Drop Dead Perfect

by Rick Murcer

  “You don’t know shit, asshole. And did you hear me? Go screw yourself.”

  “Really? Not a plausible act for most humans, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Brice leaned his head back against the wooden floor. “Who said you were human? Just stop the dumb-ass questions and let me go. You’re already in deep. This won’t help you.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, but perhaps you’re wrong. Maybe I won’t have a case to make. After all, there’s the matter of being caught, finding evidence, and then being able to put it all together. That’s not a particular strength of the Chicago Police these days. Besides, as I see it, you’re the one in deep, as you say.”

  He kicked Brice’s shoulder. The pain was Hell-sent. Brice gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. A moment later, after the stars had danced away, Brice answered.

  “Really? Do you know how many people have thought exactly the same thing and are now enjoying dating arrangements with their cellmates?”

  His tormenter dropped down on his chest, grabbing his shirt and pulling Brice’s face close to him. “I’m not like others, Detective,” he said. “In the event your pea brain doesn’t comprehend that, let me enlighten you. I’ve killed nine people, and none of you have a clue who I am, where I’ve been, what I’m about, and what I’m going to do next. You may fool yourself into thinking you know, but I do whatever I want.”

  The man’s eyes were wild, but calm, as well. He was crazy, yes. Prone to mistakes, no.

  Brice’s mind cleared as he continued to engage his captor. Maybe he would make a mistake and try to talk him to death. That would give help a chance to show up. He hoped.

  “Talk is cheap, you warped son of a bitch. You’re just another piece of shit that needs to be flushed. And it’ll happen. It always does to guys like you.”

  The man jerked Brice off the floor. More pain coursed through his shoulder, and the colors racing in front of his eyes told him he was going to pass out again. He closed his eyes and fought it. There was something inside of him that told him if he went out now he’d never see the light of day again.

  The next moment felt like an eternity.

  Second by second, he teetered on the edge of blackness. Each time, his sheer will brought him back. Finally, he saw more light than dark, and he opened his eyes, only to find himself staring directly into the eyes of his host.

  “Glad you came around, Detective. I so wanted to show you something, to drive my point home.”

  Without another word, he gripped Brice’s chin, held it firm, and stepped out of his line of vision. It took a second for Brice’s eyes to focus. He wished they hadn’t. What he saw turned his stomach to stone.

  On the wall, to his left, hanging from a hook in a row of hooks, was a man dressed in a suit, his face terribly disfigured, the top of his head missing. Above him was a simple sign that said, “Rest in Peace, Brother.”

  To his right, hanging a few hooks over, was the young woman, Joannie Carmen, her head resting at an awkward angle, her broken neck unable to support it.

  Before he could think another thought, his head was jerked to his right where he saw a young woman, still alive, sitting in an old chair, bound and gagged with duct tape.

  “This is your lucky day, Detective Rogers. You’ll be a witness to something special, just before you join her at her final destination.”

  CHAPTER 40

  The door jingle sounded as the twentysomething woman left the store. She’d decided being stalked wasn’t her idea of a good time and thought some personal protection was in order. Kate couldn’t have agreed more and had just sold her a lightweight Ruger LCP .380.

  Once again, Kate felt she’d done her part to protect the people on this planet from evil. Make no mistake, evil was winning the battle, and she didn’t need God’s word to tell her that. You’d have to be a damn fool not to see what was happening to this world. Crooked politicians, crooked doctors, warped preachers, and the biggest sign of it all was the Internet. Purely satanic. It had to be. Just look what was out there.

  And folks had no business talking to other people without at least picking up the phone. You call that communication? E-mail? The art of building personal relationships had set sail for a distant shore. She guessed one middle-aged woman wasn’t going to change the minds of the young people today, but by God she’d try.

  “Maybe they could at least learn to read and write properly,” she said out loud.

  “What, darling?” asked George, as he glanced up from the newspaper.

  “Oh, nothin’. Just bemoaning the shape this world is in.”

  “Won’t help a bit, ya know.”

  “You’re right, but we gotta keep trying. By the way, did Ellie call on the office phone?”

  “Nope. Check that cell phone of yours.”

  Kate reached into her shirt pocket and stared at the screen. No missed calls and no text messages. Much as she hated them, a little voice inside her wished there had been one. It always made her nervous when she didn’t hear from Ellie. Her friend worked way too many hours. But that wasn’t all. She’d noticed the little bounce in Ellie’s step when that good-looking detective had stopped by to pick her up at her apartment.

  Nothing like a little girl talk to see where that bobber was floating.

  Good God, she wanted that woman to be happy. Ellie deserved it. Good folks like Ellie had something better coming than what she’d endured in her life.

  After dialing Ellie’s number, she waited, then got a recording. She quickly dialed the office number and got another.

  “Okay. That’s enough. I don’t know what in tarnation is going on, but I feel something in these old bones, and I don’t care for it one bit. I’m going down to Ellie’s office and make sure she’s kosher.”

  George looked over the top of his paper. “Sounds like a good idea. Your hunches are pretty good, mostly. You taking the ladies?”

  Working herself around the cash register, Kate kissed George on the lips, patted the holsters under her flannel shirt, and then turned for the door.

  “Now, you know I’d never leave Pearl and Mable home. They’re ridin’ shotgun,” she said.

  Exiting the store, Kate stopped and lifted her nose to the early afternoon air. It was filled with the scent of lilacs—her favorite. That made her smile, but the smile vanished as she thought about Ellie.

  She didn’t know why, exactly, thinking of her good friend would make her so nervous. Was Ellie in trouble or was she just being goofy, like George said she could be from time to time?

  Kate hurried to her truck just the same. She jumped in, started the engine, and let it roar twice. She slammed the truck into gear and headed for the ME’s office.

  Kate hoped she was wrong . . . but knew she wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 41

  After banging the top drawer of her desk, Ellen jerked it open near her left knee and found what she was looking for. She grabbed two clips for her Beretta and stuffed one in the back of her jeans, the other in the side pocket of her blue crime-scene jacket.

  Her mind raced.

  The fact that Brice was missing hadn’t computed when Big Harv relayed the message, and it didn’t seem any more real now that it had sunk in a bit more. One moment Brice had the girl, the next they both had vanished into thin air. No calls, no texts, not even a damned flare gun, for crying out loud. Simply nothing.

  Reaching for her crime-scene bag, she stood up and experienced the déjà vu of his lips on her skin, the smell of his aftershave, and wondered what the hell had happened to her in just thirty-six hours. She was doing her job, like always, but it seemed that every moment she wasn’t thinking about the evidence or Steve or Oscar, there was Brice.

  His face, his hands, his voice all bouncing around her brain like they owned it. She hadn’t felt like this since college when she’d first met Joel.

  She shook her head.
It was like winning the lottery and then losing the ticket. She wanted the opportunity to see if they would take another step, to see if there could be a “them.” But fate wasn’t helping. Now Brice was missing, maybe even dead.

  Dead. The idea was surreal.

  “Don’t you do that, Ellen Molly Harper,” she said.

  She exhaled, shifted into the famous investigator mode that all cops possessed to some degree, and rushed toward the door, meeting Bella as she turned down the hall.

  “Where in hell are you going, gringa? We got some talking to do.”

  “You’ll have to do it on the run. I’ve got to go.”

  “Go where?”

  Ellen never broke stride. “Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Where’s your cell? There’s an alert message from HQ.”

  “It’s in the car, the battery went dead. What are you talkin’ about, Harper?”

  Stopping, Ellen grabbed Bella’s arm.

  “Your partner is missing and you don’t know? Damn, Sanchez. That’s why you keep your phone on you at all times.”

  “Wh-what? No one told me. What happened?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Just ride with me to Bridgeport and I’ll tell you.”

  For one of the few times since Ellen had known Detective Sanchez, she did what she was told without commentary.

  Ellen rammed through the front door, Bella at her heels, and made a beeline for the portable lab that resembled an emergency response ambulance. It was a little slower than the SUVs, but Ellen thought they might need the extra equipment. Then again, if it had an accelerator, it would have a floorboard. She’d run her foot through it if it got them to where Brice was last seen a second quicker.

  Tearing away from the street and heading south, she filled Bella in on what Big Harv had told her.

  “Shit,” Sanchez said, exhaling. “Why did everyone leave him there alone? That ain’t protocol.”

  Ellen shook her head. “Maybe he stayed a little longer to think things through. He says he does that.”

  “Yeah, the guys told me he does things a little different. Especially since his wife was murdered a few years back.”

  “What did you say?” asked Ellen.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No,” she said.

  “He was out working a case when someone he’d busted when he was in uniform thought it was time to settle scores. The dude was jacked up on meth or coke or some shit, broke into Rogers’s house meaning to kill him. His wife was the only one home—they’d just bought the place, I hear—and the bastard cut her up after he raped her. She bled out before Brice got home. The damn fool waited for Rogers. When he tried to kill him, too, Brice shot him three times.”

  Ellen felt her insides grow cold. Her divorce had been hellish, yet she couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through. Talk about the guilt trip of a lifetime. No wonder the man wanted to be alone. Cold separation from another human meant no more pain if something happened to them. She understood that part.

  “Rumor has it that he had to go through a nasty counseling program. But he made it and is one of Chicago’s best. Hot, too.”

  “Sorry to hear all of that. He must have been devastated,” said Ellen.

  Sanchez shot her a quick glance, started to speak, gave her another stare, and then let it go.

  Her look said she heard something in Ellen’s voice.

  “You got something to say, Sanchez?”

  “Nah, not yet, maybe later.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Always do, gringa, always do.”

  They fell into silence as Ellen rammed through traffic, trying to take seconds off the agonizing journey to where Brice and Joannie Carmen had been. Her thoughts sprinted in circles as she tried to figure out what had happened to them, and she was even more conflicted after hearing about his wife. She pushed it away. Dwelling on those things only hindered her ability to do her job.

  For the second time in twenty minutes, she summoned the discipline to keep the personal and the professional in proper perspective. She’d need to be at her best to be any real help.

  Ellen swung onto west 32nd Avenue to find a dozen department units parked alongside one building. As she sped toward them, she caught a glimpse of crime-scene tape and was grateful. At least someone had enough sense to mark it off and not let the troops stomp all over potential clues and evidence.

  Throwing the truck into Park, she grabbed her kit from the back and raced to the scene. Sanchez was close behind. After about ten steps, she noticed Big Harv’s black car roll in behind her and, for some reason, was buoyed by it.

  Maybe it was a dad-and-daughter thing. Maybe this was a situation where there was strength in numbers. Her thoughts went to the former. It was always good to have the old man around when stress was higher than a Chicago moon.

  Butch Dillon, a short, stocky detective, approached Ellen as she placed her kit on the ground. “Harper. Good to see you here. I was on the original search team and the first unit back to the spot after Rogers made the call to 911. I was the only one who approached the coat, and I found the phone lying next to it. We left his coat without touching it because of the streaks of blood. But I did pick up the phone and realized that it had been stomped on or smashed to the ground. Sorry. I needed to make sure it was his. I put it back as close as I could to the way I found it. Everything else is the way we found it. I have an—”

  She wanted to punch him. Cops, detectives especially, knew better. But what was done was done. She inhaled and took a step closer to the shorter man, controlling her tone.

  “Don’t tell me what you think you see. I need to look for myself. Make no mistake, Dillon, I wish you hadn’t touched the phone, but I can see why you did, so don’t sweat it. We’ll work with it.”

  He nodded, apprehension on his face. He’d clearly expected to get his ass chewed. Chalk one up for anger management, sort of.

  Dillon said, “We’re going back through the buildings and canvassing the area again. Let us know if you need anything. There are eight officers ready to do what they’re told, okay?” He bit the inside of his lip. “Brice is a little tense, but most of us like him. We want to find him. And soon.”

  Ellen appreciated his words. More than Dillon knew.

  “Sounds like you know your job, so let’s get to work,” she said.

  Dillon left with two more teams of three cops, and thirty seconds later, Ellen stood just outside the yellow tape, fully absorbed in the crime scene. Her eyes studied everything. Every bent blade of grass, the way the coat was lying, the direction its arms were pointing, the striations of the blood against the tan leather, the indentations in the surrounding ground cover. Some from bodies hitting the dirt, others from footprints, still others she wasn’t quite sure of. Nothing escaped her scrutiny. She simply wouldn’t allow it with Brice and the women in danger.

  Touching the camera draped around her neck, she slowly lifted the yellow tape and moved underneath it, concentrating on the coat and its relationship to the phone. Her eyes rested on another circle of blood to the right of the phone, where the ground was more disturbed.

  Moving in a semicircle, she focused on the angle of the blood pool as it approached the phone and how Brice’s coat fell between the two. It appeared as if the coat had been flung to that spot . . . which meant Brice had removed his jacket, for whatever reason. Since the blood was on the left shoulder of the coat and then streaked toward the lower right corner, it was safe to assume that someone had bled on the jacket. Joannie? It made sense.

  Ellen strained to see the inside lining of the coat and saw streaks of blood there, as well. Brice had been bleeding . . . or he’d taken the coat off to cover Joannie. That seemed right. Especially since he’d called and said he had found her and to send an ambulance. She felt a sudden surge of emot
ion. Joannie must have thought him a knight in shining armor.

  Taking baby steps, Ellen inched closer to the disturbed ground and began to look at the faint impressions that appeared to be shoe prints. It was difficult to see if there was anything good enough to build a mold around, but they’d try.

  Scanning the area again, she noticed four toe prints of a left foot near a larger shoe impression. That could only mean Joannie had been barefoot. She bit her lip. After taking eight or ten pictures, she stood up and felt someone touch her right elbow.

  Big Harv.

  “I don’t know yet, Dad. There’s a lot going on here,” she said.

  “Best guess, girl. I need a best guess.”

  “I don’t do guesses.” She caught herself. Ellen did have a good idea, even without all of the data she craved.

  “Ellie?”

  “All right. I think Brice found Joannie, or she might have found him. Here, they are close to the front of this building, so I’d say she came from that direction.” She pointed southwest.

  “I see more blood over there, and it’s farther away from the coat and phone than you’d expect. That would make sense if there had been a fight or some kind of altercation, and I think there was. The blood could mean a thousand things, from a bloody lip to a knife wound, or even a gunshot. I’m just not sure.”

  She shifted her feet and continued. “See this area here?” Ellie waved her arm to a spot ten feet away. “There were definitely people rolling or landing on the ground. Basic FT training makes that a no-brainer. The fact that this blood pool is fifteen feet away confirms what I’m guessing to be true.”

  “Tell me what that means to you,” said Big Harv.

  “The fact that there isn’t a body, Joannie’s or Brice’s, means three things to me. Whoever had Joannie found her or followed her or whatever, and wanted her back. Brice got to her before the killer, so the psycho had no choice but to recapture her. I think maybe he wasn’t done with her, based on what he did to the first two victims. So either Brice and Joannie got away and are hiding, or he has them both.”