by B. J. Woster
“I get to dial 911?” Brooke asked, incredulous, but the astonishment didn’t last for long as anger welled like a typhoon. “You know what? Screw you! Keep your damned phone. I’m not helping you and that’s that!”
Christian sighed again, and tossed the phone in her direction. “Go!”
Brooke caught the phone instinctively, but simply stared at it in defiance. “I’m not…” she started, but when he pressed a button on his watch to begin the countdown, her survival instincts kicked in and she pressed the emergency button.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“Hello, operator? My name is Brooke Madison. I’ve been kidnapped by a man named Christian Price—”
“Miss?”
“Please, you have to listen, I don’t have a lot of time,” Brooke pleaded. “I said that I’ve been kidnapped and I bloody well need help.”
“Do you know where you’re being held,” the operator droned dispassionately.
“If I knew that, it would have been the first thing I told you! All I can tell is that I’m in what looks like a warehouse of some sort. There’s a window way up high. The square kind that looks like it belongs in a basement, only the room is too big to be a basement—Hey! Give me that back!”
“Hello, operator, this is Miss Madison’s abductor,” Christian relayed, putting a hand up to ward off Brooke’s attempts to retrieve the phone. Her yelling, however, was making it difficult to talk to the operator, so he paused his conversation with a polite, “Excuse me,” and laid the phone on the floor.
He approached Brooke menacingly, which had her backing away, “Either hush now,” he said in a calm that belied his anger at her, “or I may not give you thirty-six hours for this experiment. I’ll end it now, and as ending it now would mean killing you, I don’t think you want that.”
Brooke stared at Christian wide-eyed, but his threat worked at silencing her tirade. He returned and picked up his phone. The 911 operator was trying to get his attention.
“Hello, are you still there?”
“I’ve returned, and I need you to listen to me well. This is not a joke. Please relay the following information to the police. Inform them that they have thirty-six hours to locate Brooke Madison or she dies…”
“Sir?”
“I do hope you were paying attention because I won’t be repeating what I just said. Your time starts—now!” Christian touched the button that effectively ended the call and then tucked the phone back into his pants pocket.
Brooke stared at him, wide-eyed, “Die?” she whispered. “You’re going to kill me? You didn’t say that this experiment was life or death. You said your experiments were to help save lives.”
“I truly hope it doesn’t end in death, Brooke,” he said in such a truthful, sincere tone that Brooke felt tears well in her eyes. “I put my experiments in place to help save as many lives as is possible, but sometimes, in order to accomplish that, a few lives must be sacrificed. Again, I do hope that yours isn’t one of them.”
“Just tell me why?” she whispered, pleading. “Why? Why did you have to choose me for this? Surely, there are plenty of other people you could have picked on” she screamed when he ignored her question and turned to leave.
“This will be over in thirty-six hours,” he said softly. “All the police have to do is their job.”
“Thirty-six hours and you’ll let me go?” Brooke tried again.
“If the police come for you, you go free,” he said. “If not…well then, the experiment is over.”
“You’re experimenting with my life, you bastard! You can’t do this to me!” Brooke yelled, running at him like a football tight end. She collided with him, but he was ready for her and shoved her backward as she neared. She fell on her bottom and let out a squeal of humiliated anger.
“Actually, I already am doing this to you,” he said, the flat tone of his voice belying the sadness in his gaze. “So, accept it and just sit peacefully and await the arrival of the police. That’s all you have to do.”
“But, why? What have I ever done to you? Are you just mad because I didn’t want to help you? Is that it? Or because I failed your little test? Or was I a bad martial arts student and this is payback for not putting my keys on the outside of my purse?” Brooke cried, trying to stall his departure. “Wait! Please? Just…are you the one who killed Sandra?”
He turned and opened the door, stepping into the corridor before turning back to answer her question.
“You’ve done nothing to me, Brooke, and neither did Sandra,” he replied softly, “but I’ll say it again—someone has to be sacrificed if it means saving hundreds of others.” He raised his hands to prevent any further questions. “No more histrionics now. I have to go but before I do I want to thank you.”
“What for—being an unwilling participant in your sadistic game?” Brooked snarled.
“No, I want to thank you for starting the police off on the wrong foot. It will be a good test to determine just what caliber of officers we have in this city.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking—”
“My name isn’t Christian Price.”
Chapter 3
9:30 p.m.
The tape ended and Captain Gary Parsons, a tall, rugged, bald African American with a booming voice, turned to face two of his best detectives. “What do you make of it?” he asked, trying to maintain his calm but his voice still reverberated around his too-compact office.
“He’s a sick son-of-a-bitch.” Theodore Wilson rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, hoping to rub free the tension building in his muscles. As his fingers ran along his neck, his mind drifted off, momentarily, that he’d forgotten to get his blond locks cut. If he didn’t do it soon, he’d start looking like a pop singer, rather than a detective. After a minute, he forced his thoughts back to the case, “What kind of twisted mind lets the victim call 911 and then informs her that he’s going to kill her in thirty-six hours—”
“Thirty-four hours now,” Detective Steven Hardwick interjected abstractly. Hardwick, a thirty-year veteran of the APD, glanced at his watch, his gaze falling on the tiny gray hair surrounding the gold band. His thoughts flittered to all of the gray hair he viewed in the mirror at night, when his freshly washed black hair sprung awry in a mass of waves atop his head, a testament to his Italian heritage. Every morning, he slicked that hair down, not only to try to keep it regulated, but also to try to hide the gray hair, which revealed his age.
“Yeah, thirty-four hours,” Wilson said, casting his partner a ‘you’re a wise ass’ look.
“So, then, any more useful tidbits either of you want to add before I unleash you two on this guy?” the captain wanted this case off his desk and cleared quickly. Murderers were bad enough without them calling and taunting the police before actually committing the murder.
“His name isn’t Christian Price,” Hardwick said thoughtfully.
“Why would she—” Wilson started.
“She knows him as Christian Price, or he let his name slip so she’d give the police a false start right out of the chute,” the captain concluded.
“Which is both beneficial and not,” Hardwick said, “Since we only have thirty-four hours—”
“Thirty-three and fifty-four minutes,” Wilson interrupted, sardonically.
Hardwick looked at his watch, “Right,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at Wilson. “There’s something else. It could be nothing, but I think there’s a connection to an open case.”
“What case?” the captain asked. His brow arched. He hadn’t heard of another case similar to this one.
“A few days ago a body was found because of an anonymous tip. Sandra McIntyre. I still have the file on my desk.”
“I know the case, it’s still under investigation,” the captain interjected, “but I don’t see the similarities. What made you think of it?”
“Actually, it has a very similar M.O…thirty-six hours.” Hardwick sat back in his chair and mentally reviewed
the file that was currently in his inbox. “Sandra was reported missing by her husband at 8 a.m., October 26. He said that a man had called him and told him that she’d been abducted. At precisely 8 p.m. on the 27th, thirty-six hours later, we get an anonymous tip that a body was discovered in the warehouse district. I’m still searching for evidence in that case.”
“Just because Sandra McIntyre was found thirty-six hours after being reported missing, doesn’t necessarily connect these cases,” the captain interjected. “After all, there are glaring dissimilarities. First, the husband called 911 to report his wife missing; the victim didn’t make the call. Second, an anonymous tip thirty-six hours later doesn’t mean there was a deadline in place after which McIntyre was killed. It could have been anyone roaming the warehouse district…”
“The woman in this case stated that she was being held in a building that could possibly be a warehouse,” Wilson piped up.
“Precisely,” Hardwick concurred, “and approximately three days after Sandra McIntyre was found, Brooke Madison is abducted, and her abductor has given us thirty-six hours in which to locate her, and is, apparently, holding her captive in what could be a warehouse, yes. I think it’s the same perpetrator, that he is simply changing his method of notification to the police in order to accomplish his goal within a set time period. Too many similarities, for me. I say we’re dealing with the same killer.”
“It could be a coincidence, but knowing how you feel about coincidences, I’m just going to let you explain the glaring dissimilarity, which would be…” the captain started, but paused long enough to allow Hardwick to respond.
“The 911 call. I didn’t overlook it. I think that perhaps the perp has simply added a different twist to his M.O. Maybe to him the game wasn’t stimulating enough last time. Maybe he feels the need to taunt the police, to raise the adrenaline. Maybe Brooke Madison doesn’t have a husband for the kidnapper to call. Maybe having the spouse call didn’t elicit enough attention as having the victim call. Any number of reasons, but I still think it’s the same guy.”
“Well, if they are connected somehow, then catching this guy is the highest priority. If he’s upping the ante with each kill, it’s going to get a whole lot messier. And if he intends to kidnap someone weekly, we’ll have the makings of a serial killer pretty damn fast.”
“I agree,” Hardwick nodded, “At the same time, it has given us quite the jump in potentially solving the McIntyre murder also. In order to see this done, though, we’re going to need extra manpower on this one, Captain. We’re not only investigating an older case, but also trying to prevent a death from occurring in this new case—and thirty-six hours is a tight deadline.”
The captain nodded, “Understood. Let’s get Harding and Cortez in on this one.” He nodded at Wilson, who got up from his chair to summon the two other detectives sitting idle at their desks.
“Cortez, Harding, Captain wants y’all.”
Emanuel Cortez looked up from his paperwork, “Uno momento,” he called, brushing a loose curl from his face. He closed the file he’d been working on and placed it in the stack of files on the side of his desk, then stood and made his way over to where Antoine Harding sat, deep in conversation with someone on the phone.
Cortez smacked Harding on the arm, “Hey, jefe, the captain summoned. Get your black ass off the phone.”
Antoine Harding sent Cortez an evil glare, then concluded his conversation, “Gotta go, baby. Duty, and all that shit. I’ll speak at you later.” He hung up the receiver and then stood, nearly bumping into Cortez, who was still hovering, “Wanna hold my hand, Cortez? Make sure I can find the captain’s office? I can’t see why you’re invading my space otherwise.”
“I can see why someone as ugly as you would go after a fine-looking Spaniard like myself…”
“Bullshit! Just get your ass in gear before the captain decides to bust both our butts for keeping him waiting.”
The two detectives weaved their way through the bullpen, their continued banter drawing the gazes of their fellow detectives, who just shook their heads or rolled their eyes as they passed by. It wasn’t until they reached the captain’s office that they ceased their idiocy and placed on their professional faces.
“Captain?” Cortez greeted, nodding to Hardwick and Wilson. “What gives?”
“We’ve got a situation,” the captain said. “Another woman’s been kidnapped. We think it’s connected to the murder that took place a few days ago, since the perpetrator has given us only thirty-six hours to find her.”
“Now, thirty-three…”
“Drop it, Wilson!” the captain snapped, “If you can’t add anything constructive here, then shut the hell up! Cortez, Harding, you two will back up Hardwick and Wilson on this one. They’ll fill you in.”
“Captain, just because this kidnapping, and McIntyre’s, fell within our zone, doesn’t mean that he’s holding her here. We may need the cooperation of the other districts,” Harding stated. “We know that Atlanta’s a big city with different zones, but a killer might not think that way; wouldn’t necessarily think to keep his kills localized to one district.”
“True,” the captain concurred, “I’ll get in touch with the other zone commanders. See what they can do to assist, but you know that departmental cooperation isn’t a given. The other districts have their own loonies to deal with.”
“I know, but most loonies don’t challenge the police so directly. Most times they’re just dealing with gang bangers trying to do away with their rivals,” Cortez replied, his tone sharp.
“Not very fair of you, Cortez,” the captain chastised lightly. “You know that, even though a majority of crime in most of our districts are gang related, we still have the odd homicide to contend with—like now.”
“Yeah, but two of those that just happened to get dumped in our lap from a potential serial killer, so any help given wouldn’t go without a huge thank you and a keg of beer,” Wilson added.
The captain sighed, “I’ll see what miracle I can pull out of my ass. You four see about catching this guy and saving the girl.”
All four detectives filed out of the captain’s office. The captain watched them go and leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. Sometimes he hated this job.
“What are we looking at?” Harding asked as they approached Hardwick’s desk.
“As I said in the captain’s office, I think there might be a connection between our two recent victims. Same guy. Definitely a similar M.O.” Hardwick handed over the McIntyre file and continued as Harding and Cortez scanned the contents. “I’m basing it on two small details: the thirty-six-hour window and the 911 call, even though, one was placed by the spouse and the other by the victim.”
“What about the warehouse connection?” Wilson asked.
“Places are too fluid. If he plans to continue killing, he could easily switch his kill sites if police presence in the warehouse districts increases, so while we have one death in the warehouse district, and potentially a hold site there also, let’s not dwell on that too much right now, except as a possible for a search grid. Anyway, if we do have the start of a serial killer on our hands—” The phone rang, interrupting his explanation. “Hardwick,” he answered, frustrated at having his thoughts disturbed. He pointed to a couple of chairs, then settled in his own chair. The three men rolled over their chairs and pulled them in a semi-circle around Hardwick’s desk.
“Front desk, sir. I have a message for you and a call.”
“Message?” Hardwick pulled over a notepad and snatched a pen from an old coffee cup.
“Message from Officer Patterson,” the front desk droned. "He’s at the scene of the kidnapping. Found her purse and car at her office’s parking garage."
“Get in touch with Officer Patterson and tell him that I’ll be out there shortly. Have the location ready when I stop by on my way out.”
“Will do.”
“Other message?”
“Line three.”
&nbs
p; “The caller’s holding?” Hardwick glanced down at the flashing light on his phone.
“Yes, sir.”
“Take a message,” Hardwick snapped, impatient to begin work on the investigation. He hung up the receiver. “So, as I was saying, if we do have the start of a serial killing spree—” The phone rang again. “Damn!” He snatched up the receiver again, “Sergeant, just hold all of my calls and messages, until I’m headed out, okay? I’m rather preoccupied at the moment.”
“It’s line three, sir.”
“I said to take a message, Sergeant.”
“I tried, sir, but he insists on speaking to the man who’s been put in charge of the kidnapping—”
That’s as far as the front desk officer got before Hardwick disconnected again. He punched the blinking white lit-up 3, followed by the speaker button.
“Detective Hardwick.”
“Detective Hardwick,” the voice said, "this is Christian Price."
All four men pulled notepads and pens to begin jotting notes, thoughts, anything that might help them get the most out of this phone call.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Price?” Hardwick asked.
“I wanted to let you know that I don’t want any harm to come to Brooke Madison…”
“If you can lie about your name, why should I believe you about this?” Hardwick asked. Eyebrows raised around the desk at the belligerent tone.
“Ah! That’s good, Detective. You’ve already determined that I’m using an alias. Perhaps there is hope this time, so that I won’t have to move beyond Brooke.”
“This time?” Hardwick asked. “Are you referring to Sandra McIntyre; and what do you mean ‘move beyond Brooke’?”
“My, my, you’ve connected Sandra to me. It’s nice to speak to a detective, finally, with a brain to go with any sort of brawn he might have. I’m well pleased, I must say. Perhaps Brooke does stand a chance with you on the case. If only you’d been there in the past.”
“It would have been nice, yes. Had you allowed Sandra the same courtesy of calling 911…”
“I wasn’t referring to Sandra, but there’s nothing that can change the past, so it’s best to focus our attention on Brooke,” the caller interrupted, a genuine sadness in his tone. “I truly don’t want to kill her; didn’t want to kill any of them, you know. I just want the police to do their jobs.”
