Blood Week

by J. D. Martin

  “Afternoon, gentlemen. I have some good news for you.” As she walked around to the other side of the body, I noticed her autopsy sheet was already finished. Our John Doe was on his back, supported by the steel table with a white sheet covering his bottom half. His hair was still damp from Ms. Doyle washing the body, which allowed a clearer view to the cuts to the chest.

  With surgical precision, the letters R-E-U-S were cut into his chest. We’d seen this before on the other bodies that have appeared during each Blood Week. It was the call sign of the vigilante and each victim was identified with it. As we stepped closer, Delgado’s knowledge of the Latin language was further realized.

  “Guilty,” said Marcus.

  “Your new partner comes well-equipped,” said Amy. “It took us a while to figure that out the first time. It would’ve been nice to have you around. I’ve got more for you too.” She grabbed a file off the table next to her and handed it to me. “Based on prints, your John Doe is actually one Justin Sullivan.”

  The name set me back a step. Opening the folder, I skimmed over the sheets of information within. “I know this asshole, or rather I know of him. He’s a known rapist.” Looking up from the file, “Justin liked to prey on blondes in the 17-21 age range. As I recall, he did some time, but got out a year or so ago. Although it was believed he was up to his old habits, we had trouble connecting him to any recent assaults.”

  “Nobody able to identify him?” asked Marcus.

  “Not exactly. He started using roofies on them, as well as always using condoms. So, everything we may have found was always circumstantial, such as he had been seen at a bar where a woman was assaulted, but there was nothing that could prove he was connected any further. The victims’ memories were clouded with rohypnol and the condoms prevented DNA evidence.”

  “Sounds like karma caught up with the piece of shit,” interjected Marcus. Looking back to Amy, “Anything else you can tell us?”

  “Yes, funny you mention roofies,” she said looking my way. “Justin had a large dose of Flunitrazepam in his system; commonly known as rohypnol.”

  “Someone used his own strategies against him?” asked Marcus.

  “Unless he dosed himself, that’s what it looks like. I also found a micro-fracture on the right side of his skull from a recent blunt-force trauma, as well as bruising down his side. It looks like he may have fallen recently. But obviously it was the cut across his throat that made all the injuries permanent.”

  “With the drugs running through his system, I’m sure he was tripping all over the place,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know from previous victims. Your weapon is a surgical blade like this one here.” She held up one of the scalpels from her tray. “And I can confirm that time of death is sometime between 11pm and 1am.”

  “Is it possible that a relative of one of the victims is the killer?” asked Delgado. “Whomever carved guilty into his chest had to have known what he’d done.”

  “Usually I’d say no, since we didn’t release the list of suspects to the victims, but the one he did jail time for would have seen him in the court room. The girl he raped on that case had a brother that we caught following us during the investigation and when we went to arrest Sullivan. I remember he went ballistic in the courtroom during the sentencing because Sullivan only got a year. His sister had committed suicide a week before the trial.”

  “Sounds like motive to me.” Delgado pivoted on his heel to walk out, “Seems to me we have a suspect to question.”

  I glanced at Amy as I started to follow him, but stopped when I saw the dumbstruck look that stared back at me. “That’s it? I give you a few tidbits about your dead guy and you’re ready to go?” she asked playfully. She put a finger between her teeth and grinned devilishly. “I thought I might get more than just business. A lady likes a little fun now and then.

  Checking back up the stairs, I spotted Delgado looking back at me with a grin that stretched from ear-to-ear. I opened my mouth to explain, but nothing came out. I stood there slack jawed and it was clear there wasn’t a way to explain away the exchange I’d had with Amy. “I’ll meet you in the parking garage,” he said laughing as he continued up to the elevator.

  With a sigh, I gave up on trying to create any charade that everything was platonic. With bold steps, I strode back to Amy and scooped her up in my arms. Breathing in her scent, my hands squeezed her ass as she responded by wrapping her legs around me and squeezing me in tight. Our lips met and it was pure electricity. I could have taken her right there on the lab table if there wasn’t a dead body currently occupying it.

  Pulling back slowly, I lowered her until her feet were back on the tile, assuring her that there was more to follow. But right now, I had work to do. Amy smiled and whispered, “I can’t wait.” Then she bit my earlobe before turning back to her work.

  Chapter 7

  We pulled up to the address on file for Greg Orton, the brother of Samantha Orton. Samantha was one Sullivan’s numerous victims, but one of only two that were successfully pinned on him. As senior in high school with a small frame and long blonde hair, she had fallen into the demographic he’d chosen to prey on. She’d been on the cheerleading squad and had just been accepted to University of Kansas to the school of nursing.

  Samantha was found in the park missing all her clothes with defensive wounds on her wrists. Eventually her dress, sandals, and purse were found in a trash can about thirty yards from her body with the cash missing. EMT’s were called on scene and took her to Truman Medical Center for evaluation. There wasn’t much physical harm to her body, but that emotional damage can be far worse than the physical scars. Since this happened before Justin started using condoms, the DNA led us straight to him.

  Sadly, Samantha hadn’t been able to find a semblance of peace after being violated in such a way. Weeks later she was found after slitting her own wrists. It left Greg as her only surviving family member when he found her in the bathtub too late to save her. After hearing what happened, most of the department secretly hoped Sullivan ended up dead in a gutter. It was a wish that, as of this morning, had come true.

  The apartment building was in one of the worst parts of town. It was full of small studios from top to bottom and looked to be well past its hey-day. A number of windows were boarded over and the building appeared to be two steps away from being condemned. I wondered what the going rate for rent was with the slumlords of the area.

  Opening my door, my nose was immediately violated with a horrid smell from the nearby sewer. The worst time to come down here was after a good rain. Sewers would begin to overflow and carry up an odor that could make anyone decide to give up breathing.

  Looking up at the building I said, “I wouldn’t get your hopes up about Orton.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Marcus.

  “It’s not the first time we’ve investigated people with motive on the Blood Week murders. Every time it comes up, it’s not our guy.”

  “I can see that, but how many of the others had timing match up?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I looked at Samantha’s case while you drove. Her trial was just over five years ago. With the Blood Week murders going on for the past five years, perhaps the others were all practice leading up to Justin Sullivan.”

  I had to admit that I hadn’t noticed the time lines on the murders starting after Sullivan’s trial. Strange that the new guy seemed to be so on top of things on his first day. The more I thought about it, Captain Hawthorne really found quite the detective. As we ascended the front steps, an older woman exited the building with a large hand bag. I quickly ran up to hold the door for her. Accepting her gratitude, we stepped in and climbed to the third floor to apartment 3F.

  “Who is it?” a voice asked from inside after I knocked on the door.

  “Mr. Orton? KCPD, we’d like to ask you some questions.” No sooner had I finished my sentence, we heard footsteps scurryin
g across the apartment. “He’s running”, I said as I kicked the door in. We both entered, guns drawn, and swept the room. I spotted him outside the window as he started descending the fire escape.

  “Marcus, chicken’s out the window. Cut him off at the bottom while I...” Delgado was out the door and down two stairs before I’d finished my sentence. Swinging my leg over the window ledge, I stepped onto the black grating to follow him down.

  I felt my heart pounding, matching the adrenaline pumping through my veins. No matter how many chases or high-intensity situations a cop gets into, it’s always like the first time. The excitement is dipped in a thick batter of fear that combined together in a strange mixture of duty to the badge attached to my belt. I had a job to do.

  Already down one level, I began descending from the second floor of the fire escape when the suspect reached the pavement. I was able to get past another floor before he picked a direction and started running. As Greg made a break for the front of the building, I jumped from the bottom level of the fire escape rather than take the ladder.

  Hitting the concrete, I fell to a roll and ended up right back on my feet to continue the chase. I yelled “Freeze!”, but the squirrel seemed in no mood to cease the flight. Greg had almost reached the front of the alley when he glanced behind him to check on the distance between us.

  By the time his eyes returned forward, he’d exploded onto the sidewalk at the front of the apartments at the exact moment Delgado reached the alley. My partner came into view already off the ground, flying forward in mid-tackle of our runaway perp. The two men collided with the force of Marcus shoving Greg off his feet and onto the hard ground.

  Once I caught up, Delgado was already cuffing him and beginning Miranda rights. “Greg Orton, you are under arrest. You have to right to remain silent…” This guy was good.

  About an hour later, I stood in a dark room looking through a two-way mirror. I watched Mr. Orton, who sat at a steel table with handcuffs securing him to the bent pipe that curved from the center of the table. He had rips in his shirt where he’d been taken out like a running back trying to score. Whether he was guilty of murder or not, he was definitely guilty of something with the way he ran. Calling out “KCPD” and seeing who fled helped find those with a reason to run.

  When Captain Hawthorne arrived in the room, Delgado and I made our way into interrogation. I entered the room followed by Marcus who closed the door behind us.

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Greg, if you didn’t do anything, why did you run?” His face scrunched up as he tried to create an answer. Instead of letting him fabricate something, I decided to continue, “Where were you last night between ten and two this morning?”

  “This morning? Why? What’s this all about?”

  “Just answer the question, Greg,” responded Delgado.

  “Umm, I was working.”

  “And where were you working, Greg?” I asked.

  “At work, why are you treating me like this?”

  This wasn’t getting us anywhere, so instead of continuing this back and forth, I pulled open a file. “Do you remember Justin Sullivan?” Before I could finish the name, his face went from confused to angry contemplation.

  “Of course, I remember that piece of shit. Why the fuck are you bringing up the son of a bitch who raped and murdered my sister?”

  “I thought your sister committed suicide,” said Marcus.

  Greg fell silent and glared at my partner. Then very calmly he replied, “If not for that mother fucker touching my sister, she would still be here. Her death is his fault; he murdered her.”

  Trying to get him back on course, I did what I could to defuse where the conversation had steered. “Mr. Orton, what happened to your sister was unforgivable, but we need you to answer our questions. Justin Sullivan was found dead this morning, so I hope you understand why we need to question you.”

  “Wait, he’s dead?”

  “Yes,” said Marcus.

  “Good, I’m glad he’s dead. I hope that mother fucker rots in hell!”

  “I can’t blame you for wanting him dead, but we still have to investigate this like any other homicide.”

  “Wait…I’m here because of what he did to my sister?!? That guy deserved everything he got and then some! I would’ve loved to be the man to kill him. I would have relished in it. Do you have pictures?”

  “So, you’re saying you didn’t kill him?” asked Marcus.

  “No, I already told you that I was working. But I sure would’ve liked to do it.”

  “If you let us know where you were working, we can corroborate your story,” I said.

  “I work overnight for the warehouse on Central; I was there until five this morning. My boss should still be there. You can check with him.”

  Writing down the information, I ripped off the sheet and handed it to Marcus who stepped out to check on it. “Even if you were working,” I continued, “that doesn’t tell me why you ran.”

  “I was scared.”

  “We identified ourselves as KCPD. What could you have been scared of?”

  “You guys show up at my door and I had no idea why.” I stared at him without saying a word, waiting for a better answer. “Ok fine. Look, there is a warrant out on me for a drug charge, ok? But I still had nothing to do with killing that fucker. Wish I would’ve been there when it happened though. I could’ve helped stomp his face into the curb.” Just then, the door opened and Delgado peeked in nodding his head.

  “Well Greg, looks like your alibi is solid. Some uniforms will be down shortly to take you to booking.”

  “Wait, I don’t get to go home? You just said that I have an alibi. I didn’t kill him.”

  “That was also before you ran from the police and admitted to your warrant for possession.”

  Stepping out of the room, I closed the door as Mr. Orton came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going anywhere. Just before the door latched, I heard him exclaim “You’re a fucking assh—“

  Sitting back at my desk with my feet propped up, I stared at our white board with the case information, which was void of anything substantial in this early stage. Justin Sullivan was strung up for the whole world to see, and nothing had popped up yet. That was until my phone vibrated on my desk, playing the theme from Back to the Future.

  Marcus popped his head up and started laughing when he saw it was my phone. “Hey, don’t judge me,” I said. “It’s a great movie.” Smiling, he nodded in agreement while I slid my thumb across the screen to answer it. The news came in from the forensics lab that they’d gotten a hit on the semen from the condom we’d found in the alleyway outside of Java-Break.

  Ending the call, I pocketed my phone. “Marcus, get your stuff; you’ll never believe who that condom came back on.”

  Soon we were pulling up in front of the coffee shop for the second time that day. With the early-afternoon sun on its way back down the opposite side of the sky, I felt the gurgle in my stomach telling me I had missed lunch. I decided to get something as soon as we finished up here. The news from forensics was too good to wait until after a meal.

  The sidewalk was still blocked off with police tape while a few field techs were packing away their gear. A large white van sat on the corner with its rear doors open where a high-pressure water sprayer was being used to clean the sidewalk. Seeing the clean-up crew getting the blood out of the sidewalk meant the police tape would probably be down by early evening, but our shop owner had some gaps to fill in before then.

  Stepping under the yellow tape, Marcus and I entered the Java-Break where I could see Mr. Williams in the kitchen cleaning up through the cutout in the back wall. The bell chimed as we entered, which caused his eyes to flare at the possibility of customers.

  “Detectives, you’re back,” he said coming back to the main lobby. “I’d ask if I could get you anything, but we’ve put everything away to begin prep for tomorrow morning. I’d be happy to have something ready for you first
thing. I’m hoping we’ll get some extra business to help with the lack thereof today.”

  “We’re actually here in an official capacity,” I said.

  “Oh, what can I do for you?”

  Marcus stepped forward first, “Mr. Williams, we found a used condom in the alley by your shop this morning. The DNA has led us back here today.” The shop owner’s face went blank as his eyes swelled in alarm.

  “Judging by your reaction,” I said, “am I correct that you already knew it was there?”

  Mr. Williams looked around the room, and then glanced around in the kitchen through the wall window. Assured there wasn’t anyone else around, he turned back to the detectives. “Can we take this discussion outside?” he whispered. Obliging him, we stepped out to the alley to avoid the water being sprayed on the sidewalk. Apparently, our kind little coffee shop owner left a little information out of his statement. Upon DNA analysis, the semen had come back as his own.

  His DNA had been on file because of a ten-year-old case of a man that died in a work accident. Skin cells had been found under the man’s nails, and it was initially believed that the death had been intentional. All the workers at a factory had been swabbed while searching for a match to skin cells, and Mr. Williams had been one of those workers before opening his own business.

  Nobody was implicated in the death at the factory after it was discovered that the epithelial cells were from him tripping on a pipe and scratching the hand of a coworker trying to catch him earlier that same day. His death in falling from the second level was ruled an accident in the end.

  As with all deaths, the detectives on that case had done their due diligence in gathering DNA evidence. It was for this reason that today we were able to link the condom to Franklyn Williams, owner of the Java-Break.

  “Look, my wife doesn’t know about this, so please keep it between us.”

  “Our discretion depends on the information you have for us, Mr. Williams,” I said.