The Coldest Fear

by Rick Reed

  Jack shut his door and turned his back on Walker, saying, “Get your kit.”

  Inside the building, the men were directed to a treatment room, where Brent Branson was examining Cinderella.

  “What’d you do to this dog?” Branson said to Jack.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Well, she probably has some broken ribs and has a small cut on her head,” Branson said, and he sounded a little testy.

  Before Jack could protest further, Walker stepped in with his camera. “Mind if I get a few shots of the cut?”

  Branson held the dog’s head while Julie stroked its back, and Walker snapped several digital close-ups of the wound. He then handed Branson some collection swabs and envelopes and Branson collected blood and hair samples from the area of the wound and more from the muzzle.

  “Looking for DNA?” Branson asked.

  “Fingers crossed,” Walker said.

  Cinderella looked at Jack and bared her teeth.

  “Why am I the only one she doesn’t like?” Jack said, noticing the dog hadn’t growled at either Brent or Walker.

  “Dogs have a keen sense of goodness,” Walker offered.

  “And a keen sense of smell,” Brent added.

  “Why do I bother?” Jack said and sat on the only chair in the small examining room.

  Cody stood in his bathroom, right leg propped on the side of the antique claw-foot tub, and dabbed at the wound on his lower calf—four jagged tears in a pattern about three inches square—that were now bright red with the skin swollen and oozing a reddish fluid. The dog had come out of nowhere and latched on to his leg just as he was raising his axe to finish the job on Jon Samuels.

  He’d swung wide and missed the dog’s head by less than an inch, and the damn mangy mutt had released his leg and lunged at his nuts. Cody was barely able to turn sideways to avoid being neutered by the beast. He had kicked the dog so hard when he first entered the small apartment he thought it would stay away from him. But the ugly mutt had rallied like an angry hornet and come at him again. He had aimed a kick at the dog’s head, but connected with its chest, flipping it into the air. He had swung the axe again, but the dog was too fast.

  The bite wounds on his leg didn’t hurt until now. Should have killed the damn dog, he thought. He poured hydrogen peroxide over the torn skin and watched the liquid turn frothy as it came into contact with his bloody tissue. The sight was fascinating. He had seen a lot of blood over the years, but never his own.

  A doctor was out because Murphy might go sniffing around about someone being treated for dog bites and then he would have some explaining to do. He could always drive to another city and go to a MEC Center, pay cash, and make up a name and story to go with it. But right now he had another job to do.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Jack talked Branson into putting Cinderella in one of the kennel spaces, but was ticked off that he had to pay for the dog’s upkeep. Twenty dollars a day for a dog that hates me, he thought as he pulled into the back parking lot of the detectives’ squad room. But then, he had also agreed to pay for the dog’s medical care, which looked like it was going to be several hundred dollars. Branson said the dog had several broken ribs and would need stitches in the wound on top of her head. He would give Jack some pain pills and antibiotics for Cinderella.

  Branson’s assistant, Julie, suggested that Jack use chunky peanut butter to hide the pills when he gave them to Cinderella.

  He made his way downstairs to the war room and was surprised to see Captain Franklin in the room with Garcia and Liddell.

  “ ’Bout time you got back,” Liddell said.

  “Any news with the dog?” Captain Franklin asked.

  “There was blood. Walker took some swabbings, but you know how that goes. It could be from Jon Samuels,” Jack said. He decided not to tell them that he was having the dog treated by the veterinarian.

  “And speaking of blood,” Liddell said, and then looked at Garcia. “Go ahead, Angelina. You got the news. You tell him.”

  “Tell me what?” Jack asked, and Angelina Garcia looked like she was about to burst with excitement.

  “We have a DNA match, Jack!” she said.

  “Mitochondrial DNA is what gave them the match,” Garcia said. “It is a better indicator in females because there are one hundred thousand to one million markers in a woman’s egg, where there are only one hundred to one thousand in a man’s sperm.”

  “Let’s not get personal,” Liddell said.

  Garcia ignored his attempt at humor. “Let’s put it this way. Sometimes there is not enough of a DNA sample for a comparison, but by looking at only the mitochondrial part of the DNA they can get a maternal match. It basically eliminates the male part of the DNA sample and tests only for the female DNA.”

  “I’m dying here,” Jack said. “What’s the punch line? What did you get a match on?”

  Garcia took a deep breath before saying, “We have a DNA match from the blood found on Cinderella.”

  Jack felt a shiver run through him. “So you’re saying . . . what?”

  “The match was with Brenda Lincoln. Whoever the dog bit is a relative of Brenda’s.”

  Jack got off the phone with Sergeant Walker in CSU and asked Garcia for the file photos of Brenda Lincoln and Cordelia Morse.

  “There is a slight resemblance,” he said, looking at the two black-and-white photos. “Where’s Tunney?”

  Liddell spoke up. “He’s in the chief ’s office. He has gotten the go-ahead of the FBI to assist us on this case.”

  Jack smirked and asked, “So are we going to be submerged in little FBI guys now?”

  Liddell laughed. “He promised they would only ‘assist’ us.”

  “At least until we solve the case,” Garcia said sarcastically, causing both men to look at her. “I mean until you guys solve the case,” she added. “Us girls don’t count.”

  Liddell was about to say something, but she beat him to the punch, saying, “And no, it’s not my time of month. And yes, Mark and I have a full sex life.”

  Liddell’s mouth clamped shut and Jack laughed.

  “It’s worth a month’s pay to see someone shut him up,” Jack said.

  “I feel violated,” Liddell quipped, and bumped knuckles with Garcia. “You go, girl.”

  “Let’s go see the chief,” Captain Franklin suggested.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Jansen drove down alleys the last two blocks before reaching Arnold’s house. A few minutes ago he’d seen a marked police car, and knew that he was on borrowed time. The chief would have every reason to believe that Jansen was the leak to the news media, and he was probably going to be taking a forced vacation if they caught up to him.

  He didn’t know what he expected to find at Arnold’s, but he knew the reporter was hiding stuff from him. The direct approach hadn’t worked, so now it was time to do it his way. A little breaking and entering wasn’t against his principles.

  He parked in a gravel pull-off in the alley a couple of houses down from Arnold’s backyard and reached in the glove box, retrieving the little leather case he kept there. Sticking this in his pocket, he did what he had known so many others shouldn’t do. He looked around to be sure no one was watching. The cop in him knew that doing so was tantamount to saying, “Watch this. I’m about to commit a crime.”

  Satisfied that he wasn’t being observed by nosy neighbors, Jansen walked to Arnold’s back door. He would have knocked first, but he knew that Arnold’s mother was upstairs somewhere—sleeping, he hoped—and he didn’t want to get into a shouting match with the old bag. She might call 911 and the shit would really hit the fan. No, this is a covert operation, he thought and smiled at the idea. There was something cool about being on the sly.

  The back door had the regular locks on it. One on the door handle, and a dead bolt. He prayed Arnold hadn’t locked the dead bolt. He pulled the leather case from his pocket and retrieved his lock pick, a plastic card that resembled
a credit card, but was more pliable. He had been given the plastic card while he was in the Army. He had been Army CID, counterintelligence, in his younger days. CID Officer Larry Jansen had been a pro with lock picks, but he had found that the plastic card had gotten him through most locked doors.

  He slid the plastic edge of the card at an upward angle just below the door handle and was relieved when the door slid open. He stood with his ear to the crack, listening, but the inside of the house was eerily quiet.

  Jansen slipped inside, and quietly pulled the door shut behind himself. What are you hiding, Arnold? he thought.

  Chief Marlin Pope sat on the sill of his office window and rubbed at his forehead. Outside the window people walked with purpose along the wide sidewalks, and across the busy four-lane Martin Luther King Boulevard heading for destinations unknown but seemingly more important than the drama that was playing itself out inside this room. Jack couldn’t help but wonder how they could be so impervious to the fact that a serial killer was among them. It could be anyone. The guy in the wild plaid-checkered shorts with the stained and tattered wifebeater. The woman in the gray pleated skirt with matching top and leggings who was gripping her purse so tightly to her chest he hoped there was nothing sharp inside it. Or maybe it was the shriveled homeless creature, sexless and ageless, begging for dimes or dollars, and spitting a viscous black matter into a white Styrofoam cup.

  “You think the killer is out there, Jack?” Tunney said.

  Jack looked at Tunney and wondered if the man’s mind was ever in the off position. Tunney appeared so calm and relaxed, even when he was talking about someone’s face being removed with an axe. But Jack could sense the hum of the gears grinding inside the man’s mind, could almost see the pulse in his neck. Tunney lived for this. He was always on the scent. I’m not much different, he admitted to himself.

  “Are you married, Agent Tunney?” Jack asked.

  There was a slight tic at the corner of Tunney’s eye before he answered. “No,” Tunney said.

  The two men locked eyes. They both had monsters in the closets. Both had minds hardwired to seek and destroy. Both knew that this life would never be conducive to a lasting relationship, and so they had chosen to be the wolves instead of the sheep. Protecting the flock from predators, but earning a reluctant gratitude that masked fear instead of respect or love. Everyone knew that wolves were only good for one thing. And in that way they both shared something in common with the monsters they hunted.

  The Evansville police chief brought the conversation back on track. “The Illinois trooper who’s investigating the Samuels case called and said the autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon in Gallatin County,” Chief Pope said to those gathered. Liddell was slumped in a large leather chair near the door. Captain Franklin sat near Angelina Garcia in front of the chief ’s large desk. Jack and Tunney were standing, looking out the window by which the chief still sat.

  “Do you want one of us to attend?” Jack asked. He was thinking that it might be a good idea, but he knew that Zimmer was a very competent investigator. Armed with what Tunney and Jack had provided, Zimmer should be able to handle the autopsy without their presence.

  “I need you here, Jack,” Franklin said. “From what you said, the Illinois trooper is pretty sharp.”

  Liddell grinned. “He’s a little Jack.”

  “Okay, I think it’s time to get back to work,” Pope said, shooing them out.

  As they were leaving the chief ’s outer office his secretary stopped them.

  “I have a call for you, Jack,” she said and handed the receiver to him.

  “Murphy,” Jack said. He listened and then handed the receiver back to Jennifer and turned to face Liddell and Tunney.

  “What is it, pod’na?” Liddell asked.

  “Lenny Bange is dead.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Lenny Bange, like a lot of Americans, lived well above his means. Or at least it appeared so to Jack as he arrived at the crime scene. Johnson Place was an area of Evansville that could have been another part of the country, like maybe the mansions in Santa Monica, or the million-dollar chateaus in Palm Beach. What was missing in acreage was more than made up in the beautiful and expensive materials used to build the massive structures that were considered singlefamily dwellings in Johnson Place.

  Lenny’s house sat on a one-hundred-by-one-hundred-foot lot with no grass except a small strip across the front the size of a stripper’s panties. Every inch of parking was taken by police emergency and crime scene vehicles. Yellow and black crime scene tape was strung around the periphery. Jack and Liddell ducked under this as they approached Sergeant Walker at the front entrance.

  “Notice anything, pod’na?” Liddell said to Jack.

  Jack looked around. You didn’t have to smell the money to know it was everywhere.

  “If we were anywhere else there would be a crowd gathered. I haven’t even seen a curtain twitch,” Liddell explained.

  “Maybe they’re all at work,” Jack suggested.

  “You think these people work?”

  “Lenny Bange lived here,” Jack pointed out. “He worked.”

  “He was an attorney, pod’na. That ain’t working.”

  Jack looked around at the drawn curtains of the surrounding houses. “Well, one thing’s for sure. We probably won’t have any witnesses.”

  Liddell nodded. “Let’s see what Walker has for us,” he said.

  As they approached the door Jack noticed someone sitting on a small bench, bent over with his head cradled in his hands. A uniformed officer was nearby and said, “Lenny’s son.”

  Jack barely recognized the pale-faced young man whom he had met in the elevator in Lenny Bange’s building.

  “Manny, right?” Jack asked and extended a hand.

  The young man tried to smile, but his lips quivered and he just nodded as tears streamed from his eyes. He buried his face in his hands again and moaned.

  “He found the old man . . . I mean Mr. Bange,” the uniformed officer explained.

  “I’ll talk to Manny,” Liddell said and took out his notebook.

  Jack turned to continue to the house when Manny called out to him.

  “You find the monster that did this, Jack,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I will,” Jack assured him.

  “You find him and kill him!” Manny said, and then broke down into sobs.

  Walker met Jack and Liddell at the door. He was wearing white cloth booties, blue nylon gloves, and a surgeon’s mask pulled down under his chin.

  “This is the worst yet,” Walker said.

  They entered, staying close behind the crime scene sergeant as they were led to a bathroom in the back of the home. They were led through the front foyer, and off to the left, Jack could see a room that must be a library. It held more books than Jack had ever read in his life. All hardcover. Most leather-bound editions. Law library at home, Jack thought.

  The living room had an immaculately clean white carpet. Jack noticed that there was very little sign of foot traffic on it. He guessed that what was there had been trampled down by the first-responding officers.

  Walker noticed Jack looking at the carpet and said, “I spoke to the officers that arrived first. They came in the front door and walked across this carpet, but they swear there were no footprints in it when they came in. Their impression was that the rug had been vacuumed recently and no one had walked on it.”

  Jack nodded.

  The living room led to a hallway. To the left was a massive dining area with a table larger than the conference table in the chief ’s complex at police headquarters. To the right was a bathroom. Sergeant Walker stopped and said, “His son found him in here this morning a little after seven o’clock.”

  Looking through the doorway at the congealing mess that had once been Lenny Bange, Jack understood why Manny had been so upset.

  The bathroom was as large as the living room and kitchen of Jack’s cabin combined. I
n one corner was a whirlpool tub that would accommodate two adults. Above the tub was a bank of opaque windows and a shelf full of sex toys. Next to this was a shower stall that was comprised of free-standing glass walls. Jack could see Lenny Bange’s body, his back to Jack, propped in a seated position against the glass. The inside of the glass was covered with streaks and smears of something dark.

  “The killer finished him off in the shower,” Walker said.

  Jack and Liddell looked questioningly at him, and Walker continued, “It looks like the initial assault was in the bedroom down the hallway, and he was forced or dragged into the bathroom shower. All the blood is contained inside the shower.”

  Jack looked back down the hallway, but didn’t see any signs of a struggle. Several paintings on the walls depicted colorful outdoor and wildlife scenes. Nothing was askew or on the floor. There were no smears or traces of blood on the walls. At least not that he could see.

  “You think he was forced into the shower?” Liddell asked the question that Jack was thinking.

  “His pajamas are on the floor of the shower. Looks like they were cut or torn from his body after he was hacked to death,” Walker explained.

  “Oh,” Liddell said. “Continue, oh wise one.”

  “You won’t be talking so cute after you see the body,” Walker said.

  “Which is when?” Jack asked.

  “We’ve already processed the pathway,” Walker said, meaning that they had examined the area that detectives would need to cross to look closer. He led them inside the bathroom and then asked the tech who was still photographing the body to step out.

  Jansen crossed the kitchen, stepping lightly, listening for any sound that might tell him if Arnold’s mother was awake, or worse yet, downstairs. The house was small and had an odd smell to it, like stale fish. Probably just old-lady smell, Jansen thought. He had to give Arnold credit for taking care of a sick mother and keeping a halfway clean house. He wasn’t doing such a good job with his own sick wife.