“Yes, Dr. Monroe,” Kurt mumbled as he stitched up the body.
Dublowski almost fell over. How could he not recognize the man from the warehouse? He watched Monroe remove his mask and cap. Shit. He had completely forgotten. How the hell… The fight with Cheryl. He was focusing on her, not the job. He was up shit creek. Nick dropped his mask and headed for the bathroom. He wasn’t sure if he threw up because of the autopsy or because he would have to face Tierney. Maybe it was a little of both.
Nick stumbled back to Area One and slumped at his desk. His lucky desk.
“Shit, Dublowski,” Ray Halverson smiled. “That hard to find your way in?”
The young detective was silent. His phone rang, but Nick didn’t move to answer it. Halverson shook his head and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah,” the detective answered gruffly. “Yeah, sure. I’ll tell him. No problem.” A smile spread across Halverson’s face as he dropped the receiver. “That was Monroe’s office. Report for the Denver Omelet will be in after noon tomorrow.”
Dublowski swallowed, then opened his mouth. To say what, he didn’t know.
“What do we have?” the chief asked as he stormed in.
“First two bodies were clean. No DNA. No nothing,” Art answered.
“Dublowski?”
The young man wet his lips. “We’re waiting for the report, but the ME didn’t find anything under the nails.” He was careful not to use Monroe’s name. Hell was coming and he wanted to live just a little longer.
“Any signs of rape?” asked Tierney.
Dublowski paused and tried to remember. “Ah, no. Nothing. No indication of sexual attack. No semen. Nothing.”
“Ray?”
“We got no witnesses. Mostly industrial around there. None of the businesses that border the warehouse have night shifts anymore. Most of them let out by four and don’t have anyone back until seven the next morning.”
“Uniforms cleaned the block last week. Regulars were probably staying away until things cooled,” Art added.
“So we got shit.” Tierney rubbed his eyes.
“Dublowski, when did you say Monroe’s report should be in?” Halverson grinned, toothpick clenched between his teeth.
There was a painful silence as Nick waited for the storm to hit.
“Monroe? How the hell did that happen?” Tierney’s voice penetrated the wall across from them and spilled into the hall. He leveled a caustic stare at the young detective. “Did I not tell you that Harley was the only one to touch that body? Did I not make myself clear? Crystal?”
Dublowski tried not to hang his head. “I’m sorry, sir. I know I made a mistake, but…”
“Mistake, my ass.” A fist struck the desk. “You failed to follow instructions, Detective. We got shit for evidence and now we have less than shit.” The chief’s face reddened. “I called. I left a message for Monroe and Harley. Did I hear anything? No. I thought my new detective handled it. ‘No one touches her, but Harley. Is that clear?’ ‘Crystal,’ my new detective says.” Tierney’s volume rose with every word. “Obviously it wasn’t fucking clear enough.”
The men just stared. Tierney yelled like everyone else, but usually in his office. Not out in front of everyone. Especially not with a new guy. Even Halverson was surprised. The chief was feeling pressure from up top and it was twisting him. That much was clear.
Tierney stormed into his office. “Jesus Christ!” the old man swore as he slammed his door. The superintendent would be heading home soon. Hopefully, Walker had an answer from the mayor. This case was quickly heading south and John Tierney would be going with it.
Maggie could hear Rayney fussing out in the kitchen, making the dinner she didn’t want to eat. She stared at the computer screen. What should she work on tonight? Of course, it was obvious. She’d known the minute she logged on. The answer was on the third page of the Metro section. A woman found murdered. No real details in the twelve-line blurb. It was in her old area. The article itself didn’t intrigue Maggie. What did was the complete lack of information and the placement it received.
Punching in the name didn’t help much. Too many Melinda Phillips’. She checked the obits. If the family was positioned well in the community, there would be an early listing so their large circle of friends would be informed. There she was. Melinda Salvo Phillips. A prominent family on the north side. She was a student at the University of Chicago. Nothing about how she died. A thought sailed across Maggie’s mind. It was the same thought that made her check the obituaries on a regular basis. A third strangulation. And they were downplaying it. Keeping it out of the public eye. She searched for the Sun Times among the stacks of papers on her desk. A narrow column was buried on page ten. That was it. There was a third strangulation. Favors were called in to keep it buried.
Maggie was still thinking about the Phillips girl an hour later as she poked at the pile of beans and rice on her plate.
“What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing.” Maggie flipped open the new word scramble book Rayney picked up. The first page was already started. “Shroudy is not a word.”
“Sure it is,” Rayney said as he ate.
“Use it.”
“You’re just pissed because I started it before you did.” The young man chomped on a piece of cornbread. “You’re not the only person in this house who can...”
“Use it.”
“You should start thinking about sessions,” he said.
“Don’t change the subject. Use the word.”
Rayney finished the cornbread as he thought. “The ghost looked all shroudy.”
Maggie blinked.
“There’s a good doctor over on the west side.”
“Hydrous. The word is hydrous,” Maggie said, erasing the letters. “Not shroudy.”
The phone rang.
“It’s for you,” Rayney said, holding out the receiver.
“Right. Is it a shroudy ghost?”
“Says he’s Chief Tierney.”
Maggie’s breath quickened. John Tierney. There was a third and he wanted to pick her brain. Have her look at the cases and tell them what she thought. Discreetly.
“You going to talk to him or what?”
“In the library,” she answered, pushing herself up from the table.
“Maggie,” John Tierney stuttered. He planned what to say, but somehow the words were gone.
“You want me to look at the Phillips case.”
“Yes.” Tierney said. He could hear Quinn’s thoughts click.
“Is this about my dad or is this something else?”
“It’s about the Phillips case,” Tierney said. “I got Walker and the mayor breathing down my neck. They want someone behind bars and they don’t really care who as long as it happens before November. Personally, I would like to get the guy who did it.”
“You have people. You don’t need me.”
“We need to move fast and you know the cases. Just look, okay. Look at Cramer and Rosenberg again, then this new one. That’s all I’m asking. Just see if you can find something for us to work with. If you could come in tomorrow…” Tierney felt the cold through the phone line.
“Put Art on it.”
“Art’s not as good as you. Look, Maggie, I got orders not to contact the Feds. Elections.”
“Call Hennessey. I heard he’s freelancing now that BS cut him loose.”
“Yeah, and he charges $3,500 a day. I don’t have money for that.” Tierney cleared his throat. “I was hoping you’d give us a deal.”
Walker finally got the okay from the mayor. The story of a troubled officer getting a second chance was nice PR. Especially when that officer was a mother who lost a child. It showed how caring the Chicago Police Department could be. Tierney knew the
real reason. Money. And Quinn was like Velcro. Any fuck-up would stick to her whether it was her fault or not. Tierney didn’t like it, but he had no choice. Luckily, Maggie Quinn never fucked up.
But his best detective wasn’t biting.
“Walker and the mayor are going to duck and cover on this one.”
Maggie Quinn smiled into the receiver. Which meant Tierney would take a dive. Unless someone else cushioned the fall. Someone like her. “She was cut?”
“Nothing like Cramer or Rosenberg. The guy threw her heart against the wall.”
“Must’ve been pissed.”
“We need to know if we’ve got the same nut or a new one.”
“Who had her on the block?”
“Monroe.” Tierney’s voice was flat.
“You should’ve gotten Harley.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s not too late.”
Tierney kicked himself. Dublowski wasn’t the only one having trouble doing his job. “I’ll order a second autopsy right away. And Maggie…”
She answered before Tierney could ask again. “Send the files to the house and I’ll take a look.”
“Thanks, kid. Anything you need, just let me know. I’ll make sure you get it.”
“I won’t work out of the office.” Maggie made sure to say “won’t” instead of “can’t.”
“Not a problem,” Tierney answered.
“Chief, you’re sure this isn’t about my dad.”
Tierney smiled. “Okay, it’s a little about your dad.”
After she hung up, Maggie paced the library. So they needed her. Maybe didn’t want her, but needed her. She grabbed the headphones and looked for a CD. It was a habit she’d fallen into since she came home from the hospital. The dark loved space. Empty, cold space. That’s what she was full of. There were few options. She would never go back to the hospital. Never. That meant filling the space and keeping it filled. Music worked. The right piece pulled out emotions from that hidden spot inside and pumped them into her body and mind, pushing out the emptiness. It was light for those lonely hours when the enemy scratched at the door and clawed at the windows.
When she was still a detective, music helped Maggie think, formulate theories, organize evidence. Catch her man. She mixed different CDs for each case. Each crime had its own playlist. When she was juggling a heavy caseload, which was always, Maggie simply loaded the appropriate disc and there it was. The case, the evidence, the suspects. Everything. In her head. In perfect order.
Now she made playlists for life. Different emotions each night. In alphabetical order, just to make things more interesting. Tonight was R. It was her third time with the letter. R for Repentance. No, not tonight. Reticent? Reticent was last month’s pass through the alphabet, so she couldn’t use it again. Those were the rules she set for herself. How about Revenant? Revenant was good. She could do something with Revenant. Maggie scrolled through music library until she reached Roy Orbison. She threw together a short, repetitive playlist, then let the music flood her brain, pressing it in to fill the empty spaces as the dark waited patiently.
Chapter Sixteen
Ed Harley pulled onto Clark Street. They were meeting at The Duke of Perth. The second time out in as many weeks. Usually the group of men could only manage a social outing once a month. Someone must’ve had a free night and gotten lonely. With his schedule, Harley was lucky to make it every other month. To be free two times in two weeks didn’t happen that often. Not in his line of work. The medical examiner checked his wallet to make sure he had enough cash as he passed the ATM in the lobby.
Two times in two weeks also meant more money. Well, he’d go cheap this time and get the all-you-can-eat fish and chips. After all, it wasn’t the food or the drinks he was after. It was the chance to get out and talk.
Five guys were already at the table in the back. Wally Anderson, an ME over at Area Five. Noah Pembry from Northwestern. Marcus Galen, a cardiac surgeon from St. Andrew. Winston and McNeal from Lake County. He wondered how many more would show up. On a good night, there were over a dozen of them. This was short notice though.
“Harley!” Wally Anderson’s voice was big, just like the man. At six feet, the guy had to go 300 pounds, Harley thought. He was good at eye-balling weight. Came with the territory.
“Wally.” Harley shook the older man’s hand.
The old MEs were generally down to earth. Not like the pretty babies coming in. Everyone under thirty thought they’d be getting their own prime time special, interviewing criminals and solving crimes single-handed. That was TV, not real life.
“Ed,” smiled Marcus Galen. He rose slightly from his seat and shook the ME’s hand.
Unlike the other surgeons who usually slummed it when they went out, Marcus Galen never dressed down. A lot of jewelry. Classy suits. Expensive cologne. He was a good enough guy, but there was always an air of superiority. That was cardiac for you. Literally holding a person’s heart in your hands. Stopping life, then jump-starting it again. It took a certain type to get off on that. Marcus Galen’s type.
“What are you drinking tonight, Ed?”
“The usual.”
Galen tipped his hand to the waitress. The woman quickly saw it, smiled and was at the table.
“Yes, Dr. Galen.”
“Kathy, could you please get Dr. Harley a Newcastle?” He smiled. “I’ll have another Macallan, if you would be so kind.”
The waitress nodded. “No problem.”
Galen probably suggested the place. He was the only scotch man in the group. The Duke of Perth was one of the few places that carried the high-end stuff the cardiac surgeon loved.
“You’re sure I can’t interest you in a scotch?” Galen asked. “A Macallan, Bowman, maybe even a Glenmorangie. I guarantee it will open up a whole new world for you.”
“No, I got someone on the block at seven tomorrow.”
The waitress delivered the drinks, taking a moment to smile at the well-dressed doctor. Marcus Galen threw her an extra five before raising his glass. “I’m off for the day. After breakfast, I need to work on a talk I’m scheduled to give the University later this month. Then there’s the article for the AMA I need to finish.”
“You got a seven a.m.?” Wally said when Galen paused to drink. “What’s on the menu?”
“Floater,” Harley mumbled. There wasn’t much the ME hated about his job, but he did hate floaters. It always reminded him of an alien autopsy. Amazing what a week and a half in the water could do to a body.
“God, I hate floaters,” said Wally as he gulped his Budweiser.
“It could be worse,” Harley smiled. “Could be two floaters.”
“Sorry I’m late.” It was Monroe from Area One.
Harley took a long swallow of beer. He was still pissed at Monroe for taking his assistant.
“What are you drinking, Duane?” Galen asked. He’d been chatting with Pembry, but immediately stopped.
“Dewars,” Monroe wheezed as he squeezed in next to the cardiac surgeon.
“I’m not sure they serve that.” Marcus Galen tried not to cringe as he flagged down the waitress again.
“Anything then. Just remember I’m not in your tax bracket.” Monroe was red-faced and puffing. “Had to get someone out the door.”
“So Kurt’s finishing for you?” Wally chuckled.
“That’s what an assistant is for,” Monroe replied.
“Jeez, Harley, no wonder Kurt left you. He got a job as ME,” Wally laughed.
Harley tried not to growl.
“Is this the one from the news?” Pembry changed the subject before things got ugly.
Monroe nodded as he stuffed his mouth with onion rings. “The guy beat the holy shit out of her, then ripped her heart out and sent it int
o a wall. What a fucking mess. The thing didn’t even look like a heart. You won’t believe it, but I didn’t know what it was when I saw it.”
“I believe it,” Harley muttered under his breath.
Galen leaned ever so slightly in to Monroe. “Who is investigating?” he asked.
“Halverson,” the ME puffed. “I tell you, this is going to be a tough one.”
“With Halverson working it, the case should be damn near impossible,” Harley smiled.
Everyone laughed. Everyone except Monroe.
“Isn’t he working with that new kid,” Wally asked.
“Dublowski,” the old ME snorted. “You should’ve seen his face at the autopsy. Wore a canister the whole time. Rookie.”
“Yeah, well at least he was there,” Harley countered. “And didn’t throw up on the evidence.”
“And his partner’s shoes,” Wally snorted.
A roar of laughter rose the table.
“Remember when Halverson had that…” Wally was doubled over. “Shit, that fricking ax in the wife’s chest and the husband sitting at the kitchen table, covered in blood.”
“Sorry, Chief, I’m just not sure he’s guilty,” they all said in unison. The whole table broke out laughing. It was a popular story.
“Quinn might be coming back,” Monroe interrupted. That was a sure way to turn the conversation. “Rumor is Tierney wants to pull her in.”
“What?” asked Harley. He hadn’t heard anything.
“Showed up for her divorce hearing. I guess her old man finally decided he had enough,” continued Monroe. “Can’t blame the guy. First, the kid dies, then his wife pulls that shit.”
“Man, imagine the bleed on cuts like that,” Wally said softly. “She should’ve died.”
“She must’ve only tagged them,” Pembry added. “Otherwise she would’ve been dead.”
“Not necessarily,” said Marcus Galen as he sipped his scotch. “The body shuts down flow to the extremities when there’s a loss of blood. So it would really depend on a variety of factors. Her heart rate, the accuracy of the cuts, if she had any drugs or alcohol in her system, if she was in an agitated state or relaxed.”
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