Progeny

by E. H. Reinhard

  Janet stopped at room 608 and pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. “This is Henry’s room here,” she said. She turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door.

  “Dad?” a voice called.

  I looked at Janet, who had a look of confusion on her face. She, Hank, and I entered.

  A woman in her fifties sat in the living room. She looked at us, her eyes red and puffy. A pile of used tissues lay on the table in front of her.

  “Hi, Marion. I didn’t know you were coming,” Janet said.

  The woman stood from the couch and walked to us in the entryway. She stared at Hank and me. “Why are you two here?” she asked.

  “We’re with the Tampa Police, ma’am. We’re trying to find out what happened with your father.”

  “I know who you are, Kane and Rawlings. I read the paper and watch the television. I mean why are you two, specifically, here. You’re homicide guys.” She was quiet for a moment. “Do you think…? Oh my God!” She held her hands over her mouth and stumbled her way to the kitchen table, where she collapsed into one of the chairs. She held her face in her hands and cried.

  I walked over to her. “Ma’am, we don’t know what has or has not taken place. We’re just investigating.”

  She took her hands from her face and stared me dead in the eye. “Bullshit. They wouldn’t put you two on a missing old man unless there was a reason.”

  I let out a breath. The woman would take nothing but straight facts. Trying to beat around the bush with her to calm her down wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I pulled out a seat next to her. Hank sat across from me.

  “You’re Mister Pullman’s daughter?” I asked.

  “Marion Dean,” she said.

  “Marion. I’m going to be as straight as I can with you. You seem like someone who appreciates that sort of thing. I want you to hear everything I say, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Yesterday, we found a body. We have no way of knowing if it is your father or not. We will need a DNA sample from the apartment here to rule him out or confirm.”

  “A body?” She sniffed. “Robles Park?” Her voice had an air of desperation.

  “What do you know about that?” Hank asked.

  “It’s been all over the television this morning. Is that why you’re here? Oh my God!” she cried again, burying her face in her hands. “It was my father!” She wept uncontrollably.

  I gave her a moment as I looked over at the caregiver, Janet, still standing not much farther in than the entryway. I motioned with my hand that she could leave if she liked. She did.

  “Marion,” I asked, “what makes you think that it is, in fact, your father that we found?”

  She looked at me with certainty and unimaginable grief on her face. “He was a juror on the Redding trial.”

  Chapter 11

  We requested Marion’s husband to come and pick her up. I told her, as soon as we knew anything concrete, I would be in touch. I also gave her Ed’s number at the medical examiner’s office. I didn’t know if or how she would be able to identify her father, but maybe Ed could speak with her and they could figure something out. I called back to the station and requested a couple more guys, plus someone from our forensic unit. We had motive for the killing if the victim was, in fact, Henry Pullman. We needed to find some evidence to confirm. Hank and I searched over the apartment while Pax gathered a toothbrush Henry Pullman used to clean his dentures, a comb, and a couple dirty glasses from the sink. Using those items, we hoped to get a DNA match.

  I met Hank back out in the dining room. “Anything off, Hank?” I asked.

  “I haven’t found anything. You?”

  I shook my head. “The main bedroom looked undisturbed.” I got Officer Telwan’s attention in the living room. “Telwan, who do you guys have outside?”

  “Officer Meechum was walking the lot. I think Rickson was talking with the man at the security gate. Just those two and me here.”

  “Call Rickson on your radio and see if we can get a log of comings and goings from the front gate since Wednesday. If someone came in with a car, they would have had to pass the guard out there.”

  “Got it, Lieutenant.”

  “What’s our next step?” Hank asked.

  “I don’t think he was taken from the apartment here. Let’s check back with Janet Crowe and see if she knows the route he takes from the bingo hall back to his room. Maybe we can find something along the way.”

  “Sure,” Hank said.

  “Telwan, do you want to hang out with Pax here until he’s through? We’ll get this place locked up after.”

  He nodded.

  Hank and I headed back to the reception desk to have Janet Crowe paged. The woman behind the front counter told us it would take a minute, so we waited on Janet’s return.

  “Think our victim is this Pullman?” Hank asked.

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “Why wait thirty years to attack a member of the jury? Twenty some years after Redding is dead?”

  “If that’s what we’re dealing with, someone is doing this to honor Redding.”

  Janet came down the hall and stopped when she got to Hank and me. “How is Marion?” she asked.

  “We had her husband pick her up.”

  “Do you think what she said is right? Is the body you found Mister Pullman?”

  “We just don’t know until we get a DNA match. We called you back down for a little more help. Did Mister Pullman have a usual route from bingo back to his apartment? Or maybe even any places in the facility where he would normally be? We just want to do one more sweep for evidence before we leave.”

  “I can give you the walk around. I’m not sure if he had a route, but I could show you how most of the residents get from point A to point B around here.”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  “Sure, follow me, we’ll start at our group hall and work our way back to his room.”

  We followed her over to the facility’s main hall and entered. I assumed it had been a banquet room or conference center in the building’s past life as a hotel. The room had a brightly patterned blue carpet with gold designs. Four long tables, covered in red plastic tablecloths, spanned front to back, and metal folding chairs were pushed in underneath. The tables stopped at a stage with a bingo ball tumbler and a microphone stand.

  “We normally leave the side doors here open on evenings when it’s nice out.” She pointed. “They lead out to the courtyard in the back. Henry would have taken that way so he could chat up whoever was sitting outside on the way back to his room.”

  She walked us over and outside through the doors. “The back path here takes you over to his building.”

  We followed her past the wicker tables with umbrellas, to the sidewalk heading back toward the residents’ housing. Hank and I kept our eyes on the ground as we walked, looking for any scrap of evidence. The sidewalk headed toward a wooden deck overlooking the pond, then turned back toward the complex. We found nothing. Janet stopped at the back door of the building and removed a white keycard from the pocket of her white jacket. She slid it through the reader on the locked door and turned the handle.

  “Is this always locked?” I asked.

  “Yeah, all the residents have a card. Henry always wore his on a cord around his neck.”

  “Do the readers log anything? Time and date of entry and by whom?” Hank asked.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  We searched the ground and shrubs around the back door for a moment before entering. Our walk down Mr. Pullman’s path had netted us nothing. We took the elevator back up to the sixth floor and walked to room 608. Telwan, Pax, and Officer Meechum stood inside.

  “Got something,” Meechum said. He held up an evidence bag with a round purple inhaler inside. “It belonged to Mr. Pullman. I found it out in the back parking lot against the pond.”

  I took the bag and turned the inhaler inside so I could see who it was prescribed to. Henry Pullman’s
name was on the label attached to the back. I spun the plastic bag in my hand again. The medication contained in the inhaler was printed under the brand name. They matched with the tox report we had on the deceased man.

  “Back parking lot?” I asked.

  Meechum nodded in confirmation.

  I looked at Janet. “Any reason why he’d be back there?”

  “No. None.”

  “Maybe he got in a car and dropped it,” Hank said.

  “Or was taken and dropped it. Did Rickson get anything from the front gate?” I asked.

  “He’s having them make copies of the log now,” Telwan said.

  “Good.”

  Pax held out his hand for the inhaler, and I handed it over.

  “I’m through here,” Pax said. From the kitchen table, he took the items, sealed in evidence bags, that he’d selected for DNA sampling and placed them in his kit, along with the inhaler. “I want to get everything back and get started. I’ll see what prints are on the inhaler at the lab and let you know.”

  “Thanks, Pax,” I said.

  My phone buzzed against my leg in my pocket.

  I turned to see Hank pulling his phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. When we both got a text at the same time, that meant one thing.

  I pulled out my phone. “From the captain,” I said.

  “Yup,” Hank said.

  We had matching text messages from Captain Bostok to call him back. The message was followed by 187 and 9-1-1.

  I dialed the captain, who picked up right away.

  “Hey, it’s Kane.”

  “Are you with Rawlings?”

  “Yeah. He’s right next to me.”

  “We have another. It’s out in Wesley Chapel. Pasco County sheriffs are on the scene and expecting you.”

  “Pasco County?” I asked.

  “It’s the Redding copycat again.”

  “Shit. We’re on our way out there.”

  “Rick will meet you there. I’ll send the address to your phone.”

  “Got it.” I hung up and looked at Hank. “We have another one.”

  He let out a breath and bobbed his head.

  “Telwan, Meechum, do another lap around the lot and see if there’s anything else. Have Rickson get me a copy of that gate log as soon as possible.”

  “Will do,” Telwan said.

  “Are you going to need me out there?” Pax asked.

  “Rick is meeting us there. Get what you got here back to the lab and get started,” I said.

  “Okay.” Pax took his kit and left the room.

  Hank and I were right behind him. We hopped in our car and headed out. On my phone, I pulled up the address the captain had sent over and clicked the button on my GPS to take us there. The drive would be twenty-eight minutes, or so the screen said.

  Hank and I sat in silence for half of the ride. I assumed we were both thinking about the same things. The level of insanity required to skin a human was unimaginable. The sheer amount of malice it took to attack an elderly man suffering from Alzheimer’s was deplorable.

  I turned right onto SR-54 East and flipped down the sun visor on the unmarked cruiser.

  Hank pulled his aviator sunglasses from his breast pocket of his jacket and put them on to shield his eyes from the morning sun. “Are we sure this is another copycat?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do we know who the victim is?”

  “No.”

  Chapter 12

  Angel heard the television in the living room. The local news was broadcasting from the neighborhood where they’d left Herb LaSalle’s corpse dangling from the rafters of his garage. The anchorman kept repeating the phrase, “Grisly remains found inside home in upscale neighborhood.”

  “Baby, come in here,” Carmen called.

  Angel walked into the living room, her gloved hands covered in bits of flesh. The fleshing knife hung from her right hand.

  “Take those silly gloves off, Angel. Your father never wore those.”

  “I don’t want to cut myself. These are safe, look.” She pulled the blade of the knife over the palm of her hand. The stainless butcher’s glove protected her skin.

  “I don’t care. You need to do it by feel, or else you’ll screw up. Take them off before you go back to work.”

  Angel looked at the floor. “Fine, Mama. Did you need something?”

  “They found LaSalle.”

  “I know. I could hear the news from the other room,” Angel said.

  Carmen stood from the couch and turned off the television. “We’ll have to hurry to get to the rest of them before the cops do.”

  She motioned for Angel to go back into the spare bedroom. Carmen followed her in.

  “How’s it coming?” Carmen asked.

  “I have the Pullman skin completely salted and in the rack.” Angel nodded toward the rolling silver bread rack filled with slats of skin on baking trays. “I just started on LaSalle’s.”

  Carmen held her curled finger against her lips as her eyes welled up.

  “What’s the matter?” Angel asked.

  “Nothing.” Carmen shook her head. “Your Daddy just said he was happy to see his Angel all grown up and following in his footsteps.”

  “I wish he was still here.”

  “So do I.” Carmen sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Come on. Let me give you a hand. We’ll have to head out in a little bit.”

  Chapter 13

  “Shit,” I said.

  We rolled down the block, weaving in and out among news vans.

  “Someone must have gotten the word out,” Hank said.

  Orange plastic barricades, just in front of a Pasco County squad car with a shooting star on the side, blocked the street up ahead. I pulled up to the blockade and lowered my window. A large deputy approached. He looked to be in his thirties, with a black sheriff’s baseball cap covering short brown hair. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes. His tattooed arms filled the short sleeves of his green sheriff’s shirt. He wore some kind of large tactical-looking watch. He was probably a member of their SWAT unit when he wasn’t watching barricades. When he reached my window, I saw that his name badge read Coker.

  “Lieutenant Kane and Sergeant Rawlings from the TPD. Your guys are expecting us,” I said.

  He pulled off his sunglasses. “Yeah, the homicide guys. I haven’t been in there, but I hear it’s bad. You’ll want to talk with Deputy Gillison. He should be in the house.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Let me get the barricades for you.”

  I nodded.

  Coker stepped away from my window and waved over another deputy to help him slide the plastic barricades out of the way, and then he pointed us through. Hank and I drove three houses up and parked along the curb behind another sheriff’s car. We got out and walked toward a large ivory-colored house where a deputy stood at the front door. Another deputy appeared to be looking into the bushes alongside him. However, as Hank and I neared, I realized the other deputy wasn’t searching but heaving into the bushes.

  I showed my badge to the one not retching. “We’re looking for a Deputy Gillison,” I said.

  “Garage,” he said. “Go inside and head to the right. Follow the blood.”

  The other deputy turned, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and faced us. “It’s bad,” he said.

  I nodded and entered the home, and Hank followed. We stood in the front entryway. On the floor, a few feet in front of us, blood was smeared in both directions—drag marks. I traced the route of blood with my eyes from left to right. It started around the far corner, next to the dining room. It came toward us and continued down the walkway. The blood marks disappeared under a door that, I assumed, led to the garage. Two sheriffs stood to the sides of the closed door. Hank and I walked over, being careful to not disturb the blood.

  “Deputy Gillison?” I asked.

  The one on the left spoke. “Inside.”

  He turned the handle and pulled the door op
en, carefully not looking inside. As the door opened, I could see what I figured to be a man hanging by his feet from the ceiling. His skin had been removed, and he too wore gauze wrapped around his waist. What was left of his hands just touched the pool of blood on the garage floor beneath him. A man in a lab coat with his back toward us was taking photos. A single deputy stood inside the garage. Hank and I entered.

  “Geez,” Hank said.

  The deputy looked at us. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties. His face was round with a thick brown-and-gray mustache—his buzz cut was the same colors. His belly strained the buttons on his green sheriff’s shirt. He rocked his neck back and forth and let out a little grunt. “I take it you’re my guys from TPD homicide?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Kane. This is Sergeant Rawlings.”

  “Gillison,” he said. “Does whatever this is match with what you guys found yesterday?”

  I walked over to the hanging remains. The skin that remained was consistent with the previous body. “It does,” I said.

  “So what the hell is this? We have a copycat of a serial killer from thirty years ago?”

  “That’s what it looks like. Do we know who this is?” I asked.

  “I’d say it’s the homeowner. The house belongs to a Herb LaSalle. As far as we can tell, he lived here alone.”

  “Do we have any proof that it’s the homeowner?” Hank asked.

  “There’s a bunch of blood-soaked clothes in the corner there.” Gillison jerked his chin toward the back of the garage, and his neck skin wiggled. “There may be an ID, but I’ve been told to not go through anything. We’re supposed to wait on someone from forensics.”

  “We have one of our guys on the way,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s the word I got from our captain. It looks like this is going to be your show.” He said it in a way that sounded as if he wasn’t pleased that we would be taking the homicide as part of our case, and his demeanor toward us suggested the same.

  “What do we know so far, Gillison? Who found the body?” I asked.

  “The cleaning lady. She showed up for work, entered through the kitchen, and saw all the blood. She followed it through the house out here, saw this, and called us right away.”