I had no reason to argue or challenge Ralph’s assertion. It made sense, after all. Thomas O’Connell’s theory—and that of the NYPD detectives—that Alexander was dead and the medical examiner had stolen his body to conduct her research never resonated with me. If Ralph’s memory was true, the picture exonerated her from any suspicion. It also meant she was dead.
Again, it’s hard to determine the life-status of someone from only a picture, but her neck showed deep, purple bruises around the trachea and had a slight and unnatural twist to it. Her eyes were more telling: One slightly bulging, half closed and vacant of any spark. The other eye was staring into nothing, slightly left to the camera’s lens.
“Looks like a broken neck,” I said. “Also looks like he laid her out next to where he buried her.”
“I agree,” Ralph said.
Ralph was not usually one for short answers. I assumed he was preparing himself emotionally for when my comments and questions centered on the picture of him. I decided to save that pic for last.
I winced a bit when the next picture filled the screen. I said determining the life-status of someone is hard to determine, but that’s not always the case. The picture Alexander took of William Straus left no room for questioning. The picture was taken from a few feet directly above Straus’s body as it lay naked on a stainless steel table. His eyes were closed but his chest wasn’t. I’m not sure if it was morbid curiosity or just my detective instincts taking over, but I pinched and zoomed my way deeply into the picture, centering on Straus’s open chest. It was clear a skilled hand had directed the scalpel which opened his chest, but the hands which had torn out what lain beneath the skin was far from skilled. It seemed as if something had plowed its way into Straus’s chest, shattering the rib cage and ripping out that which it protected.
“Sort of supports your belief that the heart I found in the fireplace once beat in the chest of Doctor William Straus,” I said as I turned the phone’s screen to Ralph. He agreed though he never moved his eyes to the phone.
The next picture wasn’t of a person, but of a house. A cabin, more precisely, set deep within a wooded area. There appeared to be lights filtering out through gaps between the planks making up the structure of the cabin, indicating the place was in a serious state of disrepair.
It was a two-story structure and, beyond the picture of it being an obviously intended clue from Alexander, the cabin looked like the hundreds of other abandoned, run down cabins I’ve seen before. As far as what it meant clue wise, I had no idea.
Till I scrolled forward and saw the next two pictures.
Both were also of cabins, and both in much better condition than the first. I recognize one of the cabins immediately. It was the cabin I was sitting in.
“Not sure if you saw the other pictures on this phone,” I said to Ralph, “but the last three are of cabins; this one being included in the gallery.”
I wasn’t sure Ralph heard me. He was still paying more attention to the smoke wafting from the burning end of his cigar than he was to what I was saying. Just when I was about to repeat my statement, he turned his head towards me and spoke.
“Three cabins, you say? And one of them is this here cabin of the dearly departed Doctor William Straus?”
“Yup,” I said, a bit lost for words. I figured whatever was in the manilla envelope left for Ralph, coupled with the picture on the phone—which I hadn’t yet seen—were doing a number on him. As much as I wanted him to respond to me and to engage in whatever conversation the pictures sparked, his multiple word answer caught me off guard. “Can’t place the other two pics but I have an idea of who might be able to.”
“I do enjoy when that freelancing brain of yours starts thinking. Tell me, who do you think might recognize those cabins?”
“It’s not who I think might recognize them,” I replied, “ but who might be able to tell us where they are located.”
I walked outside and called Officer Franklin. “Don’t smartphones like this one,” I said as I held the Android phone up near his line of sight, “tag pictures with GPS locations?”
“Only if location services are enabled.”
I handed him the phone and asked him to look at the last three pictures. “Can you pull location information from these three pictures?”
Officer Franklin thumbed the screen a few times, pressed in a few places before responding. “I think I have good news for you.”
“I could use some good news about now.”
“Location services are activated and the location of each picture is embedded into the metadata of each picture. I can strip it out and give you a location within thirty meters, assuming the locations weren’t too isolated.”
“How long would doing that take?” I asked.
“Ten minutes, but you’d have to tell Chief Fox it will take me a lot longer.”
Franklin walked to his squad car, sat behind the wheel then began writing notes into a notepad. He walked back to me less than two minutes later.
“I wrote down the metadata I need. Give me some time and I’ll come up with a location for you.”
“Excellent,” I said. “And I’ll make sure Chief Fox knows how difficult getting the meta whatever information was for you.”
I took the phone, turned and started back into the cabin. I paused when I reached the door. I needed to see the picture Ralph was so reluctant to allow me to see. I certainly understood why he felt the way he did, but I had already seen him in the same position as he was when the picture was taken, so it wouldn’t have been like me seeing something I hadn’t already seen. Plus, if Alexander took a picture of Ralph and left it on the camera, he obviously wanted the picture to be seen. And there was certainly a clue or two we needed to follow somewhere in the picture.
That was how I rationalized taking a look at the picture. And I was glad my rationalization worked.
________________________
“Ralph, I need you to take your shirt off.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I suppose I could have delivered my request more delicately, but my excitement over what I’d seen in the picture prevented my best attempts of taking a gentle approach. “Listen,” I said, “I glanced at the picture of you and there’s something you probably didn’t notice. I know you didn’t want me to look at it, but, once you see this, you’ll thank me.”
“Now, thanking you is something I highly doubt I will be doing anytime soon.” Ralph was pissed. But I think he knew I had to see the picture sooner or later and, maybe I was just imagining it, but I think he was somewhat relieved I chose sooner rather than later.
The picture was taken from around six feet from Ralph. He was naked, unconscious and tied to the chair, just as he was when I had found him. I really wasn’t interested in zooming in on any part of Ralph’s body, which I was absolutely certain Ralph was happy about, but I did zoom in to a part of the picture.
“See? Behind you, leaning up against the wall? It’s a mirror.” I lowered the phone and pointed to where the mirror had been leaning. “The mirror wasn’t there when I found you and it’s obviously not there now.”
“Let me see that picture again.” Ralph pulled out a pair of eye glasses from his breast pocket. He held the phone up close to his eyes as his enhanced vision scanned the picture. “Well, spank my ass and call me Mary. Looks like I need to take my shirt off.”
The mirror was angled to provide a view of Ralph’s unclothed back. Alexander—or whoever took the picture—certainly spent some time getting the angles just right. Though the words written in thick, black marker on Ralph’s back weren’t discernible in the picture, they were clear as day once he took his shirt off.
“Son of a bitch wrote this using a Sharpie,” I said. “You’re going to have a hell of a time washing it off.”
“I’ll worry about that later. Tell me what the hell the master of assholery wrote on me.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice this when I found you;
the writing covers a quarter of your back.”
I still had the phone in my hand so I used the camera to snap a few pictures of Ralph’s back.
“What the hell are you doing with that phone back there?” he said. “You ain’t saving those pictures for your personal use, are ya?”
“I figured you’d have a much easier time reading this message if I took pictures of it, rather than standing in front of a mirror. And, no. I’m not intending on using pictures of your back for personal use.”
I thumbed my way to the picture gallery, selected the pic of Ralph’s back, then held the phone up for both of us to see.
“Matters of the heart never die. They simply fall to sleep.”
“What the hell is that? Shakespeare or someone like him wrote it?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “But I don’t think so. I think what is written in black marker on your back is an Alexander Black original.”
“I’m hoping you can explain what the hell that eloquent phrase is supposed to mean and why the hell old pale face chose my back as his medium.”
“Might as well give you the winning numbers for the next lottery while I’m at it.”
Ralph begrudgingly allowed me to take a few more pictures of his back and agreed I should do so with my iPhone. “Eventually, we’re going to need to call in the state police on this case and they’re going to want to take possession of any and all evidence,” I said as I finished taking pictures of Ralph’s back.
“That we will need to do and that they will want to do,” Ralph said.
Ralph was still buttoning his shirt when Officer Franklin strolled into the den. I could tell by the confused look on his face he was wondering why Ralph’s shirt was half-opened and untucked. “Our suspect used Chief Fox’s back to write a message to us,” I said as I showed Officer Franklin my phone. “He positioned a mirror behind Chief when he took the picture of him.”
“This son of a bitch is straight out of one of those horror movies,” Franklin said. “What do you think he means by ‘Matters of the heart never die?’ ”
“Hell if I know,” Ralph barked.
“Any luck finding locations of those cabin pictures?” I asked.
“Yeah, shit, I almost forgot.” Officer Franklin unfolded a small piece of paper he was holding, handed it to Ralph, then said, “The first cabin, the one that looks really run down, was taken in Prattsville, New York. I wrote down the GPS coordinates and Google Maps directions on this piece of paper.”
“Where is Prattsville?” I asked.
“As the crow flies, Prattsville is about forty minutes southwest of Albany. But it’s really off the beaten path so it would take a bit longer by car. Very small town. Best I can tell, the cabin is more like an abandoned house tucked off Hank Oliver Road. Can’t be certain, but it looks like the house is at the end of a long dirt driveway. Google Earth images show the place and it looks pretty well rundown.”
“And the other?” Ralph said.
“Well, first off, you know that one of the pictures was of this cabin, but, what’s interesting is when it was taken.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Last October.”
“Eight months ago?” I said. “That was three months after we thought Alexander was dead and hoping he was buried.”
“When was the first picture taken?” Ralph said. “The one of the cabin in Prattsville?”
“Three weeks ago,” Officer Franklin answered.
“How about the last picture?” I asked.
“That one wasn’t a picture. I mean, it’s a picture, but it wasn’t taken from this camera. It was pulled from the Internet. From a real estate website. Not sure if it was a mistake or not, but whoever downloaded the last picture, never stripped away the metadata from it. I can tell you anything you want to know about the place, including how much the asking price is.”
“How about you start by telling us where the place is?” Ralph said. “And, while you’re at it, tell us who owns the place?”
Officer Franklin titled his head, frowned a bit and started a slow shake of his head. “I guess I can’t tell you everything about the place. I don’t know the owners, but I do know the place went up for sale four months ago and was recently reduced in price. Can you believe the asking price is close to $1,250,000 on that little cabin?”
Ralph said, “In real estate, they say it’s all about location, location and location, so why don’t you tell us where this particular cabin’s location is and then maybe we’ll have an understanding of why the asking price is as high as it is?”
“Sure.” Office Franklin pointed to the paper he had handed to Ralph. “I wrote it all down for you. It’s located near Long Beach, Indiana. Based on what I can see, it’s less than a two minute walk from Lake Michigan and, according to the listing, sits on two acres of land. Pretty remote. Nearest neighbor is several hundred football fields away.”
“Two acres of land right off of Lake Michigan, and you’re wondering why the owner is asking over a million?” Ralph chided. “Sounds like a bargain to me.”
“Here’s what I find interesting,” Franklin continued. “The murder case from last year, the one that started here in this cabin, the family of the murderer was from Chicago, right?”
“That is correct,” Ralph said.
“Long Beach, Indiana is tucked between South Bend and Chicago. A bit closer to Chicago, actually.”
“And I bet I know who owns the place,” I said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Black:
That is an excellent question. Your asking is demonstrable not only of your previous knowledge of me and my unique condition but also that you are listening to what I am saying. I trust your interest is not some feeble attempt to curry favor with me but is truly indicative of your desire to learn the truth.
So, yes, I was infected and my body was marching towards a steady decay. And, yes, it was acid Straus had tricked me into injecting in my neck, but the infection and the acid did not mix well in my system. Please understand my analysis is far from scientific, but rather was culled from a posteriori knowledge gained that night in Hilburn and the subsequent days after my escape.
My theory is twofold. One, the two elements—those being acid and the virus—were incompatible with each other and are unable to coexist in an organism. Fortunate for me. The second was the acceleration of the two element’s chemical reaction caused by the introduction of electricity. I was poisoned, then had pure acid injected into my systems then, as what was intended to be an injurious attack, a stream of high voltage electricity enveloped my entire body. The introduction of the electricity, I believe, put an end to both the acid and the virus.
A painful and near deadly cure, but a cure nonetheless.
Make no mistake, I was far from fully recovered when I dispatched of the medical examiner and began my months of transient planning. I am not yet fully recovered and, truth be told, I will never be. You see, Straus and his band of morons developed a prognosis for me only a few short weeks after I was delivered to them. Their prognosis was, eventually, my need for sleep would increase until the day when I would fall asleep and never wake up.
But once they formulated their hypothesis, they simply accepted it and never returned to the laboratories of their minds to test and challenge their assumptions. What has played out in my existence is the complete opposite of their theory. I require less sleep as the days and months roll on. I have gone several days with nothing more than a twenty minute nap and see no promise of change on my horizon.
The condition you now see me in is, evidentiary, subversive to my desire for independence. Thus, my recruiting efforts.
I am dying, but not the way Straus had expected. I will die from the world’s most drastic case of sleep deprivation.
But you will not see that end.
Should you do well and as you are told, you will see the ending I have worked so diligently to arrange.
CHAPTER TWENTY
D
erek Cole:
My suspicions were right: The cabin, the two acres and the one hundred and seven feet of lakefront property was owned by Kenneth O’Connell. The deed and title had been transferred to Janet O’Connell upon Ken’s death, per Ken’s last will and testament. Janet O’Connell put the cabin and land up for sale in April, about a month and a half ago.
“She already lowered the price?” I asked. “House has only been on the market for six weeks.”
“What was the original asking price?” Ralph asked.
“Five hundred thousand more than it is now.”
“That sure is one hell of a price drop. Janet O’Connell sounds like what those in real estate would describe as a ‘motivated seller.’”
“Either Jan O’Connell is hurting for money—which I highly doubt—or just wants to be rid of the place,” I said. “I’m no real estate agent but it must have taken some convincing to get the agent to drop the price that much so soon after listing.”
“Now, Derek, whenever there are two options, there is always a third one hiding out in the background,” Ralph said. “Don’t go asking me what that third option is, but keep it in mind. Two options are like rabbits; it’s in their nature to reproduce.”
Officer Franklin said, “There was no need to convince any agent. The house is listed by the owners. ‘For Sale by Owner’ the posting reads.”
“ I have to say,” Ralph said after clearing his throat for what seemed like a full minute, “I find it a tad peculiar for an owner who is asking over a million bucks for a property, would cheap out by not hiring an agent to handle the showing and grunt work. Peculiar indeed.”
Still Heartless: The Thrilling Conclusion to Heartless (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 5) Page 9
