to see when they’d come down ‘cause, you know.” He shrugged to indicate his curiosity. “Yesterday.”

  “How many hours would you estimate?”

  “Six maybe. Yeah, that seems about right.” Rosey took a drink from his glass.

  “Did you see anyone strange recently? Out of place, perhaps?”

  He looked down, nodded his head lightly as if he were thinking hard. “No.” He shook his head. “Nope. No one.”

  “What about plumbers, electricians? Cable guys? Any vans or trucks with covered beds?”

  Rosey finished off the whiskey in his glass. “You gonna finish that?”

  Drexel handed him the other glass of whiskey.

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Anything else you can tell me? Anything weird? Anything that made you pause and wonder?”

  He took a sip of the whiskey. “You know, I sit up there everyday,” he jabbed his thumb back in the general direction of his house, “and everyone thinks how great it must be retired. Yeah, it’s
nice, but I feel like a trapped hermit sometimes. So I get out. I walk around. I know a lot of these asshole neighbors. The only thing I can think to tell you—and I only say it because it gave me a bit of a pause—is I saw a priest out walking one day. It was warm, and I had to get out. So I walked. I know I don’t look like a walker, but I am. Anyway, you see your usual strangers, but this priest fellow stood out. There’s plenty of churches around. I mean, hell, we’re in the Midwest.”

  “What stood out to you?”

  Rosey nodded lightly, which pulled his whole body into a gentle rocking motion. After a long silence, he said, “I’m not sure I can give you something specific. Yeah, I can’t. He seemed angry. He was walking fast. Like he was power walking in his clerical outfit. But it was the anger. Something in his face.” He snapped his fingers. “And he had on work boots. Not dress shoes or black shoes. Tan work boots. I knew he stood out for some reason.”

  “Up and down the street?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Last week. Down. Heading in that direction.” He pointed east, toward the lake.

  “Any specific day last week?”

  “When was it like warmer than normal? Got up to the seventies. Low.”

  Drexel thought about it. “I think that was Wednesday last week.”

  “Then that’s the day.”

  Drexel gave him his card. Rosey agreed to meet with a sketch artist who would stop by later. Drexel thanked him for his time before leaving the front porch and walking back out to the street. The media trucks were still shining their bright lights but well out of the way. Sobieski leaned against a patrol car, chatting up Robin. When Drexel came within Sobieski’s sight, the commander straightened up. “Pierce, this is a fucking nightmare. When are we going to get this guy? You’ve been on this goddamned case too long.”

  Drexel pursed his lips and sighed. He was too tired to argue. “I think we’re close, actually. Simon messed up.” He paused before blurting out that he thought he had a witness. Sobieski was not, despite all his faults, someone who would deliberately undermine a criminal case, but he could do so unwittingly. He would find out first if Rosey had given something he could follow up on, and that would be better without the bright glare of publicity down the road to tempt him.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He didn’t have time to freeze the body. Gave us craploads of evidence. At least by comparison. And we’ve got a timeline around Marshall.” Drexel nodded. “We’re close. We’re real close.”

  Chapter 32

  Back at the station, Drexel emailed the sketch artist and told him to visit Rosey the next day, preferably in the morning. He left out that he wanted the visit in the morning before Rosey started drinking—no reason to put that into a discoverable email. Daniela was poring over the surveillance photos again, but he stopped her. Told her to go home and when they had a sketch the next day, they could use that. Plus, a good night’s sleep and fresh eyes might help. She agreed only so long as he left with her, which he reluctantly agreed to.

  On the way home on the Blue line L, Drexel texted Ton to see if he was up for dinner and a drink. The response was immediate. “Hell yes.”

  Drexel walked into Pawn Corner as Ton held a loupe to his eye and examined a ring. A woman dressed in dirty tan sweat pants, a white T-shirt, and a blue hoodie stood opposite him on the other side of the counter. She carried an enormous purse that appeared to weigh down her shoulder. She held all the nervous energy of someone anxious for a decision and unable to speed up the process.

  Ton shook his head and sighed. “Okay, I’ve looked at it more closely. But I didn’t need to. This is not a diamond. It’s a cubic zirconia.”

  “He told me it was real.”

  “He may have told you that, but the thing fogged over, which a diamond doesn’t do. Also, when I looked at it, it has CZ on it.”

  “Maybe that’s the guy that cut the diamond.”

  “No. No. It’s not a diamond. No diamond cutter is going to cut CZ into a diamond. I can give you $10 for it because it’s got some real gold.”

  “He told me it was real.”

  “And you told me you’re divorced. Just sayin’.”

  “Asshole. You don’t know nothing.”

  “I know that’s not a diamond. Take it or leave it.”

  She glared at him, her face growing more crimson with each passing second. She swiped the ring off the counter, jammed it into her purse, and stomped to the exit. She paused long enough at the door to say, “Asshole,” before walking out and letting the door close behind her.

  Ton looked up at Drexel and shrugged. “I ain’t a magician, man.”

  “You ever buy one of your wives a fake diamond.”

  “Hey man, I may hate my exes now because they took me to the cleaners, but I loved them with the love of pure diamonds. The only fake stones any of those three ever got to their fingers or ears were ones they bought themselves.” Ton neglected to say that his wandering eye is what broke up his first two marriages and that they deserved every penny they got in the settlement. “Justin?”

  From behind some shelves toward the back, “Yeah?”

  “I’m leaving for the day. Make sure you lock up when you leave. And not before nine, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Ton waved and walked out from behind the counter toward Drexel. “Old Towne?”

  Drexel nodded and held the door open as Ton walked out. The spring evening was warm. Hint of summer. They walked the four blocks to their preferred pub. Old Towne had started as a place of convenience before turning into a favorite. They had long ago passed the owner’s test. Jason Quinn would take your money regardless, but if you indicated your dislike of Old Man Daley, he would, at least, not look as if he would spit in your food. According to Quinn, Old Man Daley was a devil with an angel on his shoulder. He knew Drexel and Ton well enough that he brought two Honker’s Ales and walked away without asking for their order.

  “So I saw stuff on the news this evening,” said Ton.

  “Carl?”

  “Yeah, that guy. But another murder?”

  “Body of the plumber. Marshall. Envelope and photos again.”

  “The guy’s apartment we went into?”

  Drexel nodded. “Same.”

  “Don’t you think it’s strange he was targeted?”

  “I do. But I can’t figure out why.”

  “What was the letter this time?”

  Drexel pulled up an image of it from his iPhone and handed it to Ton.

  Ton looked at the screen. He zoomed in on the image. “What’s ‘Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius’ mean?”

  “Haven’t looked it up yet.”

  “Oh yeah,” he tapped the screen, “that’s the Latin of that phrase I came across in one of the books.” Ton did some swiping and tapping on the phone. “That’s right. The literal translation is ‘Kill them. For the Lord knows who are His.’ Well—and I think I mentioned it—at the last siege in France, the leader of the Catholic army said that. It’s more commonly translated as ‘Kill them all. Let God sort them out.’” He tapped on the phone. “It was Arnaud Amalric. Okay, so he wasn’t the leader, but he allegedly said those words to a soldier. The soldier was concerned he’d be killing good Catholics. Arnaud gave him that response.”

  “But it’s the bad guy that says that?”

  “One of the people fighting the Cathars, yes.”

  Jason set a plate of fried pickles in front of them. He pulled out his notepad and a pen and looked at Drexel and Ton. They ordered, and Jason walked back to the kitchen.

  Drexel grabbed a pickle and bit into it. “Ah, hot.” He took a drink. “Damn. This is messed up.” He raised his hand in frustration. “I can’t make heads or tails of him.”

  “Just catch him.”

  “We’re trying. Anything else on Kevin?”r />
  Ton nodded. “Yeah, this guy’s run this scam before. He and his girlfriend have. But in reverse. Stephanie took up with an elderly widower named Alexander. Not the real estate mogul the Darlingtons are, but a few properties. Had money though. Old Chicago money. Kevin was his driver. Stephanie and Alexander were together a couple of years and he proposed. Freaked out the old man’s children. They put the kabosh on the nuptials and forced Stephanie out. I don’t think they ever tied Kevin and Stephanie together, though, for he stayed on a few extra months. Probably hoping to see an in to try again. Didn’t happen, so he quits. The esteemed couple find their next victim. This time, though, you’ll notice no marriage proposal. They learned from their mistake.”

  “And the building in Streeterville?”

  “Stinks up to high heaven. They definitely forced out the old tenants by raising rents, destroying property, harassing the people who lived there. And they used cops. I found a couple of the previous renters. I don’t have any specific names—too long ago for them to remember. But if they called the cops, the same few would show up and make it look like they were investigating, but nothing ever came of it. And they saw the vandals a few times. Seemed like they were older guys busting windows and whatnot. At least one person saw a badge. Guy dropped it when he was breaking into an empty apartment.” Ton rapped his knuckles on the table. “And guess what? The badge number is 308.”

  “308?”

  “That’s right. Got the badge number. He called the cops and gave it to them.”

  “If they called it in, there should be at least a dispatch record. And that badge number sounds familiar. I’ve seen it. I’ll start there. Thanks.”

  With the arrival of dinner—two burgers and fries—the conversation switched to sports and other topics. They parted ways outside the Old Towne Pub into the still warm night air.