Drop Dead Perfect

by Rick Murcer

  Sliding his hands down her collarbone and then to the top of her breasts, he grinned. Even though Damon remained stoic, Kyle could feel his brother’s emotion resonating through the room.

  Leaning down to her ear, he whispered, “Joannie? My darling? What say you?”

  A moment passed as he felt her exhale in an attempt to compose herself. Remarkable.

  “Will it make any difference?” she asked.

  “Will what make any difference, my love?” Kyle asked, playing it to the hilt.

  “My answer to your question?”

  “Why, yes . . . Yes, it will. I read somewhere that the truth will set you free, and I hold dearly to that. Truth is always truth. Things are what they are, not what we perceive them to be, contrary to what all of those bullshit philosophers would have you believe.”

  Leaning closer, he licked Joannie’s face ever so gently.

  “That’s truth, Joannie Carmen.”

  “Don’t do that, Kyle. I don’t like that, okay?” said Damon, taking two steps closer, then stopping again, only to stare at his feet, as he swayed slowly from side to side.

  After three strides of his own, Kyle reached for the front of Damon’s jacket with both hands, pulling him so close that their faces almost touched. He could smell the sweat oozing from Damon’s body, his sour breath. He was upset.

  Damon would pay for his insolence. No one questions me, especially a freak like you, Damon.

  “Don’t you ever tell me what to do, you sniveling little coward. Got it?” Kyle roared. “I’ll do whatever I want, whenever and with whomever. You haven’t earned the right to even suggest I do something. Look at you. What makes you think you can tell me what to do?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Kyle. You’re right. It’s just that—”

  “Just what? You like this one? She’s special? She’s perfect for your sorry ass? She’d make a great mother? Did you hear what came out of her mouth? She’d rather risk dying than spend her life with you. What the hell’s wrong with you? She epitomizes all we’ve gone through the last twenty-eight years. She’s cut out of the same piece of shit as the rest of humanity. They don’t see you, Damon. They see that grotesque face you have sitting on your shoulders. Do you understand that?”

  “You . . . you can’t talk to me like that. I . . . I’m your—”

  “My what? My brother? My flesh and blood? You’re nothing more than a ball and chain. You got that? I take care of you because no one else will. I’m not just trying to lead you into blissful matrimony here. I want someone else to take the burden from me. I’ve paid my dues. How damn dumb are you?”

  With a thrust of both arms, he sent Damon backward, fully expecting his brother to hit the floor and curl up in a ball, sobbing as usual.

  That didn’t happen.

  Damon staggered back two steps, steadied himself, and stared. Kyle could see the overwhelming pain in his brother’s eyes, and it unsettled him.

  “So that’s what you think of me, truly? I’m the cross you’ve decided to bear? I thought we were a team. You made money, I grew it. We have always been there for each other, but that isn’t true? It’s all a lie?”

  “And the truth bares all,” he answered.

  Licking his lips, Damon stood taller. “I may not be as bright as you, but in my estimation, that makes you no different from the shit you said the rest of humanity is cut from. Right? Isn’t that what you just said?”

  Kyle shifted his weight and began to speak, but his own, long-suffering rage took charge. His thoughts were suddenly crystal clear. He’d been a captive of his brother for too long. His deformed brother had been heavy, no matter what some moralist ideals might suggest.

  The old truth showed itself in a new light.

  He wanted Damon gone.

  And Damon knew it. How perceptive.

  “I see it in your face, brother. You want me gone, out of your life. So be it.”

  Damon walked up to Joannie and pulled a six-inch knife from his pocket. Kyle heard her starting to plead with his brother not to hurt her.

  “I couldn’t do that, Joannie. Not in a million years,” he said softly.

  With that, he cut the rope from her left arm, then from her right. He kneeled and did the same for her legs, setting her free except for the cord around her middle.

  Kyle watched, his scowl evolving to a grin. He had to give Damon credit for boldness.

  Damon slid the knife under the cord and cut it, and Joanie was completely loose.

  “Just like that? I let you walk out with her, just like that?” he said to Damon.

  “Yes. You do.” He cut the cloth binding from her waist and helped her to her feet. “I’ll get her out of here and then you can—”

  Kyle pulled the 9-mm from his jacket and fired, hitting Damon in the left shoulder. His brother went down, pulling Joannie with him.

  Kyle strolled over to where his brother lay, a flood of blood already staining the floor. He pulled Joannie up and threw her in the chair, then moved back to his brother.

  He bent low, whispering. “I can’t let her go until she answers my question, dear brother. I hope you understand.”

  Putting the barrel of the gun between Damon’s eyes, Kyle Black pulled the trigger again.

  Damon’s head jerked and blood poured from the back of it as he grew still.

  Kyle had never felt anything so freeing in his entire life. The burden was lifted. He no longer had to make sure his brother’s needs were met. He could do whatever he pleased.

  “Good-bye, brother. It’s been real.”

  Feeling Joannie’s stare, he turned in her direction. She sat in the chair, unmoving, her face calm. She seemed to be in complete control of herself.

  He went up to her and leaned in close. “Joannie Carmen, I believe you have a question to answer.”

  “I believe I do,” she said evenly.

  “Are you capable of that, after what you just saw?”

  “I am,” she said, taking her eyes off Damon and focusing on him.

  Kyle moved behind her and put his hands on the chair, one on each side of her neck.

  “Then tell me, who loves you more than my deceased brother?”

  “I do, Kyle. I love me more than anyone else could,” she said.

  “Fantastic! Finally, the forbidden but correct answer. We, people I mean, are all the greatest of narcissists, and you discovered that truth. Enchanting, to say the least. I’m unbelievably impressed.”

  “You said you’d let me go if I answered correctly. Please free me.”

  “You’re right, Joannie. I’m a man of my word.”

  Leaning over, he picked up the knife Damon had dropped. One he thought he’d never have the opportunity to use.

  “I have just one proviso to that promise.”

  Grabbing her hair, he pulled her head back and brought the knife to her face.

  CHAPTER 34

  After leaving Steve, Ellen headed back to her office to finally take the time to go over Clara’s and Holly’s phones. There hadn’t been any fingerprints on Clara’s and she was sure there wouldn’t be any on Holly’s. This killer was careful and also understood the technical side of smartphones. She was relatively sure he wasn’t going to make any mistakes. But that’s why CSIs do what they do. No one is perfect—no one.

  Entering her office, she plopped down and picked up Clara’s phone again. Just then, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Taking it out, she saw that she’d received a text from Sanchez.

  “Get your ass over here, gringa. I found something you need to see on the surveillance tape at Oscar’s crime scene. This might be something important.”

  Ellen shot from her chair and sprinted down the hall.

  CHAPTER 35

  Standing near the run-down warehouse with his arms crossed over his Kevlar vest, Brice Rog
ers waited for the last team to exit the building. It was the eleventh—and final—structure in the district, and they hadn’t found a single indication that anyone other than squatters and rats and other small animals, scavenging whatever was necessary to survive, had ever been in any of them. There was no indication of foul play, no disturbances of dust . . . Hell, there wasn’t even a witness who could swear to strange vehicles or anyone who didn’t belong in the area. Nothing. Zero.

  He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. There had to be something here, something they were missing. But what? He didn’t know diddly-squat about bleach residue in latent molecules or how that might work. He used bleach on his whites and his workout socks—that was it. And he hated the smell. It made him sneeze and caused his gag reflex to kick in. He could take decaying bodies and mangled limbs, but bleach was a bitch.

  The team of three emerged from the stairs of the last building and headed toward him.

  “Sorry, Detective Rogers, we got nothing except two rotting raccoons and a shitload of abandoned plastic bags,” said the sergeant who led the group.

  “Nothing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Good work.”

  “Now what?” asked the sergeant, eyeing him curiously, impatient for more details. Brice was all too familiar with that look. He’d used it dozens of times. Chicago cops were a good group. For the most part, they lived by the creed they’d sworn to uphold, but patience wasn’t a common virtue among the ranks. They hated busywork; Brice didn’t blame them. And right now, it appeared they were doing just that.

  Reviewing what they’d done, Brice’s thoughts went to what they might have missed, or maybe misunderstood.

  Step by step, he went over his conversation with Ellie. Her suspicions, her chart, her directions, her discovery of a similarity after comparing two apparently unrelated crime scenes. His teams had done everything right; he was sure of it. The women and men going through these buildings wouldn’t have missed anything important. They were good cops.

  As Brice reviewed the procedures they’d just followed, he felt even more satisfied with the work they’d done. There simply didn’t appear to be anything in these buildings that danced to the tune they wanted to hear. Had Ellie been wrong? Was the evidence tainted? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time something had gone south with evidence.

  He dismissed that. Ellie didn’t make many mistakes. The woman was far too good at what she did. Maybe a tad too intense, but incredibly gifted in her field. She’d never make a mistake like this appeared to be. Maybe there were other warehouses in the city with this signature. That could be it.

  Again, she didn’t make many mistakes.

  And it didn’t end there. She didn’t end there.

  This complex woman had gotten his attention in a way that he hadn’t experienced in years. She wasn’t just good-looking, although she did actually make him do double takes because of the way she looked in blue jeans. And, of course, there were those haunting eyes. But that was just the half of it. The woman wasn’t frightened to face her demons. It had taken a while, and a few right hooks, but she’d let them out, unafraid that anyone would see her vulnerability.

  In his eyes, that made her just about the toughest person he knew. Maybe he could take a few lessons from her that would help him escape his own private Hell, the one he kept deep inside himself, far from the prying eyes of others. His own private fortress of solitude . . . and torture. Maybe Ellen Harper could help him.

  “Detective? You still here?”

  “Yeah, Sarge. Just running things over in my head, making sure I got my information right.”

  “Do you want us all to stay?”

  Good question. Did he? He had a meeting with the task force in less than ninety minutes, and he desperately wanted to tell them that the devil’s lair had been found, and that it would be just a matter of time before they had the son of a bitch in custody.

  “Let me make one call before everyone’s dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hit speed dial on his cell and waited. Ellie’s answering machine came on. It occurred to him as he hung up and dialed again that they would be spending a lot of time together, talking about this case, what had happened, the next steps they needed to take—maybe even over dinner. Finally, after the fourth call, he left her a message.

  “Ellie, we’ve struck out here in Bridgeport. Before I let these folks go, call me to make sure I haven’t missed something, okay?”

  Holding the phone tightly in his hand, he approached the building, waiting for a return call. He scanned the facade as if he had Superman’s X-ray vision, just like he’d done with all the other buildings.

  There was nothing out of place—no lights, no fresh paint, no new cement, no new wooden planks, and no tire tracks, other than the ones belonging to the cops. They’d followed strict protocol regarding that. He racked his brain once more for any oversight but found none. They’d been excessively diligent.

  After five minutes, he tried calling Ellie again, but she didn’t pick up. He stuffed the phone in his pocket and made a concentrated effort to suppress his frustration.

  Turning to face the group of cops awaiting his direction, he met their collective gaze.

  “Okay. Listen up. Let’s move out. I’ve got to go to a meeting to discuss our next course of action. Thanks for your efforts. At least we know there’s nothing happening here.”

  He watched as a small army of Chicago’s finest walked to their vehicles and drove down the street in the fading sunlight. Brice put his hands on his hips, feeling his helplessness grow.

  He’d seen more than he’d wanted to in his years, but he’d never been at the mercy of such disconcerting images. Those young women had a right to live their lives. He had a responsibility to help them.

  “Yeah, hell of a job there,” he said out loud.

  He strode to his cruiser, opened the door, and was about to get in when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A woman clothed only in a bra and lace panties staggered around the corner of the building. She ran into a rusted fire hydrant, fell down, got up, took three more wobbly steps, and then dropped to her knees.

  Brice ran toward her, yelling to get her attention. He didn’t totally understand what was going on, but he thought he had a pretty good idea.

  When he was ten feet away, he recognized Joannie Carmen. She was dirty and bruised, with blood on her face and hands, scarlet smearing her torso, but it was her. A surge of hope coursed through his body.

  As he got closer, however, that hope turned to anguish. She was trying to talk, pointing to her mouth, but making only primitive guttural sounds.

  His heart sank as he realized Joannie Carmen had no tongue.

  CHAPTER 36

  Ellen hurried through the audiovisual room’s tinted door and pushed open a second door to find Sanchez and one of Ellen’s CSI techs standing at a workstation.

  “What did you find?” asked Ellen, feeling her heart thump in her chest.

  “Something we can use, I’d say,” answered Sanchez.

  “Let’s see it.”

  Sanchez looked toward the ceiling, down to the floor, then back to the ceiling. Then she spoke in a quiet, pointed voice that Ellen didn’t think she’d heard before.

  “Harper. Before we get started, I need to talk to you about . . .”

  She hesitated, shifted her weight, and then shifted it back.

  “About what, Sanchez?”

  Her expression changed, and Ellen swore she could see the wheels turning. Whatever it was, it wasn’t coming easy for her. The rest of her body language said as much.

  She opened her mouth to speak again, thought better of it, and then raised her hands high. “It’s nothing. Maybe later. We need to check out the shit I found on the video feed.”

  “I agree, but whatev
er you want to say, you can say it.”

  “Like I said, maybe later. I want you to watch this with me.”

  Sanchez sat down at the video workstation and turned on the screen, which immediately displayed the scene where Oscar was killed.

  She turned the dial on the side of the monitor, and the image went blurry, then refocused into sharp clarity. It was almost a 3-D image.

  “This new program is pretty lethal shit. It won’t harm the original feed, and I can break it down frame by frame, then use the next filter to focus on any area of that frame to see what’s what.”

  Ellen was impressed. Sanchez knew what she was doing.

  “I know,” Ellen said. “I test-piloted this baby a few months ago. I thought I was the resident expert. I have to say, however, that maybe I’m not. You work this pretty well, for a detective.”

  “Yeah. And don’t forget it, gringa. I didn’t become a detective based on the size of my tits. I can think a little, too.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “Okay. I can’t tell you why I’m into this or why I seem to see more than most. It’s just the way it works. I did some video editing in college for a project and just totally got absorbed in it. I get the whole filter thing, and I can even make the sound better. Except this ain’t like CCTV. There’s no sound from the city’s camera system. We do have color, though.”

  “Better to capture moving violations with, too.”

  “True. We must need the money.” Sanchez’s voice turned somber. “Listen. I hate to run you through all of this, but it’s important.”

  “What does that mean?” Ellen asked, not wanting to know the answer.

  “Sorry, Harper . . . It means . . . I’m just going to show you.”

  Ellen’s stomach clenched as the video started to run.

  Oscar’s SUV came into view. Sanchez increased the screen size without losing any detail. On the screen, the light turned red and Oscar stopped. Ellen couldn’t see for sure, but it looked like a taxi had pulled up behind the SUV. Then a ghostly image, a man, suddenly appeared at Oscar’s window. He was tall—Ellen could tell by how high his head rose above the driver’s side door—and he was wearing a hat pulled down over his face. He gestured for Oscar to open the window, and although it was fuzzy, she could see the window go down.