“You been getting over the damn flu for the last two years,” scowled the chief. He couldn’t wait for Halverson to retire. A lazy dog and Tierney was stuck with him because he was one of the mayor’s many relatives. “Art?”
“Not if you want me to look over the files.”
“Dublowski, you go. We wouldn’t want Ray, here, ruining anyone else’s shoes.”
“You still owe me a pair of fucking Rockports, Ray,” Phil Gillette bellowed.
The room erupted as Ray Halverson’s face flushed. Halverson and Phil Gillette once sat in on an autopsy. A nasty popper. When the ME made the first cut, Halverson spilled his lunch on Gillette’s shoes and on the victim.
“Okay, okay,” Tierney barked. “Who was the ME on the scene?”
“Monroe,” Ray answered.
“Jesus.” Tierney shook his head. “I’ll see if I can get Harley on this one. Dublowski, if anyone besides Ed Harley tries to cut, you have them call me before they so much as look up a nostril. Clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“Art, while you’re checking, see if Cold Case has anything new on Cramer or Rosenberg. If there’s any DNA on Phillips, we’re going to need the lab to check on any possible matches.”
Art nodded as he picked up his phone. “As of this morning, the lab’s almost two months behind.”
Tierney rubbed his eyes. “Tell ‘em the superintendent wants answers now. Move it to the front burner. Ray, you need to review the canvass. Make sure we know everything they know. Got it?”
“I’m on it,” Halverson nodded.
“I’m at Walker’s for a couple hours. I want to hear progress when I get back. Stay on top of this. Our fans are watching.” Tierney was out the door.
“I guess these will have to wait,” Art said, tossing a stack of files aside.
“So, Dublowski, how do you like the desk?” Phil Gillette asked as he rolled his chair out from the cubicle near Weinstein.
“What?” Nick asked, looking up his computer screen.
“The desk? You like it?”
“Yeah. It’s okay, I guess.”
“You know, Ray here wanted that desk. Give his left nut for it,” Gillette continued. “It’s the lucky desk.”
“Shut the fuck up, Phil,” Halverson answered.
The large man moved closer to Dublowski. “You sit in it, you got the best solve rate in Chicago,” Gillette smiled.
Nick kept his eyes even. “Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. Every person who has worked out of that desk,” Gillette smiled, “has had the best numbers in the city.”
The young detective could feel the tug at his leg. “So how many people been in the desk?”
“Counting you?” Phil said with a wide grin. “Three.”
“Vinnie Eberhaus,” Art chimed in. “Best numbers for six years… till he got plugged walking home one night.”
“Who else?” asked Nick.
“Maggie Quinn.” There was catch in Gillette’s voice.
Guys down at Dugan’s still talked about the detective. Her father worked for the Outfit until he wound up doing life in Joliet. Quinn was a real hot shot… until her kid died, she slit her wrists, and landed in a psych ward. Luck ran both ways, Nick thought, and he didn’t want the good if he had to take the bad.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Halverson can have it.”
There was a nervous ripple of laughter as the detectives exchanged looks.
“It’s all yours,” Ray said, holding up his hands.
“Yep, you got it.” Phil’s smile disappeared. “Hey, Artie, you think Tierney would bring her back?”
“Did you see the look on his face? He’d bring her back if she could work.”
“Well, I hear she’s up and around,” Phil said.
“No way is Tierney ever bringing that nut-job chick back. No way,” Ray bellowed.
“Shut up, Ray.” Art cranked his head around to Phil Gillette. “Where’d you hear that?”
“My sister-in-law does transcript work for that McConnaugh outfit downtown. She was talking to one of the secretaries. Said her boss did the divorce for Quinn’s old man.”
“The big Dick?” Art smiled. “So she finally cut him loose?”
“Yeah. Apparently, he tried to pull a fast one, but she caught him.
“What’d you expect. It’s Quinn.”
“You should really call her, Art.”
For the first time in a long time, Art Weinstein had nothing to say. He just nodded and slid back to his desk.
Jesus, Dublowski thought. Get shot on the street or take a razor to your arms. That was a steep price to pay for good numbers. The young detective let out a sigh. Lucky desk, my ass.
“So what are you doing about Phillips?” Jerome Walker asked as the budget meeting broke up.
“I’ve got Weinstein checking it out. Halverson and the new guy covered the scene, so they’re re-checking any potential witnesses, seeing if there’s anything we’re missing.”
“And that’s enough in your opinion?” Walker growled.
The fact that the question was asked meant the superintendent had his own answer already.
Tierney paused. “I’m thinking of reassigning the case. Move it over to Art Weinstein. He’s got more experience.”
“Hold on, John. We don’t want to switch boats midstream. Dublowski is new, but I’m sure he’s capable and he’s got Halverson to guide him.”
“Yes, sir.” Tierney knew Walker would refuse, but he had to try. Rumor was Dublowski’s old lady had an uncle in the garment trade. That’s how the kid made the cut. A couple other guys scored better, but they had no one to further their interests. Walker wouldn’t bump Ray Halverson and piss off the mayor and he wouldn’t interrupt his steady flow of new, tailor-made suits.
“Look John, we’re talking about three girls in a little over two years. If the press starts making connections, we’re up a creek. And we’re talking three good families.”
Jerome Walker was feeling comfortable in his position. Almost two years, Tierney thought and already he had enough political savvy to rank the value of human life. Working girls, bangers and druggies on the bottom. At the top of the food chain, those capable of donating large amounts to re-election campaigns.
“Three victims, same profile. We should have the Feds.”
“It’s thin, John. Two years and only three bodies. It could be nothing.” The politician saw the doubt on Tierney’s face. “Look, we are one of the finest police departments in the country, Chief, how do you suppose it would look if we brought in the FBI?”
Before Tierney could answer, Walker jumped in. “Like we can’t do our job. And we can.”
“Yes, sir.” Tierney jammed his new budget under his arm, turned to leave, then something stopped him. “Sir, I’m down on detectives already and with this latest adjustment, things will be tight.”
Walker’s face twisted with disapproval. Like most administrators, he didn’t care how things got done. They just needed to get done. “Don’t work more, work smarter, John,” Walker smiled. It was something he picked from one of his business advisors.
“That’s why I want to bring in a consultant.”
“We can’t afford any…”
Tierney decided to use words Walker would understand. “I’ve done the math. It’ll add up to less than hiring a new man. No benefits. No liability. No strings. Nothing. Just a flat fee and we might be able to cut the investigation time in half.”
Walker paused. The mayor’s popularity was down. Bad economy. Budget in the red. Schools on the watch list. Cuts to the police department. And homicides were spiking. Almost twice the number as the same time last year. Add a serial killer to the mix and it wouldn’t look good for the
mayor in the fall. People liked their killers on TV, not in their neighborhoods.
“I’ll consider it,” Walker said.
That meant he’d check it out with the mayor. Walker wouldn’t pass gas without the mayor’s approval.
“You know how the media will twist this. I don’t want anything out in public that I haven’t heard first. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Tierney nodded.
Chapter Thirteen
I must’ve died, Maggie thought, and this is hell. It sure couldn’t be the real world. She didn’t remember the real world being this boring, this benign. Once it was full of calendars with writing so small you could barely read it and color-coded ink to keep everything straight. Now each month was full of empty squares and numbers with no real meaning. No meetings. No dance class. No sleepovers. No nights out with the guys from work. The days were nothing more than an endless string of tedious habits Rayney was trying to ingrain in her. Habits she once had. Wake up. Shower. Put on clothes. Rayney refused to let her stay in sleep pants and a t-shirt all day. Shoes were also a prerequisite.
“You’re not dressed ‘til you put your shoes on,” he told her on more than one occasion.
Brush teeth, brush hair, deodorant. Eat.
There was always eating and it was always a pain in the ass. Rayney wasn’t a bad cook. It’s just that nothing tasted like it used to. Nothing filled her like it used to. She could eat a plate of pancakes and feel utterly empty. Smell bacon and onions cooking and not recognize the aroma as appetizing. There were no more favorite foods. No comfort foods. No foods to reward after a job well done. There was simply food and she had to eat.
“Nothing like corn bread,” Antoine said as she sat down to breakfast at two in the afternoon. He cut two big slices, spread a layer of butter which quickly melted, then drizzled syrup on the top.
“Can eat it three times a day. Syrup for breakfast, honey for lunch and butter for supper.” He scooped a huge forkful into his mouth.
Maggie poked at the yellow and brown food. It crumbled as steam curled up into the air. She used to eat cornbread. Cornbread and honey. And chili topped with onions and sour cream. She remembered the food, but couldn’t recall the taste.
“Put it in your fucking mouth and chew,” Rayney ordered.
“You know, you could develop a little better bedside manner.”
“Are we in bed?” he said. “I see no bed here. Now, eat.”
Maggie glared at him. She called his bluff yesterday and refused lunch… just to see what would happen. Antoine Rayney wasn’t big, but he was stronger than Maggie calculated. The struggle lasted less than fifteen minutes. She was exhausted and he sported teeth marks on his left hand. He was not amused. She ate.
So today Maggie Quinn waited. To let the young man guess what she would do. Decide if he should strike first, use the element of surprise, or lay back and let her make the first move. She could feel Rayney’s body tense in anticipation of another take-down round. He shoveled more cornbread in his mouth and waited, eyes glued to hers.
One unnerving stare, Maggie thought. As good as any she faced and she had been up against some fairly penetrating looks in her life. It didn’t help that he could also hold it for a god-awful long time. Most people turned away after a few moments of looking into Maggie’s eyes. Even hardcore killers. Not Antoine Rayney. Years in foster care probably sharpened the skill. Nine homes in nine years. He must’ve developed some pretty solid defenses… but so did she.
Maggie jabbed the food. God, she was tired. Suddenly, another fight didn’t sound appealing. She just wanted to be left alone. Finally, she pushed the fork into her mouth and swallowed the cornbread.
“Are you a complete reject, girl? You gotta chew the food. Chew the food,” Rayney said, moving his jaw up and down.
“You know you wouldn’t have surprised me,” she said.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You were tensing up before. To make the first move. Surprise me. It wouldn’t have worked.”
“Jesus, you are so full of shit.”
Chapter Fourteen
Almost time, he thought. Almost time to go home. He couldn’t think, couldn’t keep his mind on the job and that was no good. He had to focus. His shirt was sticking to his back even though the office was cool. He’d been sweating all day for no reason. Not true. He left the reason lying in a warehouse. Did anyone find her yet, he wondered? He should read the paper, but he was too afraid. What would they say? Would they know it was him? Shit. And his wife was coming back home tonight. He needed to clean. That reminded him. He needed laundry detergent. Bleach. Toilet bowl cleaner. What else? He couldn’t remember. There was something else he had to do. His mind was like that lately. He couldn’t focus. Fuck it. Whatever he needed to do must not be that important.
Chapter Fifteen
“I will be home when I can,” Nick said. He was trying to keep his voice down as he stood outside the autopsy room. They were running late. The autopsy was supposed to start an hour ago.
“We’re working this really important case. That one I was telling you about… I know it’s been on the calendar. Look, if I can make it, I make it. But work has to take priority.”
Shit, he shouldn’t have said that. Nothing but dead silence at the other end. Cheryl thought their marriage came first which meant she came first.
“Hon,” Nick finally said, “this case is important. High profile. I have to…”
His wife was not impressed. She started with a threat, but ended with her best weapon against Nick Dublowski. Tears. She cried for five minutes as Nick yelled, then apologized, then yelled again. Finally, the detective slapped his phone shut. Jesus, he hated when his wife was like this.
“We’re going to be starting in a few minutes,” said a small, wiry man next to Nick. The detective wondered how long he had been there, how much he heard. Kurt Baskin handed Nick a gown and shoe covers.
“Want one?” he asked, loading small packets into the filter compartments of a mask.
Dublowski looked at it blankly.
“For the smell.” Kurt smiled.
Nick hesitated. He had only been to one autopsy and almost lost his lunch. He made it through by focusing on a small square of silver instead of the blood and rot.
“You use one?” Nick asked.
“Look, it’s less embarrassing wearing one of these than blowing chunks on the block,” he grinned, “or fainting.”
The little guy was right. It would be easier living down the mask than throwing up on the corpse. Halverson was proof of that. Besides, who would ever know? Nick took it.
“Only one mess to clean up,” the assistant smirked. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”
Dublowski watched through the small window of the autopsy room door as Kurt Baskin disappeared into another room. His mind kept going back to Cheryl. Why the hell did she ride him so much? Couldn’t she see how important this job was? Everyone had to make sacrifices. Didn’t she see that? If it meant missing dinner at his sister-in-law’s house, well so be it. He was catching killers. Wasn’t that more important than dinner? Jesus, what was wrong with her?
As his anger grew, Dublowski paced in front of the window. Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. The little man was wheeling in a loaded gurney. With amazing ease, he transferred the body to the autopsy table. The block, Dublowski thought. The assistant checked each of the surgical tables to make sure all the tools were in place. Nick would have a talk with Cheryl. Tonight. He would lay down the law.
An old man walked past him and into the autopsy room. Nick Dublowski didn’t even notice as he ran over the words he would later say to his wife. The old man stopped at the counter, put a mask and face shield on, then turned to the body. The assistant tapped the glass to get Dublowski’s atten
tion.
Cold. That’s the first thing Nick noticed. How amazingly cold it was. The next was how claustrophobic the mask made him feel. He tried to take deep breaths to fight the feeling.
“Okay, let’s get this one done, Kurt. I’ve got to be somewhere at six,” the old man sighed as he hit a button on the video recorder.
“Autopsy of...” he looked at the file on the counter. “Melinda Salvo Phillips. Female. Caucasian. Age 22.
To Dublowski’s surprise, the man in the mask and gown stepped back as his assistant took a scalpel and made the first cut. From the right shoulder, curving down to avoid the breast, then from the left to meet in the middle before heading down to the pubic bone. She was badly torn up, still Kurt managed to pull the skin and flesh away to reveal the chest cavity and abdomen.
Without the smells, the autopsy wasn’t really so bad, Nick thought. It felt more like he was watching a movie than actually standing in the room. The doctor and his assistant worked quickly, removing organs, measuring and weighing them, taking tissue samples. This wasn’t bad at all, the detective smiled to himself. Then Kurt reached up and peeled back the young girl’s face, revealing the skull beneath. Nick tried to breathe as he stepped back. The sweet taste of saliva rose in his throat as Nick Dublowski focused on a clean section of the table. Luckily, the whole procedure was short.
“Okay, sew her up, Kurt.” The old man didn’t even look at Dublowski. “I got to go. Don’t forget to turn the tape in. Here’s my notes. They want the report tomorrow.”
Kurt nodded and began reassembling the body.
“Hey, you hear about Maggie Quinn?” asked the ME.
The little man nodded.
“I hear Freeman got a first class trip to the cleaners.” The old man snapped his gloves off. “Must be nice to have the best fucking lawyer in town. I sure could’ve used him when my old lady hauled me to court. Nothing like having good connections.”
Too Dark To Sleep Page 5
