Do You Want To Play: A Detroit Police Procedural Romance

by Charlotte Raine

  In the center of the fountain, a marble lion stares down at the policemen that are swarming around the fountain and blocking visitors from coming near the body.

  Tobias pulls me away from the man’s body.

  “I’ve seen naked bodies,” I tell him.

  “Too much information,” he says. He turns to the medical examiner. “How did this guy come to be in this fountain naked? I mean, did he walk into the park naked or did someone strip off his clothes after they killed him?”

  “You’re going to have to ask someone else about the clothes,” she says. “All I can tell you is that he died around 3 a.m., and according to the bruises around the victim’s arms, the killer held him down in this fountain.”

  She picks up the man’s arms.

  “You see these bruises on the back of his arms?” she asks. Tobias and I nod. “These are from his arms hitting against the fountain’s edge. I thought I might find some DNA in his nails if he were fighting back…” She shows us his nails. “But there’s nothing. I would assume that most of the killer’s body was covered, so the victim couldn’t scratch against anything.”

  Tobias turns to a patrol officer. “Go talk to city officials. Find out who was working here last night. Maybe they saw the killer.”

  The patrol officer nods and runs toward a police car.

  Pennies—maybe ones that originally visitors threw into the fountain to make their wishes come true—form the letters P-V-P in front of the memorial. I look over at the crowd, scanning each face. I try to find someone who has the facial expression of joy or pride—lips slightly curve, muscles around the eyes tighten, cheeks rise—and if the killer were looking directly at the police, he or she would have only one side of their lips curved up, which shows contempt. But there is too much chaos and the crowd keeps moving around. The first policeman came around about an hour ago, so the killer could have left by now.

  “What do you think, Williams?” Tobias asks. “Is your psychology education telling you anything?”

  “He’s good at remaining undetected and highly intelligent,” I say, thinking about all of the crime scenes where the murder was committed in a public place. He grits his teeth.

  “Of course, he is,” he says. “How else would he know how to piss me off without me catching him?”

  “I’d put him at an above-genius level,” I say, ignoring his comment. “Video games must have had a profound effect on him, so he likely has not had much of a social life…and he must still not have much of one if he has time to make these extravagant crime scenes. It’s a dangerous mixture…intelligence without anyone to show off to…”

  “Are you talking about the killer or yourself?” he asks. “Because your profile isn’t helping me.”

  I glare at him. “You’re an asshole.”

  “It’s better to be an asshole without anyone to show off to than a genius who is busy showing off.”

  I shove him. He stumbles backward over the fountain edge and falls into the fountain water. He curses up a storm but I’m already walking away. It’s no wonder that Detroit has so many unsolved murders. Their policemen are uncooperative jackasses and half the people here are begging to be killed.

  ~~~~~

  I spread out every crime scene photo on the floor and rewrite every piece of evidence on notecards to place around them. The new crime scene photos are laid directly in front of me.

  Victim: Ashley Barker

  Occupation: Teacher (High school English and Drama)

  Method of Murder: Throat cut—bled out

  Date of Death: September 30, 2014, between 12:00 a.m. and 2 a.m.

  Place of Death: Osborn High School

  Video Game Emulation of: Primal Instinct

  Details: Barker had stayed at the school late because her students had just finished a production of Twelve Angry Men and she was cleaning up the stage.

  Victim: Geoffrey Black

  Occupation: Factory worker

  Method of Murder: Five bullet wounds—two in his chest, two on either side of his navel, and one in the center of the other bullet wounds

  Date of Death: August 17, 2014, around 4 a.m.

  Place of Death: Classic Blue Factory

  Video Game Emulation of: Unknown

  Victim: Aubrey Morrison

  Occupation: Store owner of Check ‘n Go

  Method of Murder: Shot in the back of the head

  Date of Death: September 4, 2014, between 1 a.m. and 2 a.m.

  Place of Death: Alley off of Albany Street, next to the Check ‘n’ Go.

  Video Game Emulation of: Land of Survival

  Details: Shot execution-style (Morrison was on her knees); a balloon was tied to her wrist that had a skull and bones sketched onto it.

  Victim: David King

  Occupation: Unemployed/Homeless

  Method of Murder: Beheaded

  Date of Death: August 1, 2014, between 3:50 a.m. and 4:15 a.m.

  Place of Death: Along the Detroit River near Jefferson Avenue

  Video Game Emulation: Road Kill or Dangerous Intentions

  Victim: Jeff Patton

  Occupation: Security guard

  Method of Murder: Drowned

  Date of Death: October 8, 2014 around midnight

  Place of Death: Belle Isle State Park (James Scott Fountain)

  Video Game Emulation: Ryder’s Revenge

  ~~~~~

  Tobias walks up to the photos on the floor, the tip of his Oxford shoes touching the photograph of Geoffrey Black.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “I’m trying to find new connections,” I say.

  “I’ve made all the connections that could be made. The victims were all killed close to where they worked except David King, and nobody knows where he came from since he was in the river. Our best bet is that they were all chosen because the killer looked at them and saw an opportunity,” he says. “You don’t think I’ve looked up every possibility?”

  “I think you’re narrow-minded,” I say, the words slipping past my lips before I can think to stop them. He sneers.

  “Well, you won’t find anything,” he says. “The guy doesn’t leave fingerprints, he doesn’t have witnesses, and he doesn’t stand in front of surveillance cameras. Like you said…the guy isn’t an idiot.”

  “What makes you so sure that it’s a guy?” I ask. “Do you think women aren’t capable of being serial killers?”

  “No,” he says. “I think that the majority of serial killers are men, so I’m putting my money on this killer being a man too. Why? What’s your criminal profile of the murderer?”

  “Male,” I admit. He smirks. “Early to mid twenties, has a 9-to-5 job, above-genius IQ, organized personality, not in a long-term relationship, misogynistic, kills to make himself feel powerful, more than likely abused as a child…”

  “How in God’s name did you get all of that?” he asks.

  “Well, he likes video games…a lot,” I say. “Video games weren’t really prevalent in the childhoods of those in their thirties or older, so it’s a good guess that he’s in his twenties. He has to have a 9-to-5 job in order to afford his props and to be able to commit most of the murders during the night or early in the morning…that’s also the reason he wouldn’t have time to be in a relationship. Clearly, he’s smart and organized or else he would have left evidence behind. That he hates women can be inferred because all of the men were killed rather quickly, whereas the killer spent more time torturing the women and then set them up like they were dolls.”

  “What makes you think he was abused?” he asks. “Or that killing makes him feel powerful?”

  “It’s common in serial killers,” I say. “And in all likelihood, something happened to him during childhood that messed up his way of thinking.”

  “Well, our suspect pool went from 700,000 to 300,000,” he says. “So, thanks for that.”

  “What is your problem with me?” I demand. “Is it just the fact that I come from a psychology
background? That I’m a woman?”

  “My problem with you is that you’re barely out of your college diapers and you thought you could come play in the big leagues,” he says. “You should have started with robberies or even a nice little kidnapping. Not serial killers.”

  “I’ve done more to solve this case in a couple of days than you have in weeks,” I say.

  His lip curls. “Because you had seen some video game. That’s not something to brag about.”

  I clench my fists, but I don’t hit him. I stare down at the photographs. He walks away and sits at his desk. His chair squeaks as he swivels left and right. He types on his computer with too much noise. Every single thing about this man irritates me.

  “The medical examiner said that the bodies didn’t have any drugs in their system, right?” I ask.

  “She has tested for every drug she could think of,” he says, continuing to type. “Trust me, when I saw the times that they died, I thought they could all be drug users too, but only David King and Ashley Barker had illegal drugs in their system.”

  “What was the teacher taking?” I ask, flipping through the file.

  “Cocaine,” he says. “I don’t blame her. I would be snorting it too if I had to be around teenagers all day.”

  “And David King?”

  “Heroin.”

  Tobias’ phone rings. I glance up as he answers it.

  “This is Rodriguez,” he says. His passive expression changes—his lips press together and his eyebrows rise. It’s a mixture of surprise and tension. “You shouldn’t be calling me at work…I don’t care. Why should I care?…no, you can’t…Anna…don’t call again. Don’t…I told you. You can’t come running to me every time—stop. Stop. Don’t call again. Please.”

  He hangs up. His gaze rises to meet my eyes.

  “What?” he snaps.

  I shrug. “Nothing.”

  When I profile people, I take each characteristic I discover and slide them together like puzzle pieces. I think I just connected Tobias’ callous attitude and someone named Anna.

  I stare at the photographs of the victims until the pain of their violent deaths is replaced by scientific observation. I stop being human as I analyze each scene, because I need to think exactly like the killer.

  ~~~~~

  Tobias

  DETROIT SEEMS BRIGHTER at night than during the day—the lights glaring down at me and car headlights blinding me. It’s a mixture of an invasive feeling—like the fluorescence is sinking into my skin—and feeling anonymous—like I’m one of many shadows in a city of light.

  I see her standing at the corner, clearly waiting for me. I think of crossing the road in order to avoid her, but I have never been the type to choose flight over fight.

  “Miss Williams,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was waiting for you,” she says.

  “Well, you wasted your time,” I say, walking past her. She grabs my arm. I stop and turn around to face her. “What do you want from me?”

  “A chance,” she says. “ I want you to give me a chance.”

  “No,” I say. I pull my arm out of her grip. She takes my hand. I can feel the fine bones of her fingers and the chill of her skin against my warm palms.

  “Tobias…there is a killer loose in Detroit,” she says. “We need to work together.”

  “We don’t need to do anything,” I say. “I’m going to find this killer. You can just stay out of my way.”

  Her nails sink into my skin. Our eyes lock. Her eyes are a sharp contrast with the bright city lights.

  “Why did you choose to come to Detroit and pursue a serial killer?” I ask.

  “I’ve always been fascinated by serial killers,” she says.

  “That sounds sociopathic.” I slide my hand out of her grasp.

  “My parents died when I was young,” she says. “Drunk driver. Car burst into flames. I was in the back, and since then…”

  I look away from her.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. She shrugs.

  “I don’t remember much,” she says. “Just flashes. Fire.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, avoiding her gaze. I glance forward. “There’s a bar…I guess you could call it a cop bar. Do you want to get a drink?”

  She smiles. “Really, Tobias? You decide to be nice because you feel bad for me?”

  “So, I should keep on being a jerk?” I ask. She tilts her head. Her hair sways across her shoulders. I wonder what it’s like to feel the smooth texture of her skin and feel the arch of her back as I touch her.

  “You should be my partner,” she says. My heart skips two beats. I shake my head.

  “I need to get home,” I say. “You should be safe.”

  “I’ll try,” she says. I walk away from her. I have no time to mourn for the living when I am busy trying to get justice for the dead.

  ~~~~~

  When I walk into the police station, half the officers are watching the TV. I glance up to see a newscaster, dressed in bright pink and wearing a large, gaudy necklace. I don’t understand why they dress up so much. They’re in the middle of the screen. It’s not like we’re going to overlook them if they aren’t wearing the boldest color possible.

  “The PVP killer has allegedly murdered four people. In this video clip we are going to show you, the police are seen in Belle Isle State Park. We tried to get more answers from Detective Rodriguez, but he refused to answer any questions.”

  On the screen, I am seen raising my hand to cover a video camera and yelling at all of the newscasters and their cameramen. Everyone in the department turns to look at me.

  “What?” I ask. “You know the killer will be watching the news. I’m not going to show my hand to him.”

  “That would have been a great opportunity to lure the killer in.”

  I turn to see Lauren sitting at my old partner’s desk. I remember her confession about her parent’s death and for a moment, I don’t want to be tough on her. A second later, I know that I can’t let my guard down. I walk up to the desk.

  “And how would you have answered the reporters?” I ask. “Would you have told them every detail of the case? Would you tell them that we have zero suspects?”

  “I would have told them that we have evidence that the killer is a gamer and we are closing in on a suspect,” she says.

  “We don’t have a suspect,” I say.

  “They don’t need to know that,” she says. “And it could put enough pressure on the killer to get him to mess up.”

  “That would never work.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I’ve been a policeman for nearly a decade,” I say. “I do know that.”

  She glares at me, clearly pissed that the moment we had last night has not changed our relationship.

  “Who’s Anna?” she asks, vindictiveness making her voice harsh.

  I grit my teeth. “That’s my personal life. You’ll stay out of it if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “That depends,” I say. “Do you need to be threatened?”

  Richardson walks up to the desk.

  “Do you two need to be separated?” he asks. “Why don’t you give the girl a break, Rodriguez? Everyone is new at some point.”

  “Why don’t you take her as your partner since you’re so fond of her?” I ask. He smirks.

  “I would take her if I didn’t already have Romano,” he says, nodding toward his pencil-thin partner. “He’s not as cute, but he buys me coffee once in awhile.”

  “Well, if you two aren’t too busy gossiping…” Lauren says. “You should know that I made a list of video game stores.”

  “How many are there?” I ask. “Five or six?”

  “Forty-nine,” she says. I groan.

  “Are you kidding me? Why does the city need forty-nine video game stores?”

  “Supply and demand,” she says.

  “How many of them sold the video ga
mes that were replicated by the murderer?” I ask.

  “Forty-six of them,” she says. I rub my temple. She shrugs. “They’re popular games.”

  “Can we figure out how many people bought the games that the killer replicated?”

  “We would have to go to each store and ask,” she says. “And if the killer began planning the murders early, he would have used cash.”

  I sit down at my desk. I open my drawer to look for a new pad of paper. A velvet jewelry box slides forward. I pick it up and snap it open. The engagement ring is still as lustrous as it was the day I bought it. It seems to tell me that even with all of the time that has passed by, nothing has changed. I am still the man who put everything on the line and lost it all.

  I raise my head to see Lauren watching me.

  “What?” I ask. Her shoulders barely rise in a shrug and she glances back down at her list of video game stores.

  “I’m going to visit some of the video game stores,” she says. “We might get lucky.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I say, sliding the ring back into my desk.

  ~~~~~

  Gamers Unite is a small video game store that smells a bit like mold inside a jockstrap. I flip through the games as Lauren talks to the cashier. I pick up a game that has a cat on the front holding a spatula and try to imagine how the killer would use it to kill someone. Death by enchilada.

  “Tons of people have bought Primal Instinct,” the cashier says. He’s a tall guy with mousey brown hair and thick glasses. He is almost the stereotypical nerd, acne included, except for the fact that he’s built like a football player. His name tag states, Hello! My name is Alexander. “People have been waiting forever for it, since the developers are the same people who made Rage of the Lycanthropes.”

  “That sounds…violent,” I say, walking up to the counter. “Are lycanthropes aliens?”

  “It’s Greek for werewolves,” Lauren says.