Red Death

by Alan Jacobson

  “Nope.”

  “Right.”

  “The skel uses poison to kill his victims. So don’t be stickin’ your nose anywhere it shouldn’t be. You don’t wanna be sucking any of that stuff into your lungs.”

  “Copy.”

  They secured their vests with Velcro and slipped on their winter jackets, Russo pulling a 5.11 Tactical wool beanie over his ears and Cobb donning a New York Mets baseball cap. They headed down the block to the apartment, taking care to avoid making any unusual noises that would set off a neighborhood canine with a keen sense of hearing and a muscular set of vocal cords.

  They stood outside the apartment house door and took in the area. Everything looked clear. A moment later the building manager showed up. His graying afro was flat on the left side and stuck out excessively on the right. He probably had no time to get ready—just throw on the clothes, jacket and gloves, and run out the door.

  “I’m Captain Russo and this is Officer Cobb.” Russo held up his badge. “You the building manager?”

  “Walter Vandross.”

  Russo handed him the search warrant and he shoved it in his pocket, not even bothering to look it over. “Anything I should know?” Vandross asked.

  “You got an NYPD captain serving a federal warrant to search the premises of the guy who lives in 10D. That’s about all I can tell you. Well, that and you’re lucky you didn’t get the FBI. Not as nice as me. Bottom line is that this ain’t a positive development for your homeowner.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Got me outta bed in the middle of the night.”

  “In case you didn’t notice,” Cobb said, “you ain’t alone.”

  Vandross grumbled as he fumbled a ring of keys, searching for the right one.

  “Anything you can tell us about Scott Meece?” Russo asked.

  “Quiet guy. Didn’t know him too well. I mean, a few times we talked about some things but other than that he kept to himself.”

  “What kind of things did you discuss?” Russo asked.

  “Military stuff. I served. His brother did. He’d ask me about it, what it was like.”

  “Normal conversation?”

  “Most part. I mean, I did a lotta the talking. He asked most of the questions.”

  “What was he interested in?”

  “War. What it was like. How people died. What it was like to kill.” Vandross shoved the key in the lock and gave the knob a twist, then pushed through the door.

  “Didn’t that seem strange?” Russo asked. “I mean, most normal people don’t wanna hear that gory shit.”

  “And I don’t like talkin’ about that gory shit.” Vandross shrugged as he limped down the dimly lit hallway. Like many New York City buildings, this was “modern”—when compared to those built in the early 1900s. It had seen a remodel in the form of a new coat of paint and the replacement of a few broken windows and … that was about it. The place was old—and smelled it.

  “At the time,” Vandross said, “I didn’t give it no mind. But now that I think about it, maybe. Yeah. That’s not the kind of thing people ask about.” He stopped and glanced up at the spider cracks in the hallway ceiling, then harrumphed. “He’s actually the first to ever want to know about that stuff. My friends, they just leave me be. We don’t talk about it. Any of it.”

  “Anything else seem strange, now that you think about it?”

  He blew some air out of his mouth. “I don’t know, man. Mostly kept to hisself.”

  Cobb pulled off his hat and blotted up the band of perspiration on his forehead.

  “All right,” Russo said, doing the same. “Let’s get in there and take a look.” He pulled out a pair of blue gloves and started to stretch them over his hands. Cobb took the hint and followed suit.

  Vandross produced another key and rapped on the repeatedly-painted wood door. “Building manager! Please open up.”

  He knocked again, waited a few moments—until Russo lost his patience and cleared his throat. “Open it up, Mr. Vandross.”

  Vandross complied and unlocked it.

  “You gotta wait here,” Cobb said. “Read the search warrant if you get bored.”

  Russo gave that a chuckle, then drew his pistol and led the way into the apartment. “NYPD serving a search warrant! Anyone here?”

  They turned on the lights and, unlike in TV shows, they worked.

  “Um …” Cobb said. “What’s all this shit, boss?”

  Laid out before them were foot-square boxes stacked atop one another, in six-foot-high piles. They were arranged to form walls—and thus a path—that led Russo and Cobb through the living room.

  They stood on opposing sides of the jamb of a closed door. Cobb twisted the knob and pushed it open.

  Russo reached in and found the light switch, flicked it up, and was first inside. He skirted the double bed and checked the closet, then under the box spring. “Clear.”

  Russo joined Cobb at the low dresser that stood in front of the long wall. Modest-size plastic tubs sat atop the furniture. They were largely empty—except for a residual substance in one of them.

  “Any idea what this is?”

  Russo shined his phone light into one of the containers. “A soap-making assembly line of sorts would be my guess.”

  Cobb looked inside and then twisted toward Russo. “How do you get that, boss?”

  “Karen Vail told me we might find one. And this does kinda look like that’s what this stuff is for.” Russo brought his face closer, careful not to sniff up any airborne toxins. “Yep. That’s what we got here. Pretty sure.” He stood up and looked around. “You see any chocolate bars?”

  They moved into the bathroom, then back out toward the front door where all the boxes were stacked. Cobb produced a knife and sliced through the corrugated sides—exposing thin, tightly packed treats. “Got ’em.” He pulled out a blue-gloved handful and showed them to Russo, who snapped a photo.

  Russo opened a few other nearby boxes and found soap bars. He took another picture, then texted both to Vail with the following message:

  its fuckin 3am

  hope ur happy

  all we got to show for it is soap and candy bars

  doesnt look like anyone else lives here

  oh lots of military photos on wall

  Vail typed back:

  photos of meece?

  Russo’s immediate reply:

  hard to say

  quality sucks

  group pictures

  no close-ups

  could be his brother IDK

  “Hey boss. Lots of plants in here. Kitchen.”

  “Take some photos. Text ’em to me. Don’t touch nothin’.”

  “And, uh, a bottle of Red Number 40.”

  “Red what?” Russo made his way into the kitchen.

  “That’s what it says. On the label, Red Number 40.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Red dye. You ever read ingredient labels? Of food?”

  “I read the Daily News. Sports pages. Sometimes Page Six of the Post. Ingredient labels, not so much.”

  “Red 40 is a dye, a food coloring.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s with the soap making stuff. Maybe it means something.”

  “I’ll send it all over to Agent Vail. Let her figure out if it means something.” He lifted his phone and took some pictures, then texted them over to Vail. She immediately responded:

  Jackpot

  bullseye

  you rock

  Russo chuckled. “Apparently you made Vail very happy.”

  “And if she’s happy, we’re happy,” Cobb said. “Right?”

  “Always keep the woman happy, Cobb. Remember that.”

  “Now what, boss?”

  “Now you hoof it back to my car and pull it out front. Get the crime
scene tape. We’ll rope this place off and you get to stand watch, make sure no one goes in or out, till CSU gets here.”

  Cobb fought off a yawn.

  “Aren’t you glad you came?”

  “Sure.”

  Russo grunted. “Then act like it, rook.” He dangled his car keys and Cobb snatched them without hesitation. “Hurry up,” Russo said, making no attempt to hide his long yawn. “I wanna get back to bed while there’s still some sleep to be gotten.”

  “Oh—forgot my hat. Put it down somewhere.”

  “Jesus Christ, Cobb.”

  The rookie swung his head around, then started off down the hall.

  Russo yawned again—and then found himself on his ass, ears ringing from the explosive blast that pushed his chest with a ferocity that pinned him against the worn carpeting.

  He wriggled himself up onto his elbows and peered out into the fog of dust and detritus and all sorts of crap that hung in the air.

  “Cobb,” he shouted. He thought he shouted it—truth was, his hearing was muffled and the buzzing prevented him from knowing just how loud he had said it.

  He felt around his pocket and found his phone. As he fumbled with trembling fingers to work the touchscreen, he got the call connected. Problem was, he could not hear anything. He waited a moment, then started yelling into the handset. “Officer down, officer down. This is Captain Carmine Russo, I need a bus forthwith to my location.”

  He moved the device away from his face and studied the display. How the hell was he supposed to know if anyone was on the line?

  “Listen, there was an explosion. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I can’t hear anything. Text me back on this cell and confirm. Over.”

  Seconds later, he received a message from a number he did not recognize:

  copy that captain

  bus on the way

  eta three mins

  Russo acknowledged it and used his hands to walk his way up his thighs. He stood up straight and felt sharp pain in his lower back. He groaned—or at least he thought he did—and stumbled forward.

  Pushing aside debris—a chair, or what was left of it—he made his way toward the location where he last saw Cobb.

  Please let him be alive. My fault he was here.

  Russo made it another ten feet, in the direction of the bedroom, kicking away the now-tumbled boxes of soap bars in his path.

  Part of him did not want to locate the young man—out of fear of what he might find.

  Another few yards and there was Cobb, lying prone, a portion of his right leg missing from the knee down. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph …” Russo crossed himself as he knelt down to feel for a pulse: slow, thready. Fresh red blood was pumping feebly from the stump.

  But he was still alive. “Hang on, kid.” Russo was certain Cobb was unconscious, but in truth he was saying it to make himself feel better. “Help’s on the way. You’re gonna be fine.”

  Russo pulled off his leather belt and fastened it tightly around Cobb’s thigh, hoping to stem the flow of blood until the ambulance arrived. As that thought fluttered through his mind, he heard what he took to be a siren, down below, outside the window. “I can hear again! Kind of.” He sighed deeply and placed a hand on the rookie’s back. “They’re here. You’re gonna be okay, Cobb.”

  There was no response, but moments later the paramedics were calling out, trying to locate them.

  “In here, near the bedroom.”

  The two men immediately went to work.

  “Find the leg,” one of them said to Russo.

  Find the leg. You fucking kidding me?

  Russo stumbled around, moving aside debris, bars of soap and fragments of furniture and broken glass. He located the limb atop a box twenty feet away.

  This was beyond gross. He made his way into the kitchen and found a Hefty bag, unfurled it with a rapid flick of his wrists, and stood in front of the leg. He stuck his hand into the plastic, grabbed the hunk of human tissue, and then tied off the sack.

  “Got it,” Russo said as he approached the bedroom.

  “Good job. Now fill that thing with ice cubes.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  One of the medics was securing an IV. Cobb was already fastened to a spine board, his head and neck stabilized. “Best we can tell, out of danger. He’ll need a full neuro workup, films of his spine, make sure his neck isn’t fractured.”

  “What about his leg?”

  The man shrugged. “Ain’t my call. We get it and bring it in, let the trauma surgeon make those decisions. Getting ready to transport. How you doin’, Captain? You here when the bomb went off?”

  “Don’t worry ’bout me. I’m an old horse. Hard to put me down.”

  The man was closing up his kit. “Answer my question, please.”

  “I was here. My hearing was shit right after, but it’s come back a little bit.”

  “You need to get checked out. Ride with us in the bus.”

  “This is a crime scene. Can’t leave—”

  “Yes you can. Go with them.”

  Russo turned and saw a patrol officer.

  “We got it covered, Captain. Give me his leg. I’ll take care of the ice. Go get yourself looked at.”

  Russo groaned. “Fine.” He glanced around to see if there was anything else he needed to do before leaving. He kicked a box that was in his way. “This wasn’t the kind of night I’d planned on.”

  “Yeah?” The paramedic grabbed his end of the spine board. “I think Officer Cobb here would agree with you.”

  56

  Russell turned on Wilder Avenue and navigated the residential streets as they neared the crater. There was a noticeable incline as they rose in altitude, climbing toward the top of the mountain.

  Vail stole a look at her phone. “Russo’s at Meece’s place in the city. Lots of equipment and boxes of ‘merchandise’ in his bedroom and living room. Soap bars and chocolate. Meece is definitely our guy.”

  “Boxes? Jesus. I wonder how many women this bastard actually killed.”

  Vail’s phone began buzzing. “Hey, Russo. Thanks so much for that info, it—”

  “That info came at a price. My rookie officer lost a leg.”

  “He what? What are you talking about?”

  “Looks like Meece rigged an IED,” he said, referring to an improvised explosive device. Trip wire activation. Cobb didn’t see it, set it off.”

  “Oh my god, I’m—I’m so sorry. I had no idea Meece would do such a thing.”

  What a stupid thing to say.

  Russell gestured at her, mouthing, “What happened?”

  Vail waved him off. “Is he gonna be okay?”

  “Don’t know. He’s in surgery. And I’m sittin’ here feeling very guilty.”

  “You’re feeling guilty? I’m the one who asked you to check out his apartment. I feel like jumping off a goddam pier.”

  “Well don’t do that. I couldn’t handle two tragedies in one night.”

  Vail closed her eyes. She did not know what to say to that.

  “Don’t feel bad, Karen. We’re all just doin’ our jobs. Shit happens, right? This is what we signed up for.”

  “Is that how you feel?”

  “Hell no. I’m the rook’s captain. But one of us feelin’ guilty is enough.”

  “Keep me posted on his condition, okay?”

  “Of course. But you focus on finding this Meece son of a bitch. I’d like to personally rip him a new asshole. Do that for me?”

  “Rip him a new asshole or find him?”

  “You find him. The asshole thing? That’s for me.”

  “Miss you, Russo.”

  “Back at ya, Karen. Be careful out there.”

  She could not help but grin at the Hill Street Blues reference.

  As she ended
the call, Russell glanced at her. “So? What the hell happened?”

  Vail told him about the IED, the trip wire, and the officer’s injuries.

  “Crap. If I didn’t wanna get this guy in a room before, I sure do now.”

  “Get in line.”

  Russell took the next turn a bit too fast for the neighborhood. Vail grabbed onto the dash. “Tell me about this cemetery.”

  “Calling it a cemetery is not doing it justice. Setting’s beautiful, serene. Expansive.”

  “I could use beautiful and serene about now.”

  “Just don’t let the beauty distract you. Keep your head in the game.”

  “Deal. You kept your head in your pants at the mall, so I guess it’s only fair I keep my head in the game at the cemetery.”

  “Wow. How very crass of you.” Russell’s cell rang. He fiddled with it, then cursed. “Bluetooth isn’t connecting.” He handed it to Vail.

  “Detective Russell’s phone. Agent Vail speaking.”

  “This is Sergeant Aldridge at HPD. Got a report of a carjacking a block from Ala Moana Center. By witness description it sounds like your suspect. Scott Meece.”

  “When was this?”

  “Twenty minutes or so ago.”

  “And we’re just getting told now?”

  “Sometimes one hand doesn’t know what the other’s doing. We’ve got a big department.”

  “Which way was he headed?”

  “Vehicle was caught on a traffic cam a few minutes later on Pensacola, near Nehoa.”

  Vail turned to Russell. “Meece jacked a car, last seen on Pensacola, near Nehoa.”

  “Wow.”

  “Tell me. I don’t know where that is.”

  “Could be headed to the cemetery. Means we may’ve guessed right.”

  “We?”

  “You. You guessed right.”

  “Wasn’t a guess. It’s called criminal investigative analysis.”

  “Call it what you want. I’m just relieved we’re not headed in the opposite direction.”

  Vail turned back to the call. “Sergeant, you get any further updates, let us know.”

  “You got a bead on Meece?”