Blood Week

by J. D. Martin

  With not much more to go on, Pinick and Bronson started working on a list of suspects based on a personal vendetta against Matthews. Being a judge for over 25 years meant there was a long list of criminals that could be disgruntled over his rulings. While they dug through the mud for leads, our attention was pulled elsewhere when another body was found.

  “Fuck me!” Delgado covered his mouth and turned away, trying not to vomit. “His dick,” he said between dry heaves, “it’s in the fucking cup.” Seeing what was left for us, I couldn’t blame him for the queasiness. In an alley off the corner of 9th and Central, a man was cuffed to a pipe that ran up the side of the largest of the surrounding buildings with a clear mutilation to his state of manhood. “How the hell could someone do that to a man?”

  “This isn’t the first story of a man getting his dick cut off,” I said. “At least this guy didn’t live to see the day without it.”

  The alley was off a one-way street that had little traffic at night, but the parking lot across from it was widely used during the day. For this reason, the body was spotted and called in as soon as the sun had risen high enough to cast light into the alley. Surrounded by large buildings and the narrowness of the alley meant it was midday before anyone noticed. On top of that, you had to be directly across the street to even see the body from the parking lot. It was well hidden, but still open enough to eventually be discovered. This time it was by a woman that worked nearby.

  The victim’s cuffed wrists supported his weight like a prize fish posed for a photo by the fisherman. Found completely naked, the John Doe had gone through major surgery during the night as his penis and testicles had been removed. The severed bits floated in a clear solution in the mason jar at his feet. Other than the castration, the only other wounds to the body were R-E-U-S carved into his chest and the sliced jugular vein that probably added to the large pool of blood on the pavement.

  “Can you believe this shit?” asked Marcus, still trying to calm his nerves. His hand motioned across his chest in the cross for protection from what happened to the victim. “Who cuts off a man’s junk?” He stared at the jar on the ground with his hand over his own crotch like it might be torn off just by proximity.

  “Maybe a woman he screwed over one too many times?” Amy Doyle laughed at her remark as she finished up her preliminary examination. “We can be spiteful like that,” she said, looking up at me with a smirk. Men should know to keep their women happy if they want to be happy too. Piss us off and…” She gestured towards the mason jar.

  I couldn’t help but think this could be a jab at me. Men could be dense at times, but she had laid it on thick. She knew about my private life with the other women because I never kept those things from her, but she’d been hinting at a level of exclusivity together. I’d thought about it on and off over the past few months, but I never found myself able to pull the trigger. Things about my life weighed heavily on me, and I wouldn’t want to put her in a position where I didn’t live up to what she’d built in her mind. On top of that, I still fancied myself a lady’s man. Was I even ready to give that all up?

  As I’d come accustomed to when she started hinting, I deflected. “Better take this lesson to heart Marcus. Happy wife equals happy life.”

  “Noted,” he said with a grimace.

  “Your worst nightmare here,” said Amy as she toyed with Marcus, “had his genitals removed with a fine blade; most likely a scalpel. Obviously, they ended up in this jar here, and most of the blood around him came from that amputation. The chest was done first, and it’s safe to assume that the neck came after surgery. Chest…cock…neck,” she said making a slicing move with her head at each point.

  “This takes torture to a whole new level,” I stated, staring at the man. “Did anybody find a wallet or ID around?”

  “I did, sir,” said a voice to my right.

  “Okie Dokie!” I exclaimed as the officer walked up to me with the wallet in his hand. A few days ago, the newbie had worked his first DB, but lately the guy was becoming a natural. I supposed that working Blood Week could do that to someone.

  “I don’t think the killer wanted us to waste any time searching for identification because it was found at his feet by the jar,” he said, handing it over to me. Afterwards he hovered like something was on his mind.

  “Spit it out, Kitna. What’s the question?”

  “Detective, isn’t this out of character for the vigilante?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “According to the file, he only kills one person a day. But I heard there was another over in Kansas this morning.”

  “That’s a very good question, but one that I can’t really answer right now. However, I think we’ll let forensics do their job and then we’ll start on ours.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said before returning to his duties.

  “We should probably head out,” I said to Delgado. “For starters, you can’t stop holding your dick, and we’ll have more to go on when the techs have finished up.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Want to grab something to eat on the way back?”

  “I’m surprised you’re hungry after your reaction to the mason jar.”

  “It’s fucking gross. I’ll give you that, but I was at Judge Matthew’s place so early this morning that I missed breakfast. Now it’s past lunch and I’m starving. So, I’m thinking we can hit up the diner for something.”

  With a nod, we left forensics to finish gathering evidence for us to work. But if it was like the other Blood Week murders, there wouldn’t be anything there for us.

  “Simmons, I’m serious. They said his dick was cut off and put in a jar at his feet.” The buzz had reached the bullpen before we got back although it had only taken us about 45 minutes with the twenty-minute diversion to eat. We’d arrived just in time for the peanut gallery’s rendition of the scene. Seeing us enter, Simmons turned from his conversation to report while the dick-chopping dialogue continued without him.

  “I ran the name from the license and got a hit,” he said. “Joey Tenackle has, or rather had, a record in Jefferson City Corrections for—you’re not going to believe this—child molestation. That prick touched little kids, Alex.”

  “That explains why his was cut off,” I replied.

  “He should have lost a lot more than his life,” said Marcus. “It’s bad enough these guys are out there killing each other, but you don’t fuck with a child.” Not a single officer in the precinct would argue with him on that point. No matter what is going on in this world, you don’t mess with kids.

  “I’ll toss this in the file and have someone notify next of kin,” I said. “Chock it up to lack of evidence, but I don’t see us having much to go on with this being another Blood Week victim.”

  “Yeah,” said Delgado. “Move onto something more important is my vote.”

  The rest of my day was filled with the paperwork on the recent dead bodies, which did little to keep my mind of the filth of the child molester. I agreed with Marcus, he deserved a lot more than death, but death was better than nothing. Once I’d finished up my filing, it was time to call it a day. Paperwork had a habit of eating away the hours.

  Before I left, I stopped by Delgado’s desk. “I wanted to remind you about poker tonight,” I said. “It’s going to be a lot of fun and we’ll have plenty of beer if you think you can join.”

  “Looking forward to it,” he replied.

  Chapter 18

  With my shift over, I went home to prepare for the evening’s festivities. Since I lived a few blocks away from the precinct, it didn’t take long to make it home. The air coming through the open driver’s window was sticky and warm, but it was still cooler than a week ago. Another month and the leaves would start turning and jackets would become common attire. It was my favorite season because the temperature would be mild instead of the extremes brought by summer and winter.

  Exiting the Tahoe in the parking garage at the Walnut building, I ran through th
e checklist of items I needed for the night. At the top of the list was winning my money back from last month. It wasn’t that I needed it, but I liked winning just as much as the next guy. And if lady luck was truly on my side, she would return the money I’d lost with interest. Poker night was always fun, but walking away the winner was the icing on the cake.

  The game started around 7PM, so I wanted to make sure the fridge was stocked before then. I usually carried a variety of pale ales, stouts, lagers, and wheat beers. In addition, we would usually sample something new that wasn’t as easy to get our hands on. The search for new and exciting beers was an endless one, but it had introduced us to quite a few brands not normally stocked in Kansas City. Of these, the favorites were darker beers such as Duck-Rabbit Milk Stout and the Hofbräuhaus Dunkel. Not as easy to acquire as a Bud-Light since they weren’t distributed in this market meant we didn’t get to have them often.

  If I really wanted something different, I’d have a friend in Dublin send some Guinness to me under the radar since it wasn’t exactly legal to ship. What was brewed fresh in Ireland didn’t have the same flavors as what we found in the American Liquor stores. It paid to have contacts in other markets, which was the same way I got Duck-Rabbit out of North Carolina. On the plus side, Hofbräuhaus Dunkel had recently started to be stocked by some local stores, but it wasn’t the same as it was in Munich.

  That left all the micro-breweries in the area that offered great beer as well. More readily available than the imports, they became the usual suspects found in my kitchen. Whether from the local KC favorite Boulevard Brewery or up-and-coming Border City Brewing Company, the need for good beer at a poker game was essential.

  Checking the situation with current stock, I found plenty of beer waiting to be tapped. There wasn’t a need to make a run, which meant the only thing left to make a night of beer and poker with the guys complete was buffalo wings. I called ahead to the Wing King and placed a large order for mild, spicy, garlic, and honey BBQ. Their food was fantastic and messy, so I requested extra napkins too. Before I went to pick up the order, I slid the poker table into the living room from the spare bedroom. It was stained hard wood with a thick center leg that twisted until branching out in four stabilizing feet. The green felt on the top was encased in stained wood with cup inserts carved into it and room to sit six people. With the table and chairs squared away, I went to pick up the party wings.

  At twenty to seven, I returned with food that I set on the counter and walked over to the stereo on the back wall. Feeling a little old school tonight, I selected the sounds of one Mr. Frank Sinatra to pass the time. Nothing could set the mood better than good ol’ Frank. As the melody of Swinging on A Star began to flow through the apartment, I snapped my fingers to the beat and sang along as I danced through the kitchen.

  “Would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar? And be better off than you are? Or would you rather be a mule?” Stepping to the beat, I spun around in the kitchen as the words flowed through my soul. I danced all through the apartment as I carried items from the kitchen to the table like bowls, celery stalks, and a large bottle of ranch dressing. If I had a time machine, I’d go back in time to witness him live; preferably in a lounge setting. His music made men feel like men. Frank passed the time so effortlessly that I nearly missed the knock at the door. It took a second round of raps for me to realize someone was there.

  When I answered the door, I found that Bronson, Pinick, and Delgado had all arrived at the same time. “Come on in guys.” Since tonight counted as a weekend day for Bronson and Pinick, they weren’t covering their normal late shift.

  Bronson’s ears perked up as he entered and heard the sounds coming over the stereo, “Frank? Nice.”

  I pointed at Bronson, acknowledging a man of good taste. Closing the door behind them, “I heard from Simmons and he’ll be here soon.”

  The four of us crowded around the kitchen counter to make our wing selections and toss them into our bowls. As each of us carried our food and a cold one from the fridge to the table, we started to dig in when another knock came from the door. Simmons walked in with the swagger of a man hoping to clean us all out. “Am I too late to walk away with all your money?”

  “We were actually just settling in,” I said. “Grab some grub and we’ll start the first hand.”

  After making his own dish and grabbing a drink, he joined us as Pinick reached for the deck and took the first round as dealer. “All right, gentlemen, we’re going to start out with Texas Hold’em.”

  As he started dealing out the cards, he began telling us about a recent long weekend he took to St. Louis. He liked to tell stories, which came out even more when he was playing poker. It was how he kept himself from focusing too much on the cards and giving off any tells. I was onto him, but it’s not like it helped me to figure out when he was bluffing. While in St. Louis, he’d visited the Budweiser Brewery with some friends and saw a Cardinals game. He couldn’t say enough about their ballpark.

  “I mean it’s located right in the middle of downtown,” he said. “It was only a couple blocks from the hotel so we just walked there. I could even see it from my room window. And the seats we had...man were they good. They were in the club level so we could go inside and get food and everything. It was fantastic.”

  “Fuck their stadium and the whole team,” said Bronson. He was an adamant Royals fan, and that meant hating their rivals.

  Ignoring his partner, Pinick continued his story. “The hotel was also right by the arch. I didn’t get to go inside it, but I had a great view of it from my room window.” Before coming back home, he mentioned that his friend took him to a bar district called The Landing where he played pool and hit on girls he had absolutely no chance with, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying. Everybody laughed at the idea of portly Pinick hitting on college girls half his age.

  Simmons followed that up by jumping into work-related discussions that eventually led to our current case. We all pondered on the vigilante’s connection to the judge as we played the next hand. If he hadn’t killed Matthews for causes that we were used to seeing during Blood Week, then what were we missing about it?

  Speculation on this ranged from the judge cutting the killer off in traffic to jealousy of the aging Matthew’s good looks. He may have been of retirement age, but he was what the ladies would call a Silver Fox. More laughter followed at the outrageous motives. At this point, the alcohol had been flowing for nearly two hours. Needless to say, none of the conversation was being taken seriously anymore.

  As he laughed, Simmons started spinning around in his chair with his head looking over his shoulder. Trying to look at the back, he fidgeted with the back support above where it connected to the chair. “Alex, did you know this chair is loose on the back? It’s half coming apart.”

  Straining my neck to see beyond the table, “Really? I hadn’t noticed. Oh well, I’ll fix it later. For now, who needs another beer?” Standing up, I took drink orders as the gracious host and got everybody their next round. When I returned to the table, the conversation on the case had continued, so I played along. “Did you hear about the murder weapon?”

  “Yeah, that was odd,” said Delgado. “It wasn’t a scalpel or anything this time. From what Amy could tell, it was some kind of hunting knife.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” said Pinick. “Did she give you anything else to go on?”

  “Not to me,” I said, “but didn’t she tell you something about the DB?” I said, gesturing to Marcus.

  “Yeah, there wasn’t any evidence that he was ever knocked out or tied up.”

  “Explains why there was a struggle,” said Pinick.

  “But it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t fit in with the other victims,” added Bronson.

  “Perhaps he’s changing his MO?” offered Simmons.

  “We won’t know until more evidence comes in,” said Marcus. “Speaking of more evidence, did anything come back on that hair fo
und on the body?”

  “I haven’t heard anything yet,” I said. “I told them to email me when they had some results, but that’s enough shop talk. I was actually hoping to ask you something, Marcus.” He turned towards me with an eyebrow raised. “Why did you transfer to Kansas City? There wasn’t anything listed in your file.”

  He sat for a moment, making no move to answer the question that hung in the air. He took a drink and shifted in his chair as if the conversation would move away from the topic of he waited long enough. After another sip of his beer, he took a deep breath, “Honestly, I don’t want to go into all the gritty details, but I’ll give you the cliff notes. I was the subject of an Internal Affairs investigation on excessive force with a rapist I arrested. I was cleared of wrong doing because he was just trying to get off by making the claims against me. Afterwards, my captain didn’t seem to trust me anymore. I got tired of the looks and snide, under-the-breath accusations so I transferred here.”

  It didn’t take long for the next question to drop, and it was Simmons who said it. “Did you do it?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. Anybody that lays his hands on a woman like that deserves to have ten guys beating the little shit to death. Maybe he could be gang raped with a crowbar.”

  “Wow,” said Bronson. “I really don’t know how to respond to that.”

  “The correct response,” began Simmons, “is ‘I know a guy with a crowbar’.”