by Jack Kilborn
Tom knew Sergeant Herb Benedict as well as he knew Jack. Good man, good cop.
“Bains asked if I had her cell number,” Roy continued. “You got it? You guys still tight?”
“Yeah. I’ll call her right now, let her know.”
“Have a fun vacation, my man.”
Roy hung up. Tom flipped through his address book and found Jack, who’d devoted herself to The Job, and was still paying for it in retirement.
“This is Jack.”
“Loot, sorry to call you so early. It’s Tom Mankowski.”
“I’m not a lieutenant anymore, Tom. What’s up?”
“I just found out about it, and haven’t been able to get in touch with Sergeant Benedict. Did he call you already?”
“Herb’s on a staycation. He turned his phone off. Found out about what?”
“Last night, Terrence Wycleaf Johnson escaped from prison.”
There was a pause. Then Jack said, “T-Nail.”
“Two guards and three paramedics are missing.”
“What happened?”
Tom repeated what Roy had told him.
“Sounds like he had help. Has the ambulance been found?”
“No.”
“Have you talked to anyone in the gang unit? Are they making a move?”
“I just heard about it on the blotter, immediately called. Want me to send a car over?”
“No need. We’re up north. Harry’s got a place near a lake. I’m pretty sure we’re okay. T-Nail never even learned my name. I testified undercover.”
“Where are you?” Tom caught himself. “Wait, don’t tell me. I’m working a case, and electronic security is a lot less secure than I had thought.”
“The Snipper?”
“Yeah. Got me and my partner running in circles. Don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s been a second murder.”
“Describe the scene.”
Tom gave Jack the ugly details of Kendal Hefferton’s demise.
“It sounds like a sex crime,” Jack said.
“No semen. No evidence of rape.”
“Were her breasts mutilated like her mouth and vagina?”
“No. Untouched. Like the last one.”
“Was the bra left on?”
“Yeah.”
“Men sexualize the female breast. Unusual that the killer left hers alone.”
“Are you thinking the perp might be a woman?” Tom had been thinking the same thing.
“I’m thinking that even though it looks like a sex crime, the killer may have an agenda that isn’t sexual. Have you run a ViCAT report on the vic’s name? You can also run an alert to inform you automatically if anyone inputs new data. It’s likely the killer is looking for a new victim. If the pattern is followed, there will be harassment first. Maybe you’ll catch a break.”
“Good idea.” Tom hadn’t used ViCAT in a while, because the website was so poorly done, and cops weren’t good about updating information, Tom himself included. “You have a second to spitball?”
“Sure.”
Tom did a quick recap of what went down at Hector Valentine’s, and Walter Cissick’s. “I just chatted with the perp, online. I think it could be Walter’s son, Dennis. But the dual bedrooms is bothering me. And so are the vics. The men, castrated. The women, tortured to death. There was a transgender, or maybe intersex, woman who came to us, pretending to be a witness. At the least, she’s an accomplice, but she might be more than that.”
“How did you know she was transgender?” Jack asked.
“Roy mentioned it, after she left. If he didn’t say anything, I wouldn’t have known. What I keeping coming back to is—”
“—that it sounds like two perps.”
“Yeah. We don’t know how many kids Walter Cissick had. You ever work a case with two siblings, killing together?”
Jack made a sound that sounded like it could have been a snort. “Yes. I have. Crazy tends to run in families.”
“So it could be brother and sister. Each with a similar, but distinct, agenda.”
“Or two brothers,” Jack said. “One who identifies as female. Identity is more than how we view ourselves. It also colors how we view others. We’re pack animals. We tend to want to be around people like us.”
Good insight. “And what if we can’t find anyone like us?”
Tom noticed the pharmacist had finally gotten around to filling his script. He walked over to the register.
“Jack? You there?”
Jack didn’t respond. Tom tried redialing, and got her voicemail.
He paid for his prescriptions, shoved them into his pocket, and headed for the hospital parking lot. Once inside his car, he called Jack again.
And again it went to voicemail.
Odd. They were in the middle of a conversation, and had obviously been disconnected. But phone etiquette dictated that one or both parties keep trying until connection was re-established. Jack hadn’t left him any messages, so Tom wondered if she was just having bad reception wherever she was.
But there was a very small percentage it was something else. Something bad.
Much as he didn’t want to, Tom dialed Harry McGlade, the ex-cop who’d lost his hand and was a pain in the ass. He still worked with Jack, in the private sector, and Jack mentioned she was staying at his place. As much as it would be a pain in the ass to talk to him, he should be informed about the T-Nail situation.
“What?”
Nice way to answer the phone. “It’s Detective Tom Mankowski, McGlade.”
“So?”
“I’m calling about Jack Daniels.”
“Jack’s not here.”
“I know. I just talked with her.”
Tom gave McGlade the highlights, ending with, “Is there a landline at your place?”
“No landline. I bet it’s just bad reception. I’ll bug her on my autodial until I get through.”
McGlade hung up.
Tom tried Joan again, both on her cell, and at his house.
No answer.
Tom’s stomach sank. As a cop, he often relied on intuition.
And he had a hunch that things were about to go very, very wrong.
CHAPTER 41
Erinyes awakes.
Sleeping in the van is awkward. She’s parked at a gas station oasis off of I-90, amid all the semi-trucks sporting snoring drivers.
She stretches, notes it’s seven in the morning, then checks on Tom. His doctor is talking to him.
“I didn’t see any necrotic tissue. I cut around the wound just to make sure—necrotizing fasciitis is nothing to play around with—and sent the samples to the lab. The prognosis is good.”
Erinyes has to look up what necrotizing fasciitis is.
Gross. So that’s what happened to Walter’s lips.
The Tom Mankowski Show continues on through several phone calls.
Erinyes learns a lot.
The cops have no leads from her house. And they won’t find any. Even if that computer geek decrypts her files, there is nothing that can lead them to her.
Someone escaped from jail, and the story is intriguing enough that Erinyes looks up Terrance Wycleaf “T-Nail” Johnson.
His body count puts hers to shame. And his mugshot is downright terrifying. Erinyes actually shivers looking at it. They manage to put an animal like that away, and he still escapes. Yet the ridiculous War on Drugs—which persecutes people for using chemicals deemed illegal by a bunch of tight-assed, paid for politicians—arrests users once every 1.9 seconds for a drug-related offences. In what universe does it make sense to lock people up for doing what they want with their own bodies, and let out psychopaths who nail people to floors and walls? There’s something seriously wrong with the penal system in this country.
The conversation with Tom’s mentor, a former cop humorously named Jack Daniels, is also fascinating. Listening to them discuss her is like listening to juicy gossip. Most things they’re off base on, but a few of their guesses are surpri
singly close.
Erinyes searches for Jacqueline Daniels, and finds a lot of information. Jack used to be a star. She’s dealt with some very high-profile serial killer cases, including some big names Erinyes has heard of.
Maybe, when I’m finished with Tom, I’ll pay his mentor a little visit. Jack Daniels no doubt has many sins she needs to atone for.
The Tom Mankowski Show continues with an abrupt call to a boor named Harry McGlade—someone even more famous than Jack—and Erinyes switches off after Tom makes yet another desperate and pathetic attempt to contact his would-be fiancée.
Aren’t you going to be surprised when you find out what happened to her?
Erinyes exits the vehicle, and walks across the lot over to the 7-11. After using the ladies’ room, she buys a breakfast croissant sandwich and a large coffee, choosing to use extra cream and sugar.
The extra calories will be put to good use. Lots to do today.
She’s down to her last ten dollars, and makes a mental note to get some cash.
Back inside the van, she checks on Joan, her wrists securely taped to the eight inch steel U bolt attached to the floor of the van, next to the aquarium.
She’s still knocked out.
After laboring over the decision hours before, Erinyes chose to abduct Joan rather than kill her outright. A shrewd move, in case she needed to use Joan as a bargaining tool with the police. But Erinyes also had a bigger, deeper reason; she’s never given Penance to two sinners at the same time.
The concept is provocative. As they watch one another suffer, it will make their own suffering more exquisite.
In theory, anyway.
So, rather than tie Joan to Tom’s bed, wake her up, and do her business with the butcher knife, Erinyes went back to the van and brought up the hand truck and cardboard appliance box. After securing Joan in moving blankets and tape, she wheeled her outside and loaded her into the vehicle without anyone giving her a second glance.
Not that there were many people paying attention at four am. But if any were, they would have seen a person moving a large box.
Then Erinyes put a diaper on her—there was no telling how long it would take to grab Kendal—tied her to the rod, and put a GHB tablet under her tongue to keep her compliant. She didn’t bother with the ball gag yet; if Joan started getting too noisy, the option was available. But it wasn’t worth the risk of her possibly vomiting and choking to death.
Besides, listening to them confess their sins was one of the most enjoyable parts of the whole Penance process.
After starting up the van, Erinyes headed for the nearest BTM. They were becoming prevalent in Chicago, so she finds one only five minutes away. It’s located inside of a liquor store.
She’s halfway to it when she sees the flashing red and blue lights in her rearview mirror.
Police.
Not good. Not good at all.
Even worse; she left her Taurus in the back of the van.
Erinyes slowly pulls over to the side of the street. The cop is no doubt recording the stop, plus she sees his eyes are focused on her side mirror. If she gets up to gag Joan and grab the gun, he’ll notice the movement and become suspicious.
So Erinyes remains seated. But when she stretches for the glove compartment to get her insurance information, she makes sure the security curtain separating the front and rear of the van is pulled closed.
The policeman does his swagger up to her door, and Erinyes cracks open the window.
He gives her a once-over, then cranes his neck to see inside the van.
Nothing to see here, officer.
“License, registration, and proof of insurance.”
“Can I ask why you pulled me over?”
“You ran a red light back there.”
Erinyes hadn’t run a red light. It had barely turned yellow when she entered that last intersection. She’s always extremely careful about such a thing, because cops are such pricks.
Arguing with him will be fruitless. Better to take the ticket and get the hell out of there.
“Sorry about that.” She digs through her wallet, making sure she selects the correct driver’s license. Then she hands it to him along with her insurance card and plate sticker registration, and then waits, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, hoping her fake identification is worth the crazy amount she paid for it.
H goes back to his squad car.
A minute passes.
Two minutes.
From the back of the van, Joan whimpers.
Erinyes checks the rearview. He’s still writing the ticket.
“Tom?” Joan says, her voice slurring.
“Shh. Quiet.”
“Who are you?”
“I said, be quiet,” Erinyes orders.
The cop exits his car and begins to walk toward her.
“I want Tom,” Joan is louder this time.
“Sweetie, I’ll bring Tom to you, but you have to be quiet for a full minute. Count to sixty and you can talk to Tom.”
“Why am I tied up?”
The cop is only five steps away. He has one hand on his belt, next to his holster.
“You’ve been in an accident,” Erinyes tells her. “Do you want Tom?”
“Yeah.”
“First you have to count to sixty.”
“One… two…”
“In your head, sweetie.”
The cop raps a knuckle on the window. Erinyes opens it a few centimeters. He feeds in a small clipboard with a ticket attached.
“Sign the bottom.”
Erinyes takes it, eagerly.
There’s no pen.
“Tom? That you?”
The police officer squints at her, a question on his face. Erinyes shrugs. “Do you have a pen, officer?”
“Tom?” Joan is getting louder.
“Is someone in the van with you?”
“No. All alone. Just the radio.” Erinyes quickly turns the radio knob, even though it’s already off. “Oh, lookee, found one.”
She hurriedly snatches a ballpoint from her purse pocket, scrawls across the bottom of the ticket, hands the clipboard back, and shuts the window.
The cop doesn’t leave.
“Tom? Where’s Tom?”
The cop knocks again. Erinyes opens the window once more.
“Here’s your copy, and your identification. Information on paying your fine, or contesting the violation, is on the back of the ticket.”
“Thank you, officer.”
He stares, still not leaving. What the hell else does this sadistic fascist want?
“Are you sure you’re okay, Miss?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” The cop touches his own eye.
Erinyes isn’t sure what he’s talking about. Then she checks her own eyes in the center mirror.
Sees traces of dark black make-up.
He thinks someone beat me up. She almost laughs at the absurdity of it.
“I can take you someplace safe. Get you help.”
Seriously? He gives her a two hundred dollar ticket, now he wants to play hero?
“It happened at the gym, officer. Thank you for your concern.”
“Okay. Drive safely.”
Erinyes nods, shutting the window. Behind her, in the back, Joan begins to snore.
GHB, the date rape drug of choice since 1960.
Erinyes pulls back onto the street. Two minutes later, she parks in front of the liquor store, goes in the back of the van, gags Joan, and then wanders inside to find the Bitcoin Teller Machine.
Erinyes flashes the QR code from her phone, punches in her password, and checks the exchange rates. Bitcoins are currently worth four hundred and twenty US dollars. Erinyes withdraws two bitcoins in twenties. That leaves her with slightly over eight hundred and six bitcoins in her digital wallet.
Free money. She’s been mining bitcoins for years, along with selling various hacking services on darknet. It’s more than enough to start over in a new
state, buy a house for cash, and set up several new identities.
But first, she has to finish up things in Illinois.
Erinyes pulls out of the parking lot and heads for the expressway, toward Evanston.
On the way, she stops at a pet store and picks up a bag of crickets.
Her Eratigena agrestis eggs have begun to hatch, and she doesn’t want the little darlings to start eating each other.
CHAPTER 42
Tom opened the door to his house, hurrying inside, hoping to catch Joan still asleep.
But Joan was gone.
He placed his hand on the unmade bed, as if there could still be some residual heat from when Joan had slept there. But the sheets were cold.
Tom sat, and for the hundredth time he thought about how it all could have gone differently.
“Walk away, let someone else catch this maniac. You do that, I’ll marry you.”
That was Tom’s moment. If he had agreed, Tom could have been on his honeymoon right now.
But instead of a happy, safer life, starting a family with the woman he adored, Tom chose instead to surf the moral black hole of darknet and chat with psychopaths online. Psychopaths that he would one day have to worry about escaping from prison and going after him and those he loved.
Tom didn’t want to become Jacqueline Daniels. He could feel the despair in her voice over the phone. The only time she perked up was when they discussed The Spinner case.
It was sad. And it was also the road he was headed down.
Thinking about Jack, Tom considered her advice; checking the Violent Criminal Apprehension Team national database for similar cases. The chance was slim. Filling out ViCAT reports was a lengthy, and often fruitless process. State and local authorities weren’t required to do so. Because of this, not every cop did it, so police departments didn’t know what other police departments were doing. That allowed perps to hop from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, with every new investigator having to start from scratch with no prior evidence.
Tom stared at his computer, at his corner desk.
Search ViCAT? Or send a letter of resignation to Captain Bains?
Tom sat down and began to type.
Consider this letter the beginning of my two weeks’ notice.
