Cause of Death (Detective Damien Drake Book 2)

by Patrick Logan

  “I’m here, Drake. No need to shout. Please, tell me what is so urgent that you—”

  Drake finally managed a full breath.

  “He’s got Suzan. The bastard took Suzan.”

  Ken Smith ran a hand through his hair.

  “Who? Who has Suzan? What the hell is going on, Drake?”

  Drake grimaced, fighting back tears.

  “A psychopath… he took her and Dr. Moorfield and he’s going to kill them both.”

  There was a short pause, during which Ken’s brow furrowed. It was only in this moment, with his forehead crinkled in concern that he actually started to look his age.

  “Dr. Moorfield?”

  “Yes. It’s the man from the tribunal… whatever happened between them, he’s seeking revenge now. Please, you have to tell me his name.”

  Ken simply stared at him.

  “Please, you need to help me,” Drake pleaded. “He’s going to kill her! You have to—”

  He stepped forward, intent on grabbing Ken’s perfectly ironed shirt and shaking the man. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Raul, the short, stocky man, moving toward him with astonishing speed.

  Drake let his hands fall to his sides.

  “Please, Ken. I need—”

  “Slow down,” Ken said firmly. “Tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “There’s a man… a man with some sort of vendetta against Dr. Tracey Moorfield. He’s been killing drifters, making it look like suicide. And now he has Suzan and Dr. Moorfield. You were… you were on the tribunal for something that Dr. Moorfield was involved in long ago. You need to help me, you have to tell me who was involved. You—”

  Ken held up a hand, silencing him.

  “I’m thinking, dammit. Give me a second.”

  Drake feared that seconds was all he had before Suzan’s throat was slit.

  “It was so long ago… I remember… I remember Dr. Moorfield was sleeping with a student, and… and…”

  “Hurry, please.”

  Ken’s brow furrowed again, and this time the creases extended to the corners of his eyes.

  “Craig,” he said softly, a far-off look in his eyes. “Dr. Moorfield was having an affair with Craig Sloan, a medical student. Things went badly, and…”

  Drake didn’t even acknowledge the rest of what Ken had to say. Instead, he yanked his phone from his pocket and sprinted back toward the elevator.

  “Chase! Chase, the killer’s name is Craig Sloan!” he shouted into the phone.

  Drake looked up in time to see Ken standing in the hallway, his drink still clutched in his hand. And then, just as the doors silently closed, he thought he saw a smile form on the man’s lips.

  Chapter 62

  The bound woman, who Suzan quickly realized was at least in her seventies, somehow managed to pull herself to a seated position. Despite the woman’s advanced age, or perhaps because of it, the woman was oddly calm, whereas Suzan’s body continually rocked with sobs.

  And Suzan’s fear only intensified when the masked man stepped in front of them and slid the blade from a sheath on his hip. He angled it so that the moonlight reflected off the steel.

  “If you scream, I’ll slice your carotid artery,” he said as he stepped forward. When his filthy hand reached for Suzan, she closed her eyes tightly thinking that he was going to grab a fistful of hair and yank her head back, exposing the soft skin beneath her chin.

  Please, just make it quick, she pleaded silently.

  But instead of cold steel, Suzan felt the man’s calloused fingers brush up against her cheek. In one smooth motion, he pulled Suzan’s gag down and then proceeded to do the same to the woman beside her.

  Whimpering, Suzan said, “Wh—what do you want from us?”

  The man ignored her and brought the hand not holding the knife to the jagged bottom of the crudely made leather mask. His fingers tucked beneath it, and then he lifted it off his face.

  He was handsome, with short brown hair, blue eyes, and the beginnings of a beard. His nose was slightly crooked, but wasn’t bent enough to make him look sinister.

  The woman tensed beside Suzan.

  “You,” she said softly, her eyes going wide.

  “Ah, yes, me, Tracey—it’s me. After fifteen years in prison, I’m back to finish what I started—to prove to you that I am a worthy student. When I’m done with you two, I will have completed the forensic pathology exam. I think this time I’ll get a passing grade.”

  Suzan swallowed hard, her mind flicking to the final two images from Beckett’s presentation.

  Throat slit and…

  Only then did she notice the red jerry cans of gasoline near the far wall.

  She gasped.

  The final test image was of a burnt corpse—he was going to burn one of them alive.

  “You were a lousy student and a worse lover, Craig,” Tracey spat.

  Craig laughed.

  “You think so? Well I spent fifteen years working on my craft, my dear. Although the time for the latter has since past, perhaps I can impress you with the former.”

  He stepped forward with the knife outstretched and then crouched on his haunches.

  “And you’re going to help me.”

  Tracey scoffed.

  “Help you? Help you? You really are delusional. You were delusional back then, and your time in prison hasn’t changed that one bit.”

  Suzan’s eyes whipped from Tracey to Craig to the knife and back again. She was having a difficult time keeping up with this manic conversation.

  “Delusional? You ruined me, Tracey. I loved you, and you used that against me. Used it to ruin me. I lied for you… I lied for you at the goddamn tribunal to make sure you kept your job. And what did you do? You threw me under the bus, flunked me from your class. Tracey, I loved you.”

  “Loved me?” Tracey chuckled. “You may have loved me, Craig, but I never loved you. You were just a quick fuck, something to take my mind off my work. It’s not my fault you latched on to me like an Oedipus leech. Everything that happened to you… everything from getting expelled, to lighting my house—this house—on fire is your doing. You need to grow up and live with the consequences of your decisions. You were a child back then, and you’re still a child now.”

  Enraged, Craig leaned back and slapped the woman hard across the face. Suzan yelped, but Tracey didn’t make so much as a whimper. Her head flung to one side, and as the echo of the slap died down, she slowly turned back to face their captor.

  “Fuck you,” she said, and then spat in Craig’s face.

  Suzan found herself shaking her head subconsciously and mumbling to herself.

  What are you doing? Don’t piss him off!

  But Tracey’s words stung Craig more than her saliva. He calmly wiped the wetness from his face and then, to Suzan’s surprise, held the knife out to Tracey, handle first.

  “You ruined my life, and now it’s my turn to ruin yours.”

  “I won’t do it,” Tracey said, and for the first time since she had been shoved into the room, Suzan thought she detected fear in the woman’s voice.

  “Oh, you will, Tracey. Because here’s the thing: you remember the test? You remember one through six?”

  Tracey said nothing, and the man smiled broadly.

  “Of course you do, after all, you made the damn thing. You see, the cops are stupid, but they aren’t that dumb. I left a little hint, a little clue from this place at every scene. Every last one of them. And eventually, they’ll put the pieces together. When they do, they’ll know that you were behind it all. It’s just too bad that you won’t be around to witness it. I made a mistake with the folder—I didn’t know that you had changed offices. But it doesn’t matter; there’s still enough evidence to link you to all of the murders. And based on your track record, I doubt the police will have to stretch too far to accept that you’re the one responsible. I mean, doctors become a little strange when they’re no longer relevant, don’t they? Tucked away in
an office, out of sight, working on some bullshit assignments. All alone in the dark, things can get lonely…”

  The photographs… Craig had left them on Beckett’s desk thinking that it was still Dr. Moorfield’s office. And then Eddie found them… and… and…

  Suzan’s breath hitched.

  Eddie was putting his nose where it shouldn’t belong… budding in when he should have just minded his own damn business.

  Tracey shook her head and then laughed out loud, a hideous, high-pitched cackle.

  “You think they’ll pin this on me? On me? You really are stupider than I thought. They are going to put it all on you, Craig. How can you not see that? After all, you spent fifteen years in prison for burning this place down. And you came to my defense at the tribunal? Really? You simple idiot, they couldn’t fire me even if they wanted to, I had—and still have—tenure. But me… I testified at your trial, told the defense that I was usually out on Tuesday nights, and that this is something that you would have known.”

  The man seemed to consider this for a moment, his smile fading.

  “It’s not true,” he said softly.

  Tracey laughed again.

  “Oh, it’s true. Think about it. If the judge thought you knew I was in the house when you set it on fire, you would still be in prison for attempted murder, Craig.”

  The kind expression in the man’s pale blue eyes returned, but this only lasted for a moment. He shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s almost over now, the test is almost through. And in my unbiased opinion, I think I’m about to pass with flying colors.”

  He held out the knife again, blade first this time.

  “Take the knife, Tracey. Take the knife and slit her throat or I swear to god that I’ll cut you slow. You may think you are tough, but I learned more than just pathology during my time in prison. I will make you wish you were dead ten times over.”

  With one deft slice, Craig released Tracey from the ropes that bound her wrists.

  “Take it,” he repeated, his eyes blazing.

  Suzan was crying again, and her sobs only increased when Tracey reached out and retrieved the knife from Craig’s hand.

  Kill him! She wanted to scream, but couldn’t manage the words. Kill him!

  Tracey stared at the knife for a moment, before raising her eyes to look at Suzan.

  Suzan saw the same gleam of hatred, of anger, of vile resentment in the woman’s face that mirrored their captor’s.

  “No,” she moaned. “Please don’t do this.”

  In her mind, she clung to the notion that this was a trick, that the old doctor was going to pretend to cut her, then reach out and drive the knife into Craig’s chest.

  But those eyes… she’s as batshit crazy as he is.

  Instead of moving toward Craig, Tracey slid closer to Suzan. Through tear-streaked vision, she looked to Craig in desperation, praying that he would finally come to his senses and just let her go.

  But when her eyes focused on the gun that had replaced the knife in his hand, the gun that was aimed directly at Tracey’s narrow chest, she lost all hope.

  “Do it, Tracey. Finish the test for me.”

  This can’t be happening. She can’t really be thinking about doing this.

  “No, don’t,” Suzan pleaded. “Please.”

  But the steel in the woman’s gray eyes made it clear that her mind was already made up. Before Suzan could get her arms out in front of her, forgetting up until this moment that she had freed them, Tracey lunged, driving the point of the knife into her throat.

  Suzan gasped and fell backward with the force of the impact.

  “Yes!” she heard Craig scream, but his voice now sounded far away. She felt blood start to flow down her neck, dampening her hair, and then Tracey was on top of her, her rail-thin body blocking Suzan’s view of Craig.

  The woman’s thin, wrinkled fingers went to work, moving the knife back and forth.

  Hesitation marks, Suzan thought absently. Just like in the photograph.

  She closed her eyes, and Craig’s laughter washed over her in waves.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  Then Suzan heard another sound—splashing liquid—followed by the caustic smell of gasoline.

  As consciousness faded, a bright light flashed behind Suzan’s closed lids, and she heard flames beginning to devour the previously scorched wood.

  Chapter 63

  “Drake? Slow down!” Chase said, pulling the phone away from her ear to avoid being deafened by Drake’s shouts. “Craig Sloan? How do you know this is our guy?”

  “I just met with Ken Smith—he was on the tribunal. Says that Dr. Moorfield was having a relationship with a student… Craig Sloan.”

  Chase nodded to herself, then turned to Dunbar.

  “Dunbar, I need an address for Craig Sloane.”

  Dunbar whipped around, but Screech beat him to the keyboard. He hammered away on the keys for a few seconds.

  “Craig Sloan, expelled from pathology residency,” Screech said quickly, his eyes remaining locked on the screen. “Spent fifteen years in prison after being convicted of Class 1A arson for burning down his professor’s house—Dr. Moorfield, I presume.”

  Chase moved to get a better look at the computer screen.

  “Hold on, Drake,” she said into her phone. A strangled gasp escaped the man’s throat, followed by the sound of a car engine starting up. “Just hold the fuck on.”

  “Got out on parole eight months ago,” Screech continued.

  “Address, Screech. Give me a damn address.”

  “Working on it,” Screech said as he continued to type. Another image flashed on screen, this time of a still smoldering colonial, a fire truck in the foreground. “Shit, I can’t bring up anything recent.”

  “Lemme try,” Dunbar offered, squeezing in beside Screech. Screech lifted his hands, relinquishing the keyboard to the officer. Chase watched intently as Dunbar pulled up the NYPD server, then navigated to the button in the upper right-hand corner of the screen marked PAROLE.

  “Chase, you’ve got to hurry! There’s no time!” Drake shouted.

  “Working as fast as we can, Drake. Anything, Dunbar?”

  Chase watched as the man punched in credentials for an officer whose name she didn’t recognize, and then began his search for Craig Sloan. A moment later, an address appeared on screen.

  “What the hell?”

  “What?” Drake yelled through the phone. “What is it?”

  “He… he lives in a halfway house in Jersey,” Chase replied quietly.

  “Jersey? You sure?”

  “It says it right here—Craig Sloan, address in Jersey,” Dunbar confirmed.

  “No, that can’t be right,” Chase said, more to herself than to Drake or anyone else.

  It didn’t make sense. All of the murders had taken place in New York, and there was no way that he would risk taking both Suzan and Dr. Moorfield all the way to Jersey. Besides, if he grabbed Suzan this afternoon… did he take her to a safe place in Jersey first, then come back for Moorfield, only to go back again? Did he even have enough time to do all that?

  Unless he’s already killed Suzan…

  Chase shook the thoughts from her head.

  “Wait a second,” she heard someone on the other end of the phone say. “Drake, quick, give me the phone… Chase? It’s Beckett. There’s no way this dude’s in Jersey. He can’t—wait a second!” Chase heard him snap his fingers, and when he spoke again, his voice was tight, excited. “Goddammit, it’s the ashes! He’s at the house that he burned down—tell me the address for that house!”

  Chase tapped Dunbar on the shoulder.

  “Gimme the address of the house Craig burned down.”

  Dunbar’s fingers flew across the keys.

  “It’s in Lenox Hill.”

  “Lenox Hill? Did Dunbar say Lenox Hill?” Beckett cried.

  “Lenox Hill,” Chase confirmed.

  “Then that’s where he�
��ll be.”

  Chase heard an engine rev in the background.

  “I’m coming to meet you!” she shouted as she reached for her coat. “Be careful, for Christ’s sake!”

  But the line was already dead.

  Chapter 64

  Drake hammered his Crown Vic into drive and the car shot forward, clipping a chrome waste bin outside Ken Smith’s condo complex.

  “It’s on East 70th,” Beckett informed him out of the corner of his mouth. “You know where that is?”

  Drake nodded enthusiastically.

  “It’s not far.”

  He yanked the wheel to the right and peeled out of the parking lot.

  They had been driving for less than fifteen minutes before they saw the color of the sky change, transitioning from a deep navy to a caustic yellow.

  We’re too late, Drake thought. I’m too late.

  “Fuck!”

  He pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor, swerving to avoid slower moving cars that became a blur, their blaring horns melting into a drone.

  Drake pulled onto East 70th Street a few minutes later, the throaty growl of the Crown Vic now punctuated with a metallic sound, a tangible protest to having been pushed so hard.

  But Drake barely heard any of this; the blood roared in his ears like an oceanic high tide.

  Dr. Moorfield’s house suddenly loomed into view and a moan escaped his lips.

  “Jesus Christ,” Beckett muttered from the passenger seat.

  The entire second floor was ablaze, a kaleidoscope of intense yellow, orange, and red hues. The heat from the fire was so powerful that even from thirty feet away, the interior of the car suddenly felt like a sauna.

  Ignoring the heat, Drake pulled into the driveway and leaped from the vehicle. Vaguely aware that Beckett was struggling to keep up, he sprinted down the side of the house, his aim set for the shadowy figure that he had seen climbing out of a window.

  Heart thudding in his chest, Drake turned the corner just as he reached top speed.