Kill Them All (Drexel Pierce Book 2)

by Patrick Kanouse

  The chain across the door slid. The lock clicked. The door opened up. When Malcolm saw Doggett, however, he started to slam the door closed, but the detective pushed his arm into the space and thrust his body weight into the door, pushed by Shen. Malcolm stumbled backward, and Shen stepped around Doggett, grabbing one of the suspect’s thumbs, in the fleshy part between it and the finger. He twisted it back, forcing the wrist back, and in so doing gained control over him. He then pulled Malcolm’s wrist across his body, forcing him to turn around. Using his knee, Shen drove it into Malcolm’s knees, forcing him down on the floor. He then put his knee into the perp’s back, driving him facedown onto the floor. Ellis squeezed by Shen and cuffed Malcolm. Doggett looked over at Drexel and winked.

  Shen and Ellis cleared the rest of the apartment as Drexel and Doggett watched over the cuffed Malcolm lying face down on the floor. After they shouted the all clear, the two patrol officers lifted Malcolm up and escorted him out of the apartment. Drexel told them to take him back to the station and put him in an interrogation room. Daniela was already on the phone with the CSIs.

  Doggett walked by Drexel, pausing beside him and placing his hand on his shoulder. “I just fucking love catching me a bad guy. Makes this job worth it.”

  Drexel had never seen such a bold, broad smile on the elder detective’s face.

  * * *

  Drexel watched Malcolm Jersey through the video feed. The priest sat in the chair, his hands still cuffed behind his back. His head was lowered, and he was talking to himself. Praying? Drexel had read of monks—Christian or Buddhist—who could focus for hours at a time with ease. The Orthodox often recited the Jesus prayer as a sort of mantra, focusing in on God. He had heard the prayer once. It’s simplicity made it easy to remember—or difficult to forget: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

  Drexel turned away and reviewed with Daniela what the CSIs had turned up at Malcolm’s apartment, which was little. But what they did find was nonetheless interesting and damning. A pair of work boots that matched the description that the witness Rosey had given. Lots of books and diagrams related to the Cathars and Gnosticism. The clincher was a map of Chicago with circles in red marker around the body dump sites. Brittany’s. Jodi’s. The couple’s. Marshall’s. Two others. The sketch made based on Rosey’s description was a close approximation of Malcolm. Close enough Drexel would use it in the interrogation.

  Daniela prepared the interrogation room by placing the vials found at the scenes containing air, slices of brain matter, and whatnot. She pulled in a small table and placed them each, still in their plastic evidence bags, on it.

  Drexel prepared a folder for the interrogation, gathering photos, Rosey’s statement, the sketch, the map, and contemplating his approach. He, Daniela, Victor, and several other detectives watched on the monitor. Malcolm looked at the little table of vials, his right heel tapping the floor. He twisted his head to the far right, looking down, but he could not help himself from looking back to the vials.

  Drexel knew what tack he wanted to take, walked into the room, and closed the door behind him.

  Malcolm looked up and smiled. Drexel gestured for him to stand. He uncuffed him, pressed on his shoulder to sit him down again, and then placed the cuffs in his sport coat pocket. He asked the suspect if he wanted a drink, to which the reply was for tea. Drexel stood up, walked out, and went to the kitchenette. He grabbed a handful of different tea bags in their colorful wrappers, a few individual servings of non-dairy creamer, a number of packets of sugar and Splenda, and a hot mug of water. He walked back into the interrogation room and set it all before Malcolm, who grabbed the red packet of English Breakfast Tea, opened it, and dropped the bag into the hot water.

  Drexel sat down across from Malcolm and slid a paper copy of his rights to have an attorney, remain silent, and so on. He explained each one, asking the suspect to initial next to each enumerated right that he understood it and waived it. Malcolm initialed and then signed at the bottom of the page.

  The detective took the paper, folded it in half, and slid it into the folder. He then asked Malcolm to give his full name for the recording.

  “Malcolm Alexander Constantine Jersey.”

  Drexel held his hands together and put them on top of the folder thick with photographs and documentation. He looked at Malcolm, watched him glance to his left at the table, cocked his head to the side, placed his hand along his cheek and his elbow on the table, and smiled. “Something’s been bothering me since the beginning of this entire thing. Why send these packages to the police?”

  Malcolm smiled. “Why do you think?”

  Not even a rudimentary attempt to deny. “I haven’t a clue,” said Drexel.

  A slow nod and a broad, thin smile where the right side rose a little higher. “Why anyone? Why you? Why me? God has chosen each of us for a role, given us strengths, given us weaknesses to test us. The Almighty has given us each our gifts. When I knew, knew you were the Adversary, I sent them to you.” He pointed at Drexel.

  “Your weaknesses?”

  “I’m a man and therefore a sinner. I am of the flesh, and the flesh rotten. So my eyes burn with the sin of flesh. I would stab them out to see better, but I must see here first.”

  “Why?”

  “To bring forth understanding. To bring forth the divine. To shed this body at the right time.”

  Drexel scratched his chin and opened the folder. He pulled out the photos of Simon’s victims, the ones where they were still alive. “And what did these people have to do with the divine?”

  “We are two separate beings, but yet, one being. One likeness.”

  “You mean ‘were.’ You killed them. You strangled them. You chopped them up. You laid them out in patterns.”

  “Do you not see the patterns?”

  “Oh, I saw them.”

  “But you fail to understand.” Malcolm leaned back.

  “Help me to understand.” Drexel pulled back the photos, slipped them into the folder, and pulled out the diagram Ton had found. Circles and triangles. “Help me to understand.”

  Malcolm let a large, toothy smile appear on his face. In all of his years as a detective, Drexel was not sure he had seen a more creepy smile. He had seen the revolting ones, of pedophiles and rapists, but Malcolm’s was laced with pride and menace and—he could think of no better word—zeal. “This,” he pointed to the top small, empty circle,” is the outline of creation. Fire is the first of all things. As Moses said, ‘God is a devouring fire.’ And from the fire,” he pointed to the next circle with a small dot in the very center and drew an invisible line to the slightly larger circle with a triangle in its center, “the Boundless Power that dwells in all humanity, we of flesh and blood, and the Universal Root, which existed before and is the Spirit of God that moved upon the waters. From these, the whole world.” Malcolm pointed to the three triangles in the larger circle. “These are the roots of Creation. Mind, Voice, Reason, Reflection, Name, Thought. And these are mixed with the Boundless Power and the Universal Root. For it lies within us all to cultivate. To develop. That is the indivisible point inside each of us,” he pointed to his chest, “which only the glorious know. That is the divine kingdom of heaven. It is up to us to develop this so ‘that we may not be condemned to this world.’” He leaned back and took in a deep breath as if the effort had exhausted him.

  Drexel picked up the diagram and looked at it. Brittany, Jodi, Jared and Bobbi, and now Marshall were each fitted into the diagram. “What’s with the slices of brain? The jar of water? That stuff?”

  Malcolm leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He sat straight up, breathed in, and smiled. “You do not understand, and that is why it must be done. They are the physical representations of Thought and Name. Brain for thought. ID for Name. Mirror of reflection.”

  Drexel breathed in deep and exhaled.

  “
You see now. You understand.”

  Drexel did not. Not really, but the pieces were held together by a logical thread. At least, in Malcolm’s mind it was logical. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. “Malcolm, I know you didn’t do this alone. I know you had help. Who helped you?”

  “Someone more glorious than I.”

  “I can talk to the district attorney. We might be able to get you a deal if you tell us who it is. Something where you won’t be facing life in a maximum security prison. Or keep you out of the general population.” He hesitated mentioning anything about a psych ward. He let it go. No reason to help any defense.

  Malcolm crossed his arms, sighed.

  Drexel set the diagram on the table in front of him. “So you did his bidding?”

  He smiled. “I was shown the path.”

  “What’s the path?” The detective leaned forward, interlocking his fingers and placing his elbows on the table.

  “The path to the kingdom of heaven of course.”

  “What does killing people have to do with the kingdom of heaven?”

  “Obtaining it.”

  “Do you admit to abducting and killing Brittany Day, Jodi Schmidt, Bobbi Lawlend, Jared Sales, and Brandon Marshall?”

  Malcolm nodded. “If those are their names.”

  “So you killed them?”

  “Yes, I killed them to set them free for the kingdom of heaven. To set us all free.”

  “Did you find the kingdom of heaven?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Yet?” Drexel looked at the diagram. Marshall’s body had been discovered in the part of the diagram representing the Universal Root, “he who stood, stands, and will stand.” He recognized the linkage between the circles now. Fire, the Universal Principle the blank, empty circle. Not empty, because it contained everything. Each circle then was not a new, separate circle, but a circle that contained each one in turn. The triangles fit together to form the Star of David—the circles and triangles above that form—the World—were an expansion of it. And Malcolm had been working his way up the image, representing each section. That meant the last two circles at the top. Two more victims. He pulled out the map they had found in Malcolm’s apartment. He put it on the table and pressed on one of the circles where they had not yet found a body. “Are these two places for more victims?”

  Malcolm smiled a toothless smile and spread his hands out in a gesture suggesting “What do you think?” He folded his hands together and kept smiling.

  “Do you have the intended victims already? Are they alive?”

  Malcolm shrugged.

  Chapter 34

  In the conference room, Drexel poured over the map of abandoned gyms and schools. “What did that priest tell us?”

  “That he’s got another fucking hostage. And she’s probably alive,” said Doggett, who stood across the table and looked at the map from the north end of Chicago.

  “No. The other one.” Drexel snapped his fingers. “The one we met at—at—Ulysses S. Grant.” Drexel opened the folder they had compiled for the interrogation of Malcolm.

  “Father John.” Daniela pulled out her phone.

  As she tapped on her phone, Doggett read off the locations Daniela and Drexel had investigated already. Drexel marked those off on the copy of the map found in Malcolm’s apartment.

  Daniela waited until after Drexel noted the last one and then said, “Here’re the addresses he said he delivers food to routinely.” She read them off while Drexel and Doggett found them on their respective map and crossed them out. “That’s it,” she said.

  Drexel scanned the map. “That leaves two.” Two red circles on Malcolm’s map stared at him like hollowed out eyes. He stabbed with his pen an abandoned boxing gym in Montclare and a high school in Avondale. They quickly agreed that Drexel and Daniela would investigate the school while Doggett grabbed Connor and checked out the gym. Drexel folded up the map and handed it to Daniela. He looked at the board of photos of the victims. He thought back to Malcolm’s apartment and the images on the walls. Something tingled at the back of his mind. “Doggett. We can’t explore these alone now. Talk to the cap about getting us help.”

  Doggett casually saluted and left the conference room. Drexel rubbed his mouth and pulled on his chin. He called Ton.

  “Yeah.” His friend sounded bored.

  “In your research of the Cathars and all of that, were there any pairings, anything of two people doing rituals? I’m not sure what I’m asking.”

  Ton mumbled something unintelligible and then said, “No. It was always groups of people. A few individuals, but they didn’t make it seem like two people acting in concert or anything. Hold on.”

  Drexel heard Ton walking and setting down the phone. He must have tapped speaker, because the sound altered, and he sounded more distant.

  “I’m looking up Simon in the book. Why didn’t I fucking think of that?” The sound of pages. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay… Simon, Simon. There’s several. Wait.” The sound of pages flipping. “Fuck. It’s the outlines. Jesus.”

  “Talk to me man.”

  “Simon Magus. Also, Simon the Sorcerer. Simonian Doctrine. Was confronted in the book of Acts. Like in the New Testament. He had a companion named Helen. Reincarnation of Helen of Troy. And there’s a diagram here. Hold on. I’m taking a photo. It’s got parts of how the bodies were laid out.” A click. “Looks like a lot of the Gnostic stuff—which the Cathars adopted—started with him. Sending now.”

  “Okay, thanks. That’s enough for now.” Drexel hung up. His phone buzzed. He looked at it. The same image Ton had previously uncovered and it corresponded to the chalk drawings. Daniela looked at it and nodded. “We’ve got to go now.”

  Doggett, who had come back in, said, “SWAT’s getting ready, but it’ll be thirty before they can mount up.”

  “They’ll miss the show, I guess.”

  Doggett smiled.

  The thought occurred to Drexel that maybe Doggett did not dislike him so much, that maybe he had a grudging respect for him. Drexel patted the elder detective on the shoulder as he walked out.

  Drexel drove as Daniela guided him. Darkness had fallen across the city, which glowed from the streetlights and buildings. The city—his city—had, over the years, offered him many joys and a fair share of sadness. He wondered sometimes if the city had lost its beauty to him, had become unredeemable. And then he would see the city at night, dressed in her best and letting the dark—just around the corner always—slip into hiding, enough at least to let him forget.

  He and Zora had always talked about retiring to Florida along the Gulf coast. They had even spent a few vacations there—Fort Myers, Tampa, Naples, testing out the areas, but mostly enjoying the beaches and saltwater. And they would have had she lived. Regardless where they retired to, though, the blood of Chicago was in his veins and would never leave. Nights like this—driving through the city—even knowing death somehow would be encountered made him love the city.

  “Right there.” Daniela pointed up to the right. Locke High School stretched north from Diversey Avenue to George Street and west from Oak Park to Newcastle Avenue. Red brick with tan limestone corners and window edging, the school was divided into two large buildings, both aligned along a north-south axis, with the western building shifted more northerly. Drexel pulled into a free space in front of a sporting apparel store. Nike, Adidas, Converse, and Reebok gym shoes in white, orange, and other colors sat on small clear stands in a four-by-four matrix in the window.

  “Got a gun for me?”

  He popped the trunk, opened the door, and got out.

  The trunk raised slightly, and he lifted it the full way as Daniela got out of the car. Lights from the back of the trunk revealed the standard policeman’s kit of emergency medical supplies, flares, caution signs, and drug-testing kits. Daniela walked up beside him. He gra
bbed the kevlar vest and handed it to her. “Put it on.” He pulled the Remington 870P pump-action shotgun out of its holster and grabbed ammunition for it. He pulled the pump toward the trigger and loaded a shell into the chamber. He pushed the pump back up the barrel and loaded four into the speedfeed. He loaded an additional five into the elastic ammo holder on the stock. He looked up at Daniela. “Pistol or shotgun?”

  “Pistol.”

  Drexel unholstered his and handed it to her. “You stay behind me. Always. And if shooting starts, do not stop moving for any reason.” He hoped it would scare her.

  “Got it.”

  “You sure you want to do this? Will get us both into trouble with the cap.”

  She smiled. “Let’s see if we can save someone tonight.” She racked the slide, slipping the first round into the chamber.

  Drexel pointed the shotgun to the ground. “Hopefully, the backup gets here soon.” He slammed closed the trunk, walked to the driver’s side door, reached in, and pulled the radio from the holder on the dash. He radioed in he was heading into Locke High School and that SWAT should not hesitate to follow. He turned the volume down to almost zero and slipped the radio over his belt. “Don’t stop moving. Let’s go.” He crossed the street with Daniela following behind.

  They jogged down the sidewalk along the iron fence to the opening leading to the front door, which was positioned in the middle of the first building. When the school had been shut down, officials had wrapped large chains around the door handles and padlocked them closed. They worked their way back along the windows of the building. Working at speed, Drexel held up the shotgun with its attached flashlight to peer into every window before moving to the next. They rounded the southern corner of the building, worked their way across, and then turned back north. He felt the sweat across his forehead and in the small of his back. As they jogged from window to window, pausing to pour the light into the room—abandoned classrooms, mostly clear of desks but with blackboards and screens rolled up with the draw cord hanging down—they did not speak. He could hear Daniela breathing though and her footsteps behind him.