by Luis Samways
“Please, God, make my death quick,” she said in a defeated tone.
Olivia Cormack was a realist, and she knew that the odds of survival were against her. It never crossed her mind that she would walk out of that room in one piece. The telltale signs of her future were ever present in the gloomy surroundings. She was a prisoner, and she came to terms with it faster than most people would. Was it safe to say that Olivia Cormack was anticipating death? Maybe, but one thing was certain, whoever had tied her down on the stretcher was planning something sinister. She could see the small table next to her stretcher, and on it lay an ominous bag. It was red, but originally white. The red color on the bag was dried blood. She knew what that meant: She wasn’t getting out of there alive.
Sixty-Two
“Get down on the ground, now!” the voice screamed.
I obeyed the order and flung myself onto the floor. The cold and wet grass on the Common cupped my face. I could smell the fresh scent of cut grass as it wafted up my nose.
For a while nothing happened. Silence was all that existed. I could hear the pounding of my heart through the ground. All of my thoughts were turned to a possible shot in the back of the head. I knew that my escape from the tent was going to end in one of two ways: the way I planned, and the way I didn’t. I would have taken either way, to be honest, as long as it hurried itself up so I could be done with all the anticipation. It was the waiting that was the hardest. I had closed my eyes in the hope that I wouldn’t sense the moments before my death hit me. But nothing came, and nothing happened. I was left there with my head curled into the ground and my fists clenched, ready for something that never came. And then I heard footsteps approaching me. I decided to open my eyes and saw an armed police officer standing over me. Behind him were another two, both aiming their weapons above me. Neither of them looked at me; they were too busy scouting the area.
“On my mark, I want you to get up and follow me. We will be running, so you’d better be up for it. Just follow me and you’ll be fine. I can’t promise you’ll live, but if you do die, know one thing — it was because you didn’t run fast enough,” the front man said to me as he extended his arm and hoisted me to my feet.
“Encouraging stuff,” I said as I tried to steady my balance. Before I could adjust, just like the armed man said, he was off, and I was way behind. I hadn’t even managed to get a good foot forward before he had run halfway across the Common. He turned around and gestured at me with a hurried look on his face.
I bolted. My legs below me were taut with adrenaline as I took three massive strides, and then I was off. The ground underneath me felt unsteady and soft, but I continued to run as fast as I could. By the time I reached them, we had run halfway across the field, leaving the tent behind in our haste. The group of us stopped for breath, but we were now safe. We had reached the Die Hard setup, as the killer had called it on the phone. I thought he was just being a smart-ass, but he wasn’t wrong. The place looked like something out of an action flick. It had machine gun turrets and armored vans. There was a convoy of police cruisers, and behind that a stretch of police tape. Behind the tape was a sea of reporters. Luckily for me, and unluckily for them, they hadn’t caught the amazing footage of me running like a girl. They were too busy looking glum about something. I didn’t care either way; I was just happy to be out of that damn tent.
“He didn’t shoot, lucky us,” the armed man said, sounding fresher than me.
“I…I know,” I said, scurrying for my breath.
“Any reason why?” one of the other rescue team guys asked.
“He wasn’t there anymore. He phoned me and told me he had kidnapped a girl. That’s why I decided to leave the tent. He has been playing us, leading us to something, but to what, I don’t know,” I said.
The look on the lead rescuer’s face said it all. He didn’t like being made a fool of. “So why the hell didn’t you tell us? Then maybe we wouldn’t have bothered,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to take any chances. I thought maybe he was lying, maybe he was going to shoot. That’s why I took the back instead of the front,” I said.
“Oh, well, you’re safe now. That’s what counts, at least,” one of the other rescuers said.
“I didn’t know you cared so much. Don’t sound too concerned, now, will you? I was shot in the leg, after all,” I said.
“Don’t look too bad. It’s just a flesh wound,” the lead rescuer said as he signaled his team and they vacated the area, leaving me feeling sore and unimpressed.
“Flesh wound, yeah, thanks a lot. Shoot them in the leg and see how fast they can run,” I muttered to myself.
Sixty-Three
Officer Mullins was joined by a few new faces as they gave the crime scene another once-over. He was watching them as they meticulously searched every inch of the room. A few of the new officers on the scene were concentrating on the blood on the carpet, while a few others were circumventing the pool of blood and looking at the overturned office furniture.
As far as Mullins was concerned, the scene at Foster Industries looked like a robbery gone wrong, but if it weren’t for the fact that he knew it was most likely linked to the murders that had been happening, then the case would be a wrap-up and they’d be looking for robbers, not a psycho killer — or a potential cop killer, at that.
One of the new officers made his way to Mullins, who was still ogling the crime scene attendants like an excited spectator.
“Mullins, right?” the guy said as he stopped in front of him, blocking his view of the forensics doing their job.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
The officer smiled at Mullins. He had a look of admiration on his face.
“You are quite the officer, Mullins. We heard some of the war stories you and Frank McKenzie have about some of the cases you two have been involved in. Some pretty heavy shit. How do you do it?”
Mullins looked confused. He didn’t have time for “fan interaction,” as he called it.
“How do I do what exactly?”
The guy grinned at Mullins as if he thought Mullins knew exactly what he was talking about.
“I heard a guy blowtorched your legs once. McKenzie apparently saved you. It was back in 2012. Christmas, I believe.”
Mullins nodded unapologetically.
“Yeah. Skin grafts are a lifesaver.”
The officer looked stunned and made no bones about looking at Mullins’s legs. He gave him a look and then focused his attention back on Mullins.
“Damn. Rather you than me,” he said.
“Any news? You have something for me?” Mullins said, sounding rather impatient. He didn’t like people prying into his life. He certainly didn’t like people marveling at the unfortunate injuries that he received on duty. His legs still worked, but the pants he was wearing covered up the horrors of the ordeal. That was something he had to live with every day. People just didn’t respect that. They liked to hear about the gruesome stories. He guessed that Frank McKenzie got the same treatment; after all, even Mullins had found himself asking Frank about certain cases, out of pure interest.
“Nah, nothing new. The forensics say the amount of blood present suggests a razor cut of some sort, maybe even a bladed weapon,” the guy said, still giving Mullins a look of admiration.
“A bladed weapon?”
The guy wrinkled his nose a little as he thought about what that could mean. After a few seconds of mass thought he smiled, revealing a perfect set of teeth. The officer was young and had a look of youth about him. Perfect poster boy look for the Boston PD recruitment flyers. That’s what Mullins thought. They wouldn’t put him on the posters, not wearing shorts at least.
“I don’t know, maybe some sort of sword. That’s bladed,” he said, ruffling his hair up a little with his hand, the way some people do when contemplating certain thoughts.
“I doubt that the victim was killed with a sword. Chief says he was burnt up pretty badly. Apparently it could have been a blowtorch
,” Mullins said.
The pretty-looking male officer’s eyes widened a little. Mullins didn’t get why at the very first instant, but then realized where he was going with the look.
“I know, small world,” Mullins said.
“I know, right, first you get torched a year ago, and now some other fellow gets torched. Boston sure is getting weirder by the day. Let’s hope this is a one-off,” the guy said, patting him on the shoulder. He gave him a wink and walked away from Mullins, leaving him plenty of room for more forensic spectating.
“Yeah, let’s hope,” Mullins uttered under his breath as he contemplated the similarities between his ordeal with a blowtorch and the victims.
Sixty-Four
Olivia Cormack had fallen asleep momentarily. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised by two things: the fact that she had fallen asleep at all, considering the predicament she was in, and the fact that somebody was unlocking the door to the room she was trapped in.
Her heart was racing, and she could feel a cold sweat drip down her neck. It was making her skin feel as if it was sticking to the stretcher’s unfamiliar surface. She didn’t know if she was hot or cold; she didn’t know if she was still dreaming or wide awake. All she could see was the ceiling above her. She could make out the cracks in the tiling, and could see the dirt that caked the surface. She could smell the tangy cold air that made its way through the vent adjacent to her. It was blowing into her face. Everything was making her feel nauseous. She couldn’t control her breathing; she was expecting to die at any minute, by someone’s hands or her own. She was afraid that she’d cause herself a heart attack with all the panicking she was doing. But the heart attack never came, and neither did her immediate death, because before any of that happened, she was staring at the face of her kidnapper.
The man who unlocked the door to her prison-like room slowly made his way toward her. She found herself looking at him as he stood over her and licked his lips. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. They just stared at each other, unflinching and unblinking in their intent.
She found herself thinking the most absurd thoughts. She found herself admiring the well-kept man who stood over her, breathing heavily as he surveyed her. She found herself thinking about his looks. In her mind she had drawn the conclusion that most kidnappers were scruffy-looking and lacked any redeeming features, but to her, the man who stood before her — above her — didn’t seem like the type of man to don a scary mask and wield a chainsaw while he chased women around a creek.
No, this man who stood over her possessed a charm about him, a sort of rugged but sexy look. To think that the man was scruffy would be a lie and a damn unfair thing to say. The fact that Olivia Cormack was thinking such thoughts was what she found absurd. How could she be thinking about her kidnapper’s looks when she was in such danger? She put it down to the fact that the mind thinks crazy things when it’s supposed to be thinking placid thoughts. That, or she truly felt a connection to her kidnapper. Maybe she was really in need of a boyfriend after all — she was having impure thoughts about a man who surely was going to kill her!
That connection she thought she felt between him and herself soon evaporated when he spoke.
“You are going to die today. I don’t know when exactly, but you will. I am sorry about this, but it is inevitable. You see, I don’t control the fate of the world, I just control yours, and unfortunately for you, you’ve lucked out and are punching your last ticket today. It will be a painful death. A death that will linger for a while until you finally succumb to it, and my masterpiece shall be complete. I hope you understand…I hope you understand that this isn’t personal…it’s art,” the man said as he looked down at Olivia as she was strapped to the stretcher.
She didn’t move. She didn’t say one word. Her eyes remained wide-open in silent terror. The Mexican tipped his hat at her and walked off, slamming the door shut, leaving her in the dark. She heard his footsteps disappear into the distance. She finally burst into tears. She had been right all along; Olivia Cormack knew she was going to die.
Sixty-Five
“So, he shot you in the leg?” Chief Shaw said to me as I greeted him after my sprint on the Common.
“He sure did. The EMTs have taken a look at it and say there isn’t anything to worry about,” I told him as I reached for a cup of coffee in the Operations tent.
I looked around at our surroundings and was impressed by the sheer size of the operation.
“You did this all for me?” I asked as I took a sip of my coffee.
Shaw gave me a gawky look. He knew I was being offbeat.
“No, McKenzie. This wasn’t for you. This was all for the cameras, because God knows, publicity is what this department thrives on,” he said.
I knew straight away what he was getting at. Trust Shaw to throw in a jab at me once in a while.
“Look, Chief. I didn’t know it was going to go down like that. How was I supposed to know he had a recording device on the line? I wouldn’t have said anything if I had known,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed for the precinct. It wasn’t the first time I had put my foot in it. There were a few other times that the press had wanted my head on a platter.
“It’s not good enough, Detective! You said it anyway. How do you expect me to spin this? Do you think that the public are going to understand your comments? Do you think the commissioner is going to fully understand the reasoning behind your racist slurs? You do realize that this could affect a lot of people’s places in the elections. If people see the fact that the DA, the governor, and the mayor are behind a precinct that employs racist cops, then we could have a situation on our hands. They are going to want to make an example out of somebody, and I’m afraid that somebody will be you, whether you like it, or I like it.”
I shook my head. I was tired of all the bullshit. The thing is with the suits, they can never understand why I do what I do. They expect people who see death and despair every day to be the pinnacle of humanity, even when we are dealing with the most barbaric of humans. Fuck their politics. I’m a goddamn detective, not a preschool teacher.
“I was trying to get under his skin. It worked, didn’t it? It gave us something to use. We know a bit more about him,” I said as I clenched my fist around my hot beaker of coffee. The cheap material of the disposable cup was flexing under my grip. If I had squeezed any harder, I would have been back to the EMTs with burns on my hands. Self-inflicted wounds of a detective.
“What exactly have we learned, Detective? That the guy is a nut job who takes offense to racism? That the killer was willing to shoot you in the leg? That he has a high-powered rifle and could be anywhere in the city right now, ready to strike?”
I shrugged. What he was saying was true, but he was missing the point entirely.
“We learned his weakness. He’s afraid. He saw all of the attention he was getting and got scared. He ran. Now we know he’s weak. He’s putting in a last-ditch effort. I can sense it,” I said.
The Chief just rolled his eyes.
“How is he weak? He has gotten one up on us and now has a new victim. He says he’s going to kill the girl. We don’t have anything on him or the damn girl. I think we are the weak ones, Detective. Last time I checked, he was in charge. All we have left is time. Time to wait and see when and where this guy strikes next. Time to prepare ourselves for the next victim, the next ‘masterpiece,’ as he calls it.”
I didn’t have much else to say. My arguments were falling on deaf ears, and at risk of upsetting the Chief even more, I decided to leave the operations tent and make my way to Santiago, who was back at the department. It was time to re-examine the whole case. Even if it took me back to square one, I needed to evaluate the situation. Time was of the essence, and I was pretty sure the killer would be making himself known once again, this time with another sick game for us all to play.
A masterpiece, indeed.
Sixty-Six
I pulled into the parking lot outsi
de the precinct. There was a damp smell to the air as I rolled up the windows and keyed the ignition off. I sat in the car for a while, listening to the engine tick down as both I and it let off some steam.
“Christ,” I said as I caught a look of myself in the rearview mirror. To say I looked a hot mess would be the understatement of the century.
“I need a shower,” I mumbled as I got out of the car and slammed the door shut.
My Ford Capri was a rusting classic. I drove it for its style and presence at a crime scene. Some of the cops thought the car was too dainty and made me look a little flamboyant. I had my reservations, but the car was a good one. It was a car that I could never imagine letting go. I loved it, and even though it was an import from Europe, it was still pretty neat.
I reached into my jacket pocket and tugged on my pill dispenser. I took it out and chucked a few pills in my mouth. I’d managed to get a refill at the drugstore on the way to the precinct. I was sure my HMO would be glad of my continued use of their services.
I strolled on down to the side entrance of the precinct. I noticed the sky changing above me. It was nearly daybreak, and the morning sun was creeping through the clouds. I could hear the faint chatter of birds in the trees; instinctively I looked down at my watch to catch a glimpse of the time. To my surprise, it was 6:07 a.m. I had been up and active on this case for three days straight. I was feeling tired, but didn’t think about it too much.
My eyelids felt as if they were sticking together, but that was nothing that a few shots of coffee with a hint of whiskey couldn’t sort out. I was an optimist, after all!
I coughed a few times as I entered the precinct. The drastic change of temperature in the precinct compared to the outside always made me cough a few fur balls up. That, and the fact that my lungs were probably layered in scars from my compulsive habit of smoking two to three cigarettes every hour. I decided that I needed to get myself together. The case was getting to me, so much so it felt like the surroundings of the precinct were giving me a headache. It was as if anything that moved gave me motion sickness. I came to the conclusion that the pills that had entered into my body wouldn’t kick in until later, and by then I thought I’d be face down on the floor, passed out via exhaustion. I needed to act quickly. I didn’t usually do what I was planning to do regularly, but every detective will at least admit to a knowledge of “uppers,” as we call them.
