by B. J. Woster
“Someone get on that,” Hardwick whispered, covering the mouthpiece. Cortez leapt from his chair, ran back to his desk, and began punching at his keyboard. “What others are you talking about?” he asked the man known as Price.
“I said that wasn’t important. Only Brooke is important. Focus only on finding her,” he replied. “I only called to encourage you to do your best. I truly don’t want any harm—”
“Then let her go,” Hardwick pressed.
“I can’t do that.”
“So, if we can’t find her, you’re going to murder her?”
“I wouldn’t call it murder,” Price countered.
“Taking another’s life is murder in my book,” Hardwick said, and Wilson arched an eyebrow again in his direction.
“Should you be antagonizing him like this,” he whispered, leaning close to Hardwick’s ear.
Hardwick shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips, and Wilson sat back with a frustrated sigh. In his estimation, if Hardwick persisted, he may provoke the man into upping his timetable.
“Think of me as a lab technician, or, better yet, a scientist,” Price was saying.
“A scientist?” Hardwick asked.
“Yes. When scientists inject experimental drugs into the tiny, helpless body of a mouse and that mouse dies—is the scientist put on trial for murder, or is it considered justifiable homicide; the taking of one life to preserve hundreds or even thousands of others?”
“There’s considerable difference between a mouse and a human being,” Hardwick retorted, shaking his head in disbelief at the man’s insane justifications. “You sound too intelligent than to believe that hogwash.” Hardwick could almost see the smile on the other man’s face when he responded.
“True, I don’t consider them on the same scale,” Price said, “but what I’m doing is not really much different. After all, if I need to take the life of one—or more—to save lives of many more, then to me it’s worth the cost.”
“And who gave you permission to make those sort of decisions?” Hardwick barked, and both Wilson and Harding winced.
“My wife,” came the whispered instantaneous reply.
“I see,” Hardwick sighed as the man’s motivation became glaringly apparent, which also gave the detective his first insight into who he was dealing with. Nothing was more dangerous than a killer with a moral agenda. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.” Hardwick pointed a finger at Harding. He nodded and leapt to his feet, heading toward his own computer in order to start a search on crimes of women in their district.
“I believe you are,” Price said softly. “Find her, Detective. Please don’t make me kill her.”
“Then provide us a clue or give us more time. We can’t begin an effective investigation at this hour of the night.”
“I wish I could,” Price said, and his voice held a genuinely sympathetic tone, “but if I do, then what will have been gained?”
“The life of a woman,” Hardwick answered.
“No, Detective,” Price said, his tone shifting rapidly from sympathy to anger, “the continuing incompetence of the local police. I don’t wish to harm Miss Madison, Detective, but make no mistake, I will do so—without reservation.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hardwick said, “but you should know that my fellow officers and I will do everything within our power to stop you.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Price said sharply. “Find her and my experiments will cease here in Atlanta. If you don’t, she dies and we’ll start all over again. Don’t doubt me when I say my experiments will continue until you guys get it right.”
The line went dead. Hardwick plopped back in his chair and tossed his pencil on his desk, “That was interesting. I don’t doubt, now, that we have a potential self-confessed serial killer here. He may have committed one murder here in Atlanta, but from all he said, I have a feeling he’s left bodies strewn elsewhere. Shit!” He exclaimed suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” Wilson asked.
“We failed to think to start a trace!” Hardwick snapped, shaking his head. He really wanted to hit something. He glanced at his watch. Thirty-four hours and thirty-five minutes. Time was ticking away fast, too fast. Most cases went cold in the first twenty-four hours, making that a critical window; however, if given enough time, many of those cold cases were solved because evidence came to the forefront that may have been hidden or overlooked prior.
Giving the police a mere thirty-six hours in which to prevent a homicide was thumbing a nose at critical investigatory steps. In fact, forcing officers to spend a straight thirty-six hours on an investigation could ultimately prove detrimental. Sleep deprivation leant its way to mistakes and oversights. He wished he could send his detectives home for the night to get some rest and return bright and early, since there wasn’t much any of them could do at this late hour; but he knew that wouldn’t be prudent. There were still investigations to do and warehouses to search. He only hoped he and his fellow officers could prevent making mistakes that would lead to the death of another woman in his jurisdiction. He glanced at the clock—thirty-four hours, thirty-two minutes.
Hardwick stood and made his way over to Cortez and Harding.
“Nothing can be done about that now. We’ll just need to remember to trace the call should he call again. Wilson and I are going to head on over to the crime scene. See what’s been discovered, if anything. Cortez, narrow your search for any similar M.O. Focus on crimes where the perpetrator held the victim for thirty-six hours or had the victim dial 911. Entire east coast database, not just Atlanta.”
“I’m on it,” Cortez said, turning back to face his screen.
“Harding, I want you to conduct a search also, but I want you to narrow your parameters to homicides, solved or unsolved, of women, thirty to fifty—”
“Why so restricted?” Wilson interrupted. “I mean, what if this guy’s wife was twenty-six when she was killed?”
“It’s a chance we have to take,” Hardwick said.
“Besides, we haven’t time to cover a full age spectrum,” Harding added. “There’s simply too many murders, especially women.”
“But, again, why that age range?” Wilson pressed.
“Listening to his voice, how old would you guess he is?” Hardwick asked.
“Obviously, I couldn’t say with any certainty, but if I had to hazard a guess—late forties, early fifties.”
“Why?”
“I don’t understand?”
“Why not twenty or seventy?”
“Um,” Wilson started, pursing his lips in thought.
“He’s calm and articulate. There’s a maturity to his voice,” Hardwick said, jumping in with his explanation. He had neither the time nor inclination to re-train a detective in identification indicators or profiling. “His grieving has passed, and now he’s trying to fix what he conceives is broken, so that no one else gets hurt.”
“And a twenty-year-old—”
“Angrier,” Hardwick interjected with a sigh. “A twenty-year-old who suffers this type of loss is often angry, violent, and vindictive. A much older man would see anything that happens as having lived long enough and therefore, is fate or part of life’s end. A middle-aged man may accept the loss, but, as in this case, could attempt to set right perceived wrongs.”
“Which is why he’s been a detective far longer than any of us,” Cortez said lightly of Hardwick.
“But what if the man lost his wife when he was in his twenties and he’s just now getting around to retribution?” Wilson persisted, refusing to accept Hardwick’s logic as sound. There simply were too many unsolved homicides to be overlooking them based on a hunch—even if it were a reasonable hunch.
“We’d have caught him by now,” Hardwick said confidently, hoping to cease the barrage of questions. “Look, even if the case is ten or twenty years old, I’m pretty certain it’s within the time frame.”
“What if it’s older?” Wilson asked, unwilling to
be deterred. He didn’t like feeling stupid, and he certainly didn’t like instructions on a search that made little-to-no sense to him.
“We haven’t time to focus on what-ifs right now, or the time to run an expanded search,” Hardwick responded with more than a hint of impatience. “Listen, if our investigation turns up nothing, we’ll broaden the parameters.”
When it appeared as if Wilson would continue to argue, he turned his back on him, turning to address Cortez. “Have dispatch contact us if and when you turn up anything of value; and don’t forget, guys, we’re racing against time on this one. We can’t allow ourselves any lapses in mental acuity, so whatever you need to do to stay alert over the next thirty-four hours, do it! Once you’ve compiled your results and are confident that you can’t do anything more, join your fellow officers in the field. There isn’t much more we can do tonight than canvas warehouses in the district. It may be shooting at fish with a pellet gun, but we may get lucky and hit something.”
Chapter 4
As soon as Christian had Brooke secured and got the APD fired up about finding her, he headed back to the apartment of another student in his martial arts class that he’d temporarily moved into. The one thing he always did, during his first two attempts at getting the police to perform their duty, was to prepare carefully so to prevent getting caught. Part of that preparation included: finding a base of operations, identifying the first two women he planned to use in his experiments—in this case Sandra and Brooke; and to find suitable locations where those experiments were to take place. It generally took him a week or two to get things underway, but once things got rolling, it went smoothly for him because there wasn’t any flying by the seat of his pants.
It was only if the police failed in their attempts with victims one and two that things got derailed for him a bit, but he preferred not to worry over that eventuality until it actually happened; especially as he always hoped and prayed it wouldn’t. In the other cities in which he’d conducted his experiments, he’d only had to abduct and set up a third experiment because those particular departments had failed in saving the first two women. Every time that happened, it made him think he needed to start planning for at least three assistants to his experiments. Detective Hardwick, however, gave him hope that this department may just succeed where some of the others had failed—although they hadn’t saved Sandra, which made him release a sigh of frustration.
He pulled into the apartment complex only a few blocks from the warehouse district in which Brooke was located and parked in the far recesses. After scanning the lot carefully to ensure there was not a lot of foot traffic, he got out of his vehicle and made his way to the third-floor apartment of Consuela Montenegro.
A quick peek in the bedroom showed her to be sleeping soundly. He stepped into the room and did his routine inspection of her IV drip and changed her Depends undergarment; then stepped into the bathroom and ran warm water into a bucket he kept next to the tub, along with a sponge, a towel, and a sheet of plastic. He tested the water, then collected all of the supplies and headed back to the bedroom.
“Have to keep you clean during your long, induced sleep,” he whispered conversationally, as he rolled her naked body aside to lay out the plastic. Once it was set, he rolled her back, then set about giving her a sponge bath. To anyone watching his gentle, attentive behavior, it would seem that Christian was an intense paradox, for he treated those with whom he stayed with a kind respect, which bespoke of his value for life. Whereas, he sadistically ended the lives of others whom he abducted for his experimentation phases.
When he was satisfied that she was clean, he took a towel and dried her thoroughly, then rolled her over again and dried her backside, and then slipped on another pair of Depends. He carefully collected the plastic sheeting and placed it in the tub to dry. Once her needs were tended to, he covered her respectfully, then returned to the living room.
“Time to see if there’s been any updates reported,” he murmured, and turned on the news. Nothing new was on, just a rehash of the abduction, and more information about who Brooke was, so he turned the volume down and then checked the camera to see what Brooke was up to. He shook his head and grinned, “Right where I left you.”
He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He went to his satchel and pulled out a bottle of Valerian and Melatonin. If he was to stay on top of things tomorrow, he needed some rest tonight. He popped several pills and then went to lie down on the couch. Too bad the APD weren’t going to be getting any rest tonight. At least he hoped they’d take this seriously and not spend their time wastefully.
Chapter 5
Brooke sat on the edge of the mattress and took in her surroundings. She didn’t know what she was going to do, but to sit there and wait to die couldn’t be her only option. She had to find a way out. Christian was certain that all she needed to do was wait patiently, and the local police would swoop in to save the day. Should she heed that advice? Had Sandra heeded that advice? If so, it hadn’t done her much good.
Besides, patiently waiting wasn’t her strongest character trait. She considered herself a woman of action. Her belief? If you want to accomplish anything, you can’t sit on your butt and wait on others to do it for you. Of course, by that reasoning, she needed to do something other than sit on her own ass.
She let her gaze travel the room again, her focus narrowed on any form of escape route. The only apparent avenue of escape was either the door—bolted—or the window, which was far too high for her to reach.
“Argh,” she exclaimed loudly, standing and pacing the room. She smacked the wall in frustrated anger, and then shook her hand as the tingling vibration shot up her arm. “Damn it all to hell and back, there has to be a way out of here.” She bent at the waist, placed her hands on her knees and drew in deep, relaxing breaths. When her nerves were calm again, she stood and spun in a slow circle, doing another sweep of the room, slowly taking in every detail. One of the things that registered was that the room really wasn’t as large as it seemed; the expanse more illusory minus the absence of furnishings. The only things in the room were a bed, a toilet, and a refrigerator. As old as those items were, it was readily apparent that this particular place had been abandoned long ago, and obviously wasn’t part of the overhaul being done on warehouses throughout the city…at least not currently. She scanned the room again, and her gaze stopped at the refrigerator.
“Could that be a solution?” she murmured and then walked over to it, turned, and tried to gauge how far it was to the space beneath the window. It was on the other side of the room, which didn’t seem that far, but visual distance was subjective because variables played a huge factor in whether she would be able to move it at all. Fifteen feet could easily feel like a hundred feet if conditions worked against her. The first thing that crossed her mind was weight. There was not only her weight to consider but the weight of the fridge. It was an older, heavier model. Not constructed from lightweight fiberglass, like today’s refrigerators. Friction was another factor for making the distance less reachable with ease. The floor was not a smooth, glassy surface on which something might glide easily across; rather, it was a pitted and bumpy concrete floor that could cause all sorts of grief when trying to move a large, unwieldy item; and on closer examination, it appeared as if there were sections of oily residue as if this had housed automobiles at one point. That could prove slick and treacherous.
Still, she’d examined all other options and this appeared her only one. She started by trying to psyche herself up, “Okay girl, you did not spend all of those evenings at the gym for nothing. You may be petite but you are also strong and capable.”
She drew in a deep, cleansing breath again and let it out with a whoosh, pulled her brunette hair up and looped it in a knot. She wished she had a hair tie but knotting her hair was better than having it fall into her face continually while she worked. Next, she placed her hands on each side of the fridge. With a loud grunt, she gave a mighty pull.
&nb
sp; It didn’t move.
“Oh, no you don’t!” she muttered angrily, “You happen to be the only thing available to reach my only avenue of escape, so you bloody well better move!”
She put her shoulder against the side of green, antiquated Kenmore and, using every muscle from shoulder to toes, emitted a great grunt of effort. It tipped slightly, threatening to overturn. She sighed loudly and stepped back to reassess.
“Okay, brute strength isn’t going to get the job done,” she ruminated, abstractly swiping rusted flakes from her shirt; and then a memory of her childhood moved to the forefront of her mind; an image of her father moving their refrigerator. He didn’t use brute strength, rather rocked the fridge back and forth.
“Okay, so then let’s try that,” she said to herself. She stretched her hands out and grasped each side, then pushed one side and then the other. It wasn’t necessarily the easiest thing, but it was working. Slowly, inch-by-aggravatingly-slow-inch, the refrigerator wobbled, shook, but moved closer to the opposite wall.
Chapter 6
Hardwick and Wilson drove in silence most of the distance to the crime scene. Eventually though, Wilson, who’d been all but pouting the entire time, spoke up, “I don’t appreciate you shooting me down back there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Back at headquarters. My concerns regarding your limited search parameters were justified and needed voicing.”
“And voice those concerns you did, and explain why we didn’t have time for anything more than I suggested, I did. I didn’t shoot you down, Wilson, we simply do not have the time to satisfy every question bounding through your brain. So, get past it.”
