by Elle Gray
“Can’t say yet. You can learn to disarticulate a body on freaking YouTube these days,” I reply. “But it’s interesting that our guy didn’t just take a chainsaw and cut the vic into pieces. He took the time to sever the limbs at all the joints.”
Astra nods then squats down, studying the body closely. “Cuts look clean, that’s for sure,” she says. “Guy didn’t use an ax or anything.”
Erskine shakes her head. “Why would somebody do something like this?”
“Lots of reasons,” I say. “Could have been trying to send a message. Could have been a matter of practicality—he needed to make sure the body would fit in the barrel.”
“Hands and head are missing,” Astra notes.
“Obvious forensic countermeasures,” I say and turn to Erskine. “Don’t suppose there are any pieces left in the barrel?”
“Nope. That’s it, I’m afraid,” she replies. “Whoever did this apparently doesn’t want you to ID the vic anytime soon.”
I sigh and stand back up to look around the scene, noticing for the first time that we’ve got eyes on us. Some of the Tukwila cops are watching us as if we’re aliens who just beamed down from the mothership. Some of them have expressions of open hostility on their faces and others look indifferent. Just once, it would be nice to be welcomed onto a crime scene.
I look down at Astra. “We’re going to need to run his DNA through CODIS. See if we can make an ID,” I say, then turn to Erskine. “Can your techs get us samples we can take back to the field office for testing?”
“Absolutely,” Erskine nods.
She walks over to one of the men standing near the barrel and quietly confers with him. Astra stands up and we linger there, staring down at the mutilated corpse.
“This is a bad one,” Astra says.
I nod. “I think Erskine was right to call us in. This one is going to be hell to crack. I just have a feeling.”
As I stand there staring at the body, I feel something tickling the back of my mind. There’s a certain familiarity I’m feeling right now, though I can’t say specifically what it is. But until I can figure it out, I don’t want to say anything, so I keep it to myself. Something about this just feels….familiar. As though I’ve seen it somewhere before.
“What are you thinking?” Astra asks.
I shake my head. “Not sure yet. Just trying to absorb it all.”
The way the Green River flows, it would have eventually carried the barrel to where it becomes the Duwamish, then out to the Puget Sound—and from there, who knows? Maybe all the way to Russia, depending on the currents. Which means it was dropped into the river somewhere upriver from Tukwila to make its journey. But there’s a lot of rural land that way, and not a lot of gang activity. Which makes me wonder how the barrel got up there—and why.
I squat down and look at the body parts arrayed on the tarp, frowning. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a pair of black nitrile gloves and pull them on. The crime scene tech—a young, squirrely-looking guy with a shock of curly brown hair and brown eyes behind his round frameless glasses—stops his cataloging and looks up at me with a raised eyebrow.
“You always walk around with nitrile gloves in your pocket?” he asks.
I glance at the name patch on his coveralls. “Don’t you—Calvin?”
He chuckles. “No, I do not. I carry a box in my bag,” he replies. “I’d kind of feel a bit obsessed with my job if I carried them in my pocket twenty-four/seven.”
“Oh, she’s definitely obsessed with her job,” Astra chimes in. “A dog with a bone when she gets on a scent, this one.”
He laughs and all I can do is shake my head and not point out the fact that Astra is pulling a pair of nitrile gloves out of her own pocket as we speak. I reach out and take hold of the left lower leg and look closely at it, turning it over in my hands. Astra looks thoroughly disgusted, which makes me grin. Not seeing anything, I set the piece back down and pick up the other one.
I shrug. “Yeah, well, call me obsessed with my job, then. There are worse things to be,” I say. “Especially when it leads me to find things like this. I’d say this makes me good at my job. Wouldn’t you?”
It’s grisly and morbid as hell, but I hold the section of leg up and show Astra what I found. Along the side of the knee is a long surgical scar—which makes me think he was an athlete who blew his knee out. But on the back of the right calf is a distinctive tattoo. The dark ink against his dark skin makes it difficult to see, but turning it into the light makes it stand out a bit more. Astra and Calvin lean closer to inspect what I’m showing them.
My eyes are drawn back to the surgical scar, though. I have to wonder if it’s that scar that led him to where he ended up. I wonder if the injury dashed his sports dreams, leaving him no choice in his mind but to join a gang.
“What is that?” he asks, pointing to the ink.
“It’s a gang tat. That’s the symbol for the Eighth Street Kings,” I say. “If I recall, they’re one of the bigger street gangs in Seattle.”
I point to the distinctive design. It’s a stylized figure eight with a crown around the top loop and a pair of bullets crisscrossed behind it. I’ve seen it spray-painted on walls and doors in Seattle more times than I can count. Astra looks at it and nods.
“Didn’t know you were so well versed in street gang iconography,” she says.
I grin. “I know a little about a lot of things. One of these days you’re going to remember that,” I say, then look to Calvin. “You guys have a gang problem down here? Got a chapter of the Kings running around Tukwila?”
He shakes his head. “No. We don’t have a gang problem here. So far as I know, we don’t have any street gangs at all.”
“Which then begs the question—what is a Seattle gangster doing in pieces in a barrel floating in the river down here in Tukwila?” Astra ponders.
“That’s a good question. A very good question,” I reply. “But before we answer the why, let’s figure out the who. Let’s see about identifying this guy.”
“Copy that, boss.”
Five
Organized Crime Bureau; Seattle Field Office
“Jonas Hobbs.”
He looks up from the papers on his desk, a wide smile on his face. Jonas gets to his feet and comes around his desk, pulling me into a tight embrace. He steps back but leaves his hands on my shoulders, looking at me with the pride of a father in his eyes.
“Blake Wilder. As I live and breathe,” he says. “I didn’t think royalty hobnobbed with mere mortals like me anymore.”
“Well, I like to remain humble by walking among the peasants,” I reply with a grin.
“Consider me honored.”
Hobbs is a fireplug of a man. Five-ten, stocky build, and stronger than an ox. He’s got dark eyes, and hair that’s more gray than black now. He’s wearing a dark suit that’s a good five years old but is still fashionable, and a tie that’s full of bright colors and geometric patterns. It looks like something straight out of the ’80s. He’s always thought his ties were playful and showed off his personality. I’ve always said they were abominations. Today’s selection is covered in red, blue, yellow, and green triangles.
“I see your taste in ties hasn’t improved much over the years,” I note.
“You still know how to hurt me, Wilder. My ties are a window into my soul. You know that,” he says, tipping me a wink.
Hobbs was my mentor when I was first assigned to the Seattle Field Office and spent some time in the OCB. In truth, he was more like a father figure to me. He took me under his wing and looked out for me. Hobbs is a good man. Clever, intelligent, and determined. Astra likes to say I’m a dog with a bone, but it’s Hobbs’ unit where I learned to be as doggedly determined as I am. So, in most every way, who I am as an investigator is his fault.
“Have a seat,” he offers.
Hobbs walks around and drops down into his chair as I take the seat in front of his desk. His gaze remains fixed on mine for a long mom
ent, and he can’t seem to keep the smile off his face.
“You’re doing some good work, Blake. I’m really proud of you,” he says.
“Thanks, Hobbs. That means a lot,” I reply. “I’m only doing what you taught me to do.”
“Rubbish,” he brushes me off. “Learn to take a compliment. You’re doing great stuff.”
“Thanks, Hobbs.”
His office is tidy but cluttered, which is how it was when I worked in the OCB. It hasn’t changed one iota. He’s got stacks of files on his desk and the credenza behind him, as well as boxes of evidence stacked in the corners. He calls it a working man’s office. It’s one of his habits I’m glad never wore off on me. I can’t stand the clutter. Honestly, I have no idea how he finds things in this chaos. But he somehow manages to do it.
“How are things going here?” I ask.
“Sisyphean. You know how it is,” he replies. “But no matter what, we have to keep trying to push that rock up the hill.”
“Well, if not for the bad guys, we’d be out of jobs.”
He chuffs. “I think that’s a tradeoff I’d be willing to make.”
“And what would you do with yourself without the job?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Yoga instructor, maybe?”
He draws a laugh out of me. “Yeah, I can’t see you teaching the downward dog to a group of twenty-somethings.”
“Maybe not. But I certainly enjoy watching those twenty-somethings do the downward dog in those leave-very-little-to-the-imagination yoga pants.”
“You are awful,” I squeal. “Absolutely awful.”
“You say that like it’s news.”
We share a laugh and I shake my head at him. Same old Hobbs. He’s always had an eye for the ladies—which is probably why he’s not married. Anymore, at least.
“So, what brings you by?” he asks.
“I needed to pick your brain about something.”
“Yeah, well, this old brain isn’t what it used to be. Can’t promise you’ll find what you’re looking for. But pick away.”
The reason the man in the barrel in Tukwila twanged the chords of familiarity occurred to me when we were driving back. It reminded me of a case I worked shortly after I started with the OCB. It was actually one of my very first cases. I haven’t thought about it in years, but once the thought crossed my mind, all the grisly details came pouring back. And even though I know our vic was a gang member, the way he was disposed of reminded me of that old case.
“Do you remember that case we worked when I first joined your team? The body in the barrel?”
“The Russian mob. Yeah, I remember that,” he nods. “Nasty bit of business that was.”
“Yeah, that one. Anyway, do you remember the victim? Paul Summers, I think his name was?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s one of those things I’ll never get out of my head no matter how hard I try,” he replies.
Paul Summers had been a confidential informant of ours. He was a twenty-year-old kid and we’d busted him on a drug charge that had him looking at fifteen to twenty years in prison. But he’d agreed to work with us to bring down the Bologev crime family if we helped him with his pending case. So we’d sent him in wired. A few days after that, he went missing and we didn’t find him for a couple of weeks until he….turned up.
Summers had been cut into pieces—disarticulated, actually, just like our mystery man. His remains had been stuffed in a barrel and left in a public park. A pair of homeless guys who thought they’d hit the jackpot opened up that barrel and got the surprise of a lifetime. We knew it was the Bologev family—their cleaner, Alexei Polskovet, specifically—but we could never conclusively tie it to them. So as of today, the murder of Paul Summers officially remains open-unsolved.
“So, is there a reason for this little trip down memory lane? Or did you just want an excuse to come down here and lord your celebrity status over us peons?” he asks with a grin.
“Celebrity status? You’re really taking this a bit far, aren’t you?”
“I don’t see you all that often, so I have to give you crap when I can. It’s a moral imperative for me.”
“Fair enough,” I reply with a grin. “I’m actually here because we caught a body today that made me think of the Russians.”
“Yeah? Somebody turn your vic into a jigsaw puzzle?”
I nod. “Yeah. Completely disarticulated,” I tell him. “Head and hands were missing.”
“Trying to prevent an ID,” he furrows his brow, already snapping into investigative mode. “That doesn’t sound like our Russian friends. They like to advertise when they’ve killed somebody. Sends a message.”
“Yeah, that was my thought, too. I’ve just never seen any other cases when the bodies were completely—”
“Taken apart?”
“Exactly.”
Hobbs leans back in his seat and considers me. “Unfortunately, deconstructing a human body isn’t quite as unique as it used to be,” he says. “Seems to be the latest fashion among all the groups out there looking to send a message these days. Mob. Cartels. Street gangs. Hell, psychopaths looking to get rid of a wife are doing it.”
“Yeah, I was afraid of that,” I say. “But the way this was done—it was professional. It wasn’t some cartel chopping up a rival. It was meticulous. Perfectly disarticulated. To me, that screams organized crime.”
“It’s possible. We still have some old-school mobsters in the city. Italians. Russians. Others,” he shrugs. “They’re a dying breed, but they will not go gently into the night.”
“You ever hear of the Italian or Russian mobsters doing business with street gangs?”
Hobbs frowns and thinks about it for a moment. “I wouldn’t rule it out completely, just because I try to never say never. But in general, the mobs are usually pretty insular. They don’t usually do business with the gangs or outsource work to them,” he says. “Let me put it this way, if any of the various ethnic mobs are working with street-level gangsters, it’d be the first time I’ve heard of it. They usually keep things pretty in-house. It’s a lack of trust with a dash of racism thrown in for flavor.”
“I guess good help is hard to find. At least, help of the right skin tone.”
He chuckles. “Yes, it is. And for the different families, it’s all about trust. They’d never trust somebody out runnin’ and gunnin’ on the streets. They’d flip way too easily if they got pinched, and the families know it,” he says. “I take it your jigsaw puzzle guy was a gangster.”
“Possibly. He had Eighth Street Kings ink.”
“Huh. Very well could be a rival gang sending a message.”
“Could be,” I say. “But why take the head and hands? Why not let him be IDed if they were looking to send a message? I thought the gangs were all about signing their work?”
“They learned it from the families. What’s old is new again, apparently. I swear to God, these creeps have no original thoughts of their own,” Hobbs mutters with a chuckle. “Anyway, you might want to talk to Edgar Morello over in gangs. He’s a good friend of mine. Good investigator. Guy knows these streets inside and out. He might know who got run through the woodchipper and why.”
“That’s a good idea. Thanks for the tip.”
“Of course. I’m sure your dizzying intellect would have gotten you around to Morello sooner or later,” he says. “Surprised it didn’t help you bypass little ol’ me completely actually.”
I smile. “Yeah, I know, I’m a terrible human being. And I’m sorry I haven’t been around very much—”
Hobbs raises his hand to stop me. “There’s no need for you to apologize, kid. You are the job, which means you’re working twenty-four/seven. Trust me, I get it. Took me two marriages to figure it out, but when I did, I stopped fighting it,” he says. “And when you are the job, you don’t have time or space for anything else, really. So don’t apologize. Fact is, the phone works both ways. I’m usually so busy, I don’t make a lot of calls either.”
“You caught me on an off day.”
We share a soft laugh. “We’ll have to carve out the time to have a drink. I miss you, old man. We need to catch up.”
“I’d like that. I’ve missed you too, kid.”
I get to my feet. “Thanks for the tip on Morello.”
“Hey, it’s what I’m here for—to catch bad guys and be your concierge.”
“And don’t you forget it,” I flash him a grin.
Six
Wilder Residence; The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments, Downtown Seattle
I close the door behind me, dropping my keys onto the small table beside it and dumping my bag next to the table. It’s been a long day and I’m beat. I want nothing more than to shower and collapse into bed. But I know sleep won’t be coming for a few hours yet. I’ve still got work to do. Besides, my mind is too keyed up to sleep right now. I’ve been down this road often enough to know that the minute I lay my head down, the thoughts in my brain will all start competing for attention, like an Internet browser with too many tabs open.
After getting a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, I head down to what’s become my war room and stop at the doorway when I notice light coming from under the door. My mind reels with a thousand possibilities. Has someone broken in? Is an operative of The Thirteen in my apartment right now, stealing my information?
Adrenaline burns like liquid fire in my veins. I quickly pull my weapon. Clicking the safety off, I grip it tightly as I reach out with my other hand and grab the knob. I turn it quickly, push the door inward, and rush over the threshold. My weapon is at the ready and every nerve is taut.
“Jesus, Mark!” I gasp and lower my weapon. “What are you doing in here?”
He swivels in the chair he’s sitting in so that he’s facing me. If he’s even remotely disturbed that I had my gun on him, a hair’s breadth from firing, he gives no indication of it. If anything, he looks slightly annoyed as he gestures to the wall behind him. The surface of the wall is covered in photos and pages of text, each thing on my “board” a link in the chain that connects me to the murder of my parents.
