Rusty Nail

by J. A. Konrath

I crawled out of bed at six a.m., hacked up some black gunk from my lungs, forced myself through a hundred sit-ups, and showered. I’d spent all night watching the Weather Channel, and there was enough meteorological evidence to suggest that today would be partly cloudy, with a high of seventy-five.

  I dressed in a gray Ralph Lauren pantsuit, a black short-sleeved blouse, and some two-inch heels I picked up at Payless. It would take me a while before I wore nice shoes to work again.

  I also put on just a small spray of L’Air du Temps. I’m not a perfume kind of gal, but I wanted to cover up the smell of decay that still clung to me. I was supposed to meet up with Harry McGlade tonight. If I stank, he’d be vocal about it.

  After feeding the cat, who still avoided me, I searched the pantry for foodstuffs and found some cranberry granola bars. Mom loved them. I hated them. But I was starving, so I forced one down.

  I stuck another one in my pocket, disengaged the alarm, and opened my door to leave. As I did, a small package that had been leaning against the door fell inward.

  Same brown envelope as the one delivered to me at work.

  I tugged out my Colt, looked left, right, then hurried down the hallway to the stairwell.

  There wasn’t anyone to chase.

  I went back into my apartment, nudging the envelope in with my toe. Then I found some rubber gloves under the sink and carried the package over to the kitchen table. I slit it open with a bread knife and dumped out the obligatory unlabeled black VHS tape.

  Such a small, harmless, everyday item. Yet it filled me with dread.

  The first tape had been wiped clean of prints, but hope springs eternal, so I only held the video by the very edge in my gloved hand. I brought it into the bedroom, put it in the VCR, and let it play.

  This one began with a close-up of a man’s bare chest. He was sitting on a chair with his hands behind him, probably tied or cuffed.

  A black gloved hand, with a long black leather sleeve, used a box cutter to open him up from nipple to nipple. The screams were so loud they distorted the audio. Then the hand came back into frame with some pliers.

  The granola bar jumped around in my stomach. I hit the Fast-forward button, watching this poor guy get his chest, then his back, peeled in triple time. When the atrocities finally ended with a deep slash across the carotid artery, the killer stepped behind the camera and zoomed out, revealing the man’s head.

  No burlap bag this time. The victim’s face was clear. And worst of all, identifiable.

  Dr. Francis Mulrooney. The eccentric, gentle handwriting expert. A man whom I considered a friend.

  The tape ended, reverting to blue screen.

  Anger came first. Then sadness. Then, like a slap, fear.

  The killer had murdered Diane Kork and Francis Mulrooney, two people involved in the Gingerbread Man case. The killer also knew where I lived.

  When I received the first tape, I took it to be a boast by the perp. Look what I can do, and you can’t catch me.

  This second tape was more than a boast. It was an obvious threat. He was saying You’re next.

  I placed the tape and the envelope into a fresh plastic garbage bag, and headed for Mulrooney’s office, keeping a careful eye on the rearview mirror. Why did it seem like every looney in Chicago knew where I lived? Did they give out my address at Serial Killer School?

  The day was partly cloudy, I’d guess it at seventy-five degrees. Score one for the Weather Channel.

  The graphologist’s office was on Fifty-ninth Street, at the University of Chicago’s Hyde Park campus. I took Lake Shore Drive south, a twenty-minute trip, exiting at the Museum of Science and Industry on Fifty-seventh, following Stony Island to Fifty-ninth. The campus area covered about five square blocks, wooded and peaceful and brimming with coffee shops and used bookstores and academic activity. But south of Stoney, and west of Drexel, the neighborhoods turned very bad very fast, with high crime rates and Emergency Stations every few blocks—phones that linked directly to 911.

  I parked next to a hydrant and entered the old brownstone where Mulrooney worked. A fat security guard sat behind a round counter. He had a squashed appearance, with several chins, and resembled a bullfrog perched on a toadstool. I flashed my gold, my earlier anger and fear stored safely behind a cloak of cool professionalism.

  “Where’s the office of Dr. Francis Mulrooney?”

  “Second floor, last door.” His voice was high and whiny, ruining the frog motif he had going for himself.

  “Is it locked?”

  “Probably.”

  “Can you open it?”

  “Sure.”

  We took the elevator, a small space that could carry five people, four if they were as rotund as my security guard friend. Someone had scratched some swear words into the stainless steel panel next to the buttons. Even our highly praised bastions of education weren’t immune from folks who thought “shit-breath” was high comedy. Why didn’t vandals ever quote Shakespeare? I’d love to see graffiti in iambic pentameter.

  “Has Dr. Mulrooney had any visitors lately?”

  “Students.”

  “Any adults?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen this guy hanging around?”

  I showed him the Unabomber Xerox, which I now carried everywhere.

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you saw Dr. Mulrooney?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Left the building at his usual time, around one.”

  “Did he seem worried? Scared? Distracted?”

  “Seemed normal.”

  The door opened. The guard went first, leading me down a thinly carpeted hallway to a hollow core door I could have opened by sneezing on it. The first two keys didn’t work, but the third was a charm.

  I thanked him, and he waddled off. The office wasn’t much larger than the elevator, and certainly more crowded. All four walls were lined with crammed bookshelves. A desk sat in the corner, covered with papers and folders and clutter. An older model Dell rested on the desk, the monitor partially obscured by Post-it notes, a screen saver bouncing around a Microsoft logo.

  I nudged the mouse, and the Windows desktop appeared, which was almost as cluttered as his real-life desktop. I clicked on Outlook and read a few e-mails. Nothing interesting. Then I clicked on the Start Menu and looked at Recent Documents. Nothing there either.

  I searched his real desk next, uncovering a combo phone/answering machine beneath a stack of student reports. A number four blinked in the red LED window. I hit Play and began going through drawers.

  The first message was from me, canceling our appointment. The machine beeped, and the next message played.

  “. . . you’re going to die . . .”

  The voice was a whisper, barely audible. A few seconds of silence followed, then a beep.

  “. . . today . . .”

  More silence. Another beep. I found the volume control and turned it up.

  “. . . did you like the video, Jack? You’re next . . .”

  That seriously weirded me out. I pressed Play and listened again. The sex of the speaker was impossible to determine. I tried to find the Eject button to save the tape, but the machine had no tape—this was a model that recorded digitally. Whispers could be voice-printed, but I didn’t know if unplugging the machine would erase the data on the chip. I left it alone for the time being.

  The desk yielded no secrets, save for a single key with a round green tag that Mulrooney had carefully labeled House spare.

  I pocketed the key, closed the door behind me, and took the stairs back to the frog.

  “I need Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s home address.”

  He had a large black binder labeled Faculty Directory, and I learned Mulrooney conveniently lived a block away, on Fifty-eighth.

  The walk was pleasant, though my cheap shoes pinched my toes. Mulrooney’s building was an apartment, three stories, two tenants per floor. The single key fit both the security door and his door, on the ground level. I k
nocked first, in case he had a dog, and when no noise erupted from within I went inside.

  His dwelling was the opposite of his office, everything neat and tidy. I gave the place a thorough toss, beginning in the kitchen, then the bedroom, bath, and living room.

  Like his office, I couldn’t find any signs of a struggle. Unlike his office, there were no messages on his answering machine.

  I found an address book, tucked it into my pocket, and locked the door when I left.

  Abducting someone isn’t very hard. Mulrooney was a slight guy, short and thin. A reasoner, not a fighter. A large man could have muscled him into a car or truck within a few seconds, without attracting much attention. Or he could have been drugged, or tricked, or gone someplace with someone he trusted.

  I stood on the curb and called Officer Hajek at the Crime Lab, asking if he had time later to swing by Mulrooney’s office to see what could be done with the answering machine. He promised me he would.

  “. . . did you like the video, Jack? You’re next . . .”

  I shuddered.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d been a target, but that didn’t mean I was used to it.

  I walked back to my car, acutely aware of my surroundings.

  CHAPTER 26

  HERB WAS WAITING for me in my office. He looked to be in good spirits, and cradled half a large bag of Chee•tos. His walrus mustache had a distinct orange tint. It matched his orange fingers, orange shirt, and orange tie. That’s how I knew for sure Herb wasn’t the killer; he would have left an easy-to-follow trail.

  “Morning, Jack. You look upset. Saw the captain?”

  “He looking for me?”

  “That’s the buzz around the station.”

  Great. I left the garbage bag containing the latest video on my desk, told Herb I’d be back in five, and headed for the lair of Captain Bains.

  As expected, Bains didn’t greet me with flowers and a big hug. The large vein in his forehead bulged out when he saw me, and I heard him grind his teeth; not a happy sound.

  “Goddammit, Daniels. I recall ordering you off the case. Do you recall that?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “And since then you’ve been involved in an arson, a high-profile arrest outside your jurisdiction, and your face is all over national news telling the media you’ll stick your foot up their collective asses.”

  “They aired that?”

  Bains made a face. I made one as well. At least he didn’t mention the shots fired at Diane Kork’s. When a police officer dischargers her firearm, there’s an automatic IA inquest and a mandatory visit to the department shrink. I didn’t have time for either.

  “You’re suspended, Jack. With pay. Report to the commissioner tomorrow at nine a.m.”

  “What?” That clocked me from left field. “What’s the charge?”

  “Does it matter? Pick one. How about official misconduct? Insubordination? Acting like an ass on CNN? The superintendent wants your job, and it seems like you want to give it to him. I need your badge and gun.”

  I was so furious, I could spit. I spoke through my teeth.

  “This isn’t a good time. He’s hunting me.”

  “Who is?”

  “The killer.”

  “The killer’s in Indiana, in a coma. Case closed. Take a week off and let this blow over.”

  “Bud Kork isn’t the guy we’re after. The guy we’re after came by my apartment last night and gave me another videotape. A videotape of Dr. Francis Mulrooney getting skinned alive.”

  The anger melted off the captain’s face. It was replaced with a tired kind of sadness. When he spoke, the venom was gone.

  “He’s dead?”

  “You remember him?”

  “I’m the one who asked him to assist on the Charles Kork case.”

  “Well, I’ve got thirty minutes in screaming color of him dying an agonizing, horrible death. And it was dropped off at my house, Captain. I’m a target. You can’t pull me off now.”

  Bains didn’t seem to be listening. “Francis was my cousin,” he said in a soft voice. “I used to baby-sit him when we were kids.”

  “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “He never mentioned that.”

  “Did you bring him in on this?”

  “I had an appointment with him, but had to cancel. I think he knew someone was stalking him, but didn’t mention it to me. There were some threatening messages on his office phone. The same person also threatened to kill me.”

  Bains put his hands on his desk and stared at them, spreading out his fingers.

  “I know the suspension is bullshit, Jack. It’s out of my hands. But the paperwork hasn’t been done yet, the official charges haven’t been filed.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “Two, maybe three days. You can fight it, of course. Contact the union rep. Request a hearing. But you’re being suspended with pay. Doubtful you’d get much sympathy.”

  “The super can suspend me for a year after I catch this guy.”

  Bains nodded. He looked smaller than he normally did. “We never had this conversation. Go find this animal. And keep your face off the boob tube, or it will be both our jobs.”

  I reached into my pocket, placed Mulrooney’s address book on the captain’s desk.

  “Did you want to inform his family?”

  “I’m part of his goddamn family.”

  I waited.

  “I’ll make the calls.” Bains took the book.

  Back in my office, I gave Benedict the blow-by-blow.

  “Bains is a careerist. He’s bucking for commander. He won’t go down with you, Jack.”

  “He’s a good cop.”

  “He’s a politician. Shit trickles down. If the super wants you out, you’re out.”

  “I can fight it. Unreasonable termination. Discrimination.”

  “No you won’t. You’re not the type.” He looked at the garbage bag on my desk. “Couldn’t find a purse you liked?”

  “I got another video this morning. The graphologist, being skinned.”

  Herb winced. I didn’t want to watch the tape again so soon, but I snapped on a glove and popped it into the VCR.

  Three minutes into it, Herb excused himself to go to the men’s room.

  I made myself be analytical. I freeze-framed on the gloves, to try to read the tag inside the cuff. I freeze-framed on the pliers, to try to see the manufacturer mark. Emotional detachment was impossible, but I owed it to Dr. Mulrooney to do my job as best I could.

  By the end of the tape I had no leads, and I was quivering with disgust.

  I spent a few minutes trying to calm down, trying to distance myself from the images. The phone rang, scaring the hell out of me.

  “Hiya, Jackie. What are you wearing?”

  Harry McGlade.

  “A frown,” I answered.

  “We on for later?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “How’s three o’clock?”

  “I’m at work.”

  “Take a day off. You deserve it. Meet us at Mon Ami Gabi, on Lincoln Park West. I’ve got reservations under the name Buttshitz. You’re bringing a date, right?”

  “I think so.” Phin hadn’t called yet.

  “Rent a guy if you have to. Or bring that fat partner of yours. Tell him it’s free eats; he’ll come running.”

  “Good-bye, Harry.”

  “Don’t be late. You’re late, I’ll make sure your TV character gets her own spin-off series.”

  He hung up. I searched my desk for aspirin, finding the bottle just as the Feebies walked in. Well, a single Feeb anyway.

  He nodded at me, wearing the same gray suit he had on a few days ago. Or perhaps a completely different gray suit that looked exactly the same.

  “Lieutent Daniels. How are you?”

  I was tired and bitchy and not in the mood to suffer fools.

  “Now’s not a good time, Agent Coursey.”

  “I’m Dailey.”

&n
bsp; “Where’s your partner? Aren’t you guys always side by side, holding hands?”

  “He’s ViCAT’s liaison with the Gary Police Department, investigating the Bud Kork murders. And our relationship is purely professional.”

  “So you don’t give each other oily back rubs after a long day of securing our personal freedoms?”

  His lips twisted somewhere between a grin and a wince.

  “I understand. You’re attempting to assert your control over this situation by belittling my masculinity.”

  I got wide-eyed. “Wow. You BSU guys don’t miss a trick.”

  “Now you’re using sarcasm to undermine my professionalism.”

  “It’s like I’m under a microscope. All of those Quantico classes have given you tremendous insight into human nature. What am I doing now?”

  “You’re giving me the finger.”

  Herb returned, a bit green around the gills. He surveyed the situation.

  “Am I interrupting an intimate moment?”

  “Special Agent Dailey was just leaving. He’s got a samba band to chase.”

  Dailey cleared his throat. “We believe the Gingerbread Man wasn’t working alone.”

  That got my attention.

  “What do you mean?”

  “After careful analysis of the twelve previous Charles Kork murder videos, we’ve deduced the recordings were made on two different camcorders. Each particular brand leaves a unique signature when laying down an electromagnetic control track on—”

  I held up my palm. “Spare us the details. What difference does it make if there were two recorders? So he used one for a while, it broke, then he bought a new one.”

  “The camcorder recovered at Charles Kork’s residence matches six of the videos. The other six were done on a different machine, an RCA DSP3. The recent videotape that you were sent was also done on an RCA DSP3. It’s an older model, discontinued years ago.”

  That was compelling, but not enough to get me excited. “I’m sure they sold thousands of that model. Any way to prove the same camcorder recorded both?”

  “Not conclusively. But let me show you something. Do you have a DVD player?”

  “Not in the budget this year.”

  Special Agent Dailey put his briefcase on my desk and opened the clasps. Sure enough, he had a mini DVD player. It took him a minute to attach it to my TV, and then he inserted a disc.