Shattered by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 2)

by Catherine Finger

  “So give me the run down, Garrett. Top to bottom, and be quick about it.” I nodded at him.

  Seven detectives remained in the bullpen. Ralphie Contron and Dick Trent stood in the back, whispering. Where was Schlichting? The three stooges were insufferable, and inseparable. I would be grateful for the reprieve. And a tad suspicious of the timing of his absence. He just happens to go missing the minute a DB shows up? And he has access to the station’s photo paper, and he hates me. And he’s one of just six who were at both crime scenes. I tucked that thought away and focused on the now.

  The remaining dynamic duo was annoying enough. They’d both been passed over for promotions three times. Bitterness hung in the air between them. Garrett cleared his throat and cast a nervous glance to the back of the room where they stood.

  “We know Derrick Deter was a perp of the worst kind. Convicted sex offender for a veritable cornucopia of child offenses. Brought in for questioning for countless other cases but was never charged. He did time in four joints in three different states over a period of fifteen years. Got paroled early for good behavior each time. Picked up by the same woman at each release. Turned out to be his mother. Nobody’s missing him—except her. Maybe.” Garrett flipped on an LCD projector.

  “So, how’d it happen? How’d he get popped and beaten to death in broad daylight and no one hears or sees a thing? This ain’t exactly Detroit.” Impatience laced my voice. Not the first time. Probably not the last either. Garrett didn’t seem to mind.

  “We think he was stalking another group of kids. Following the same pattern. This equipment was found in his bag at the scene.” Garrett clicked the remote through multiple images of high-end photography equipment. A New Orleans style Mardi Gras mask lay on the table next to one of the cameras.

  “Wait. Back up. What’s the deal with the mask?” It’s probably nothing. But everything matters, right?

  “It was just there, with his prints all over it, just like the rest of the stuff. And in case that’s not enough for you, we’ve got this.” He clicked again and scrolled through a dozen screens showing close up shots of a tow-headed boy with strong features and sparkling blue eyes. And they were still sparkling. Thank God.

  “We think he’d zeroed in on his next victim.” Garrett lowered his voice and paused for effect. “But did he know somebody had zeroed in on him?”

  Contron spoke up from the back, his right knee cocked at an angle, leaning against the wall with folded arms. “That’s the million-dollar question. Who would’ve known he was even in the area?”

  “He was a known offender. Anyone with time and inclination can get online and look for updates to the registry in their neighborhood. That’s not unusual.” Garrett’s tone was defensive. He glared at Contron.

  “Time, inclination, and a nasty little sledgehammer thing, though? That’s seems pretty exclusive. Should narrow your list down quite a bit. And, going after a perp like that… feels female, doesn’t it? Doesn’t this feel like another female killer to you?” Contron stared straight at me.

  “Got any other feelings you’d like to discuss, detective? Maybe like a little resentment? Like maybe you refuse to believe your Chief is innocent and back here leading your recalcitrant carcass? You got anything else you want to throw on the table?” I straightened up, staring right back at him as I spoke.

  He stared daggers back at me but kept his peace. Coward.

  “No? Good. Then how ‘bout you set aside your dislike of me long enough to focus on the real killer here?” I raised my voice for emphasis, enjoying the red flush spreading across his forehead.

  “And any of the rest of you wanting to take issue with my leadership are welcome to reread the report detailing my exact whereabouts during the past several days—and specifically during the double murder of my husband and his girlfriend.” Heat vaulted up my spine. Del, sticking it to me from the grave? Forcing me to give up the anonymity of my shelter women to remain free to catch his killer? Get with the program, Josie. Stay in the game.

  “For those of you who don’t happen to watch TV, you should go online. Where you’d catch the fact that there are video tapes on file with the state’s attorney, proving my exact whereabouts the entire time the murders were being committed. Any questions?”

  Ralphie’s eyes sprang open, and he stumbled off the wall and into Dick Trent. The clatter broke the tension in the room, and I smiled while my ironclad alibi rang loudly through the heads of every detective in the room. Their body language relaxed, and they looked up at me expectantly, almost in unison.

  Finally. They wouldn’t have fallen in line so fast had Schlichting been present. Thank You, God, for small favors.

  “So, who else would’ve known about Deter?” The atmosphere had changed. Energy flowed throughout the room, and it was time to take full advantage of it.

  “His victims. Any neighborhood watch types. Vigilantes. Disgruntled former co-workers and family members maybe. Creep like that mighta had enemies anywhere. Not to mention social and local services.” Trent slinked to his desk in three strides and flipped open his laptop. I nodded my approval. He was following a good line of thinking.

  “And if he had been hooked up to local services, that opens a whole new list of people who may have had access to his records, right?” Something was niggling at my subconscious.

  “Right.” Trent kept his eyes buried in the data before him. “Such as county health department and free clinic services. Think of the resources wasted on that guy while he was alive. Not to mention what we’re still putting in with him six feet under. Now who’s the crazy one?” He grunted and shook his head.

  “Wait a minute. Crazy, huh?” Crazy like a fox. “Search under psych and social, and see who he might have been checking in with. Was he seeing anybody regularly? Maybe we can get a warrant to peek at some of his court-ordered mental health providers’ notes?” A dim light turned on somewhere deep inside my mind.

  “Whoa—that’s weird.” Trent looked up, wrinkling his nose.

  “What? You dig up who he was seeing?” His drama was getting on my nerves.

  “Yeah.” His eyes met mine.

  “And?”

  “And I… I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Maybe we can help.” My eyes rolled before I could stop them. If he didn’t start talking soon, I would reach out and slap him across the face to jumpstart his brain. “Maybe you could do us the supreme favor of using your words.” I wasn’t even trying to stem the tide of sarcasm flowing through each syllable.

  “He was seeing someone regularly. Court assigned. Since his last incarceration ending in early release nineteen months ago.” He was typing as he talked.

  “Yeah, nothing unusual so far. Keep reading. And see who else might’ve been seeing the same shrink at or around his scheduled appointments. I know it’s a long shot, but heck, you never know. We might get lucky. Stranger things have happened.” I shoved a hand into my uniform pocket. Maybe the Fun Size candy bar I’d placed in it before taking it to the dry cleaner would still be there. Nope.

  Trent had paled noticeably. He’d stopped typing and was focusing his attention on a printer sputtering to life along the back of the room. The rest of the guys had stopped talking and were looking our way.

  “I take it you found something?”

  He nodded, looking over at the row of printers in the back of the room and back to me before resting his eyes on the floor. I walked over to the printer and picked up the paper just before it fluttered to the ground.

  The print was unnaturally small. It took me a moment to decipher the times, dates, numbers, and codes. When I did, I read it again. And again. The third time through, the growing chill in my gut froze to a glacier, and the soft spot under my chin ached like it always did just before I puked.

  Derrick Deter had indeed received court-ordered treatment the last time he’d been through the system. Interestingly enough, his treatment came from the capable hands of Doctor Kira Stoklavich. Weekly.
Just as you’d expect.

  Exactly one hour and fifty minutes after my own weekly session.

  The dim light in the far reaches of my mind snapped off.

  “Ain’t that an interesting little coinkydink?” Contron had slithered to the front of Garrett’s computer and stood there, slouching like a seedy gangster. Trickles of defiance leaked from his dull eyes.

  “What, you gonna offer us the butthead special again today, Contron?”

  Garrett leaping to my defense in front of the guys? Now that was an interesting turn of events.

  “Boys, much as I enjoyed my junior high experiences, let’s just leave them in the past for a moment, shall we? So Mitch, what might this mean? Put it together for me.” My own brain had gone all fuzzy and soft after reading the print out. What did it mean? Whatever it was—and there was something—danced a toe’s breadth beyond my reach. If anyone could put the pieces together, it was Mitch.

  “Well, you’d busted him, what—four, five times?” She’d moved over to the no-longer-little group of us clustered around Garrett’s computer.

  “Less than that. Way less—more like two. I only wished it’d been four or five. Mostly, I wished I could’ve gotten him off the street for good. Before something bad happened.” My voice trailed off.

  “Something worse than this?” Contron’s voice was menacing.

  “Much worse than this—yes. He could’ve put the hurt on other kids. Peter—think of Peter. He’s safe. You think that isn’t worth Deter’s death a hundred times over? Heck, I’d have killed him myself to keep him from hurting another kid.” That should not have left my mouth. But I couldn’t take the words back any more than I could’ve stopped them from falling off my tongue.

  It was true: I hated Deter. He had scarred families and ruined lives without an ounce of remorse. He escalated as he got older. His death was the only real way to know he’d never harm another child. Fireworks erupted as I pictured the scales of justice, and smiled. Deter’d earned the right to die. And what about Richardson?

  “Mitch, dig up everything you can on Corey Richardson. Is there any connection at all between Richardson and Deter? I want to know where he was at the time of each murder and what else is lurking in his background. Garret, head up the foot soldiers. Let’s make sure we talk to every neighbor, delivery person, family members, the works.”

  Heads popped up, and a renewed energy sparked through the bullpen. Good. I nodded at Mitch, grateful to pass her the baton, and make my escape. Weariness fell over me like an electric blanket. I had to get some rest or I’d fall asleep and never wake up. I headed down the hallway, toward the parking lot.

  The light pressed in, and I scrunched up my eyes. Starbursts lit up against a black backdrop as a wave of nausea floated through my gut. Great. In short order, I’d be visited by the mother of all migraines.

  The shrill sound of my home phone snapped me out of a deep sleep. “Chief Oliver here.”

  “Josie.” Nick’s smooth voice poured over me like gold silk. My pulse quickened, and warmth shot through me, head to toes. And slammed into an impenetrable wall of ice. What about Nick?

  I pushed the foul thought aside.

  “Nick?” Did my voice sound as breathy as it felt?

  “There’s been another one.”

  “Another murder?” I’d known him too long not to know his shorthand.

  “Another murder.” Slower, relaxing into whatever he wanted to tell me.

  “And?”

  “And it doesn’t look good.” His voice warmed, but he seemed more detached with each phrase.

  Hot Italian super-agent or not, he needed to get to the point before he stepped on my last nerve. “Does murder ever look good?”

  “This one doesn’t look good—for you.” Staccato words thrown out of his perfectly chiseled lips.

  “Nick?” What was he hiding?

  “It’s Schlichting.” The urgency in his voice must’ve been a kind of glee. Dirty cops were the worst kind of criminal in both of our books, and we’d been tracking this lout at the station for months. He’d been impossible to bust.

  “Schlichting? Our Detective Glenn Schlichting is the killer?” I yelled into the phone, right leg bouncing. I loved a good hunt—especially when we caught our prey. Way to go, Nick!

  “He’s dead, Jo. It feels like our guy, but the M.O.’s off a little. Made it look like he ate a bullet. Just over the line, south of Kenosha. Since this could be our guy, and he’s crossed state lines, I’ll be officially making this a federal case and taking over.”

  “What the…?” It was all coming at me too fast to process. It was all I could do to focus, to recall his words well enough to fashion them back into a sentence.

  “Schlichting? Dead?” Well, not much of a sentence.

  “In your wildest imagination, could you see him taking himself out?” Nick put his FBI secret agent voice back on.

  “Not a chance.” My words were icy and firm.

  “Exactly. And it looks like he took himself out with a department-issued Glock.”

  “You already said that.” I sat on the edge of my bed.

  “Just like your department-issued Glock.” His words grew narrow, distant.

  “But mine’s been in the department safe since I turned it over.” I stood up, stars dancing before my eyes, stomach growing light and queasy.

  “Exactly.”

  “What does this even mean?” A long sigh eased out as I sat back down.

  “It means I have to see you. Now.” His voice had taken on the he-who-must-be obeyed tone. My throat tightened.

  “No, it may mean a lotta things, but it doesn’t mean that. Not now, Nick. Not while I’m working.” And not until I know I can trust you. “It’s way too soon. I’m just getting back into the swing of things. The last thing I need is…” This was still my police department, wasn’t it? Was his interest professional, or personal? It was getting hard to follow the fuzzy lines between us.

  “…Is to try to figure it all out by yourself.” He ratcheted up his insistent tone. But not enough to wash out hints of his extreme hotness.

  Down girl. That wasn’t real life, and any romance between us happened long ago, in the Land of Way Before. All but forgotten, and it needs to stay forgotten. Was Kira back in his life? The last thing I needed was the enormous distraction of Nick, up close and personal. Not a great idea. Not now, not until I’m certain he’s in the clear on this. And certainly not when I was in certain, uh, moods. Let’s leave it at vulnerable, not exactly immune to his charms. And judging from the thickness of my throat and the warmth spreading through my belly, I was not in a Nick-proof state of mind. Definitely not. Might as well leave me alone with an open box of dark chocolate truffles.

  “Jo? Where’d you go? Please tell me you took me with you.” His laughter was low and seductive.

  Explains why he’s the super-agent man. Still… reading my mind, even through a wireless phone? Focus girl!

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve got murder on my mind.” I kept my tone crisp, businesslike. Maybe.

  His laughter returned, spreading the deep, rising heat through me like a smooth mug of dark hot chocolate laced with peppermint. What’s he doing calling me about this murder? Why not Mitch?

  “Really? I’ve got something else entirely on mine.” He chuckled, deep and rich.

  He knew. He knew the power he wielded over me.

  “Knock it off, knucklehead. If you want to play the Fed card and run this investigation, it’s going to be on my terms, on my turf. You’ve got to show me some respect in front of my men, or this is never going to work. You think you can handle that? ‘Cause I really don’t want you around if you can’t. I’m serious. I could use your help, but not the drama.”

  I wasn’t being fair, nor was I in any position to be making demands, but heck, I was the Chief of Police, and this was my department. So a little poetic license wouldn’t hurt anybody. Right?

  Nick laughed a little louder in response.
His breathing deepened.

  “If that’s how you want to play it, Chief. I’m all in. Where shall we meet? Your place or mine?” He was smiling through the phone.

  I snorted.

  “Meet me at the Grab and Go just over the border.” A favorite old rendezvous we’d both frequented for business with various colleagues—in my case—and operatives—in his—over the years. And it would give me the option of sorting out my thoughts away from him.

  “I won’t grab if you don’t go.” He laughed, hung up, and texted me.

  MEET YOU IN 30, BEAUTIFUL.

  I thought of Richardson. And his strong dislike of cops, and his philandering wife. Could she have also had an affair with Schlichting? I called Mitch to review my motive theory with her as I dressed. Five minutes later I was heading back to the station, lights on, sirens off.

  Mitch stood in my office doorway, smirking.

  “Sit, Mitch. You’re going to need to.” My flat tone drilled the words down deep. I sighed, staring at the cell phone on my glossy mahogany desktop.

  “Chief?”

  “We got trouble.” I continued my trance-like staring at the cell phone. What, did I expect it to jump up and start singing out the answer to this killer riddle?

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Dark ideas tumbled over one another in the far reaches of my mind. Snatches of truth from the murder scene photos swirled around, with connections I couldn’t yet see.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “One more murder—or a death at the very least. And it all keeps circling back here. To us. To me. And possibly to Richardson.” And hopefully not Nick.

  “What?”

  “Not what, who. Schlichting.” I snatched up the cell phone and rose from my desk. At the mention of his name, her eyes darkened. “He’s dead, Mitch. Nick just called to say that Detective Glenn Schlichting was found dead this morning. Evidence suggests the idiot took his own life.” Saying it out loud did nothing to enhance my belief. There were seven kinds of wrong at play here.