Читать книгу Mama Law and the Moonbeam Racer - Fred Yorg - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

Chicago, 2002

It was a little after 5:30 p.m. when I parked my old caddy over in the parking lot about a block and a half south of the station house. The clouds were growing darker and the wind was biting as I walked down Vandelear Avenue, just like I had a hundred times before. The snow and ice crackled under my weight like breaking glass. God, it was cold! The street venders, school kids and usual pedestrian traffic had packed it in for the day. Although the streets were deserted, it didn’t matter to me; in fact, I welcomed the solitude. Most days I walked past the same people but there was little chance that I could give you an account of any of them. To me they were faceless drones that meant little. Rarely did I even bother to raise my head to meet their gaze.

When I hit the front steps of the station house, I stopped and asked myself the same questions that had been plaguing me for the past ten years, ‘Do I want to go in there? Is this really all there is for me? Is this the best that I can do?’ The questions, as always, went unanswered as I walked up the final steps into the old building. Three paces in, I stopped and surveyed the room. The large hall was cheerless and poorly lit, devoid of any trace of hope or humanity. The scene was always the same, blue uniforms with paste on smiles, perps and hookers with frowns. The air was ripe with the smell of alcohol, cheap perfume, stale sex and puke. What a mosaic.

Over to my left a couple of uniforms were mustering out the hookers brought in the night before in the usual Friday night round up. I’d seen most of them before and was relatively confident that I’d be seeing them again. A guy in work clothes was over to my right sitting on an old oak bench, bleeding from his nose and a cut above his left eye. I didn’t know his story, he could have been a perp, could have been a victim; the only thing I knew for sure was that the droplets of blood from his nose were bouncing off his new white sneakers like a leaky faucet off a porcelain sink. Over in the far corner near the stairs was a sixty-year-old guy shaking from the DTs. No one bothered to notice let alone help the poor old bastard. Leaning up against the stair banister, in a white chiffon dress was a transvestite that went by the street name of Scarlet. Her slip was showing. I didn’t bother to tell her; frankly I didn’t give a damn.

After taking stock of paradise, I walked by the front desk and called out in a less than interested voice to the man who was running the asylum, “How you doing, Sarge?”

His reply never wavered; I’d been hearing the same response for the past ten years. “Hanging in, Mooney, hanging in.”

Based solely on his reassuring salutation, I summoned up my courage and kept on moving across the old tile floor to the stairs. Making my way past Scarlet and up the stairs to the first landing, I turned to the left and climbed the final nine steps to the second floor. A right at the head of the stairs took me down the dingy corridor to the second door on the left. I took another deep breath, turned the knob and entered. People were bustling around; there was a stale smell in the air suggesting a room long sealed. Over to the left of the door was an old gray table that held the five-gallon coffee urn and donuts. Slick Tony Turano and his partner, Max Zaleski, were there, hovering around the table like a couple of vultures. Max, pushing sixty, was the older cop; he had his meaty left hand wrapped around a cup of coffee and a powdered donut stuck in his mouth, freeing his right hand so he could scratch his ass. The powder from his donut had already made it’s way down over his shirt and tie. What a specimen, he should have been the poster boy for Chicago’s finest.

Tony, the younger cop, had his back to me and, since Max was otherwise occupied, I passed them by without benefit of a greeting. I had little use for either one and was confident they shared the sentiment. The tension between Tony and me had been ratcheted up to a new record level over the past month. A senior detective in the department named Delray Spadar was pulling the pin and one of us was in line for a grade hike. The only reason I wanted the promotion was to keep it away from Tony. I had few friends in the room, the price one pays when he’s not on the pad. For the past ten years, the only person that I could truly count on was my boy, Miles Bowman. Miles had been my partner ever since we graduated together from the police academy. Miles didn’t look much like a cop; physically he was a slender man with gentle features, and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a college professor or a librarian. Miles was definitely different from the rest, and not just physically. He had his masters degree and was about half way to earning his doctorate in psychology. Miles had ambitions; he wasn’t about to take his twenty-year pension and then sit back on his ass drinking beer for the rest of life. He had dreams of becoming an independent profiler after he put in his twenty years on the force. No sir, Miles was not your typical cop, not by any means. That’s not to say that he was anything less than a first rate detective. Miles had good instincts, was honest, and he cared. When there was trouble, Miles wasn’t one to hang back; he’d always be there. You never had to look for him, could always be counted on, never flashy but solid. His home life was the same. He lived in a three-bedroom cape, happily married to a really nice gal. Abbe and Miles had two boys, Miles Jr., six years old, was the eldest, and Dylan who was four. I never let on, but I envied Miles; maybe he didn’t know it but he had it all.

I walked over to our desks and found Miles pining over some paperwork. For the past four weeks we’d been putting in a lot of overtime trying to catch a serial killer, the non-caring press had dubbed, ‘The Red Necktie Serial Killer.’ I had no use for sensational headlines but I reconciled myself long ago to the fact that was what sold papers.

“What are you working on Miles?”

“Hey Mooney, nothing much. I’m going over a brochure Abbe gave me on Disney World. I got vacation coming and she’s on my case to spend it down in Orlando.”

“How much vacation time do you have saved up?”

“Three weeks. Think I should drive or fly?”

“Drive. There’s plenty to see on the way down. If I were you, I’d follow the Mississippi River on down to Louisiana. You know, if you’d like, you’re more than welcome to spend some time over at our place on Lake Pontchartrain. It would be a nice break for you. You and the kids could rent a boat, maybe even get a little fishing in. At night, you and Abbe could head over to the French Quarter. You can’t spend that much time at Disney World, you’ll go crazy. You know my mother would love to see you and the family.”

“Do you really think we’d have time to do both?”

“Sure. If you’re that concerned about time, get a cheap round trip to New Orleans and borrow one of Mama’s cars. It would be a nice ride over through the panhandle this time of year. You could stop off at Biloxi and Mobile, shuck a few oysters, check out the local sites. I’m telling you that’s the way to go.”

Before Miles could respond, the hallway door burst open. It was the chief, a no nonsense ram rod of a man named Frank Graymon. Old Frank was on the move as he marched through the office. You could tell by the way he swept past us that he was having a bad day. His face was as red as a beet and perspiration drenched his forehead and neck. Never breaking his pace or glancing our way he barked out, “Miles, Mooney, get your asses in here.”

From past experience I knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant. Chief Graymon was a tough man who demanded nothing less than the best from the people who worked under him. He took his job seriously. Miles and I knew this was no time to dawdle. We jumped up and followed him into his office. He looked up and nodded my way to shut the door which was never a good sign.

“Take a seat. You know where I just came from? The commissioner’s office. We all know how that works. The Mayor calls the commissioner, the commissioner calls me, and then I call you. You want to guess what the topic of conversation was?”

“Miles’ vacation?”

“Mooney, why don’t you go fuck yourself? This is serious. By the way, Miles, while we’re on the subject, you’re not going anywhere until we catch this serial killer. My ass is on the line and you’ve both been around here long enough to know how that works.”

“Chief, what more can we do? What do you want from us? Miles and I have been out there on the street busting our asses since the first killing. You know how many days we’ve taken off in the past three weeks? None!”

“Have you got any leads? Anything I can go upstairs with?”

“Not much. A half-assed description of a guy seen leaving the first crime scene.”

“Do we know for sure he’s the killer?”

“No.”

“Why do we like him?”

“The eye witness knew everybody in the building. She said that he looked out of place.”

“That’s mighty thin. How’d you work it?”

“We brought the lady in and she gave Lou the description. Based on his sketch, we canvassed the buildings. No one recognized him.”

“What’s the description?”

“He was a white male, dressed casually, around thirty years of age. He was slight of build, had brown hair and wore gold wire rimmed glasses.”

“Not much, hell that description could fit you Miles.”

“I’ve got an alibi,” Miles retorted.

“I’m sure you do. How about you? You got anything? You’re supposed to be the next Sigmund Fraud. What kind of a profile have you worked up?”

“White, male, twenty-five to forty years of age. Doesn’t appear that he took anything, so he’s not a collector. He killed them quick indicating that he’s not a sadist. My guess is that he’s a sociopath.”

“Go on Miles.”

“Well, Chief, my best guess is that he’s had this anger repressed for some time. I would venture to say that some recent event set him off.”

“Like what?”

“Could be anything. Got fired from his job, death of a relative or a loved one.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s it, Chief,” Miles answered.

“That ain’t a hell of a lot to go on gentlemen. What about the victims, anything in common?”

“No, not that we can see,” I replied.

“Run through them for me Mooney, there’s got to be something. Some pattern or common thread.”

“Joanne Hoffman was the first victim. She was the dispatcher from the fifth precinct. She was thirty-one, single, white, cute and petite of build. Strangled with a red necktie on Saturday night, the 5th of January. There were no signs of forced entry and the killer left no clues. The coroner placed time of death at 11:00 p.m.”

Regarding Mooney? “I might add, she lived in your apartment building.”

“Goddamn it, don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think that pisses me off? I’m the only one in here who knew her. She was a nice lady.”

“Sorry, Mooney, I was just trying to have a little fun with you. It was in bad taste, I apologize. Continue.”

“The second victim was Latoya Biggs, killed the next Saturday on the 12th of January. She was a forty-three year old African American. She was divorced.”

“Any chance it was the husband?”

“None. He’s serving twenty to life in Joliet.”

“Go ahead.”

“She was a big heavy set woman. By the looks of it, she was the only victim that put up a fight, until she had her head caved in by a statue. The coroner said she was probably knocked unconscious before being strangled. He placed time of death at 2 a.m. Again no signs of forced entry and no clues.”

“Next.”

“The next murder was on the other side of the precinct on the 19th of January. The victim’s name was Tami Sajuri, she was a twenty two year old Japanese exchange student studying international finance at the University of Illinois. The coroner placed her time of death at 10 p.m. Cause of death was strangulation, just like the other victims.”

“The fourth one was a sixty two year old grandmother by the name of Estelle Krantz, she was killed on the 26th. She was a harmless old lady who was hobbled by arthritis and as best we can make out, in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.”

“What time did she die?”

“Hold on, I’ve got to look that one up. The coroner placed her time of death at midnight.”

“Anything else, that was common to all four victims other than being strangled on a Saturday night?”

“In each case there were no signs of forced entry, no signs of drugs or alcohol, and none of the victims were sexually violated. Oh, and they were all murdered in their living rooms.”

“I’ve got to admit Mooney, I don’t see a damn thing either. The only common thread is he strangles his victims every Saturday night with a red necktie. What about the ties?”

“Nothing, they were cheap red neckties bought off the rack. No prints, no labels. No way of even tracing them back to the manufacturer let alone a store.”

“You always wear a red tie Mooney.”

“Very funny, Chief.”

“Glad to see you’ve got your sense of humor back. But seriously Miles, what do you make of the significance of red neckties.”

“The color of red could signify anger. It could also be associated with death, blood, power over the victim. The fact that he strangles the victim indicates to me that it’s personal. More than that it’s very difficult to say.”

“Anything you can say for sure?”

“The killer is smart, cautious and careful and one thing I am sure of, he’s not going to stop.”

“So what we’ve got is a smart sociopath with no predictable pattern.”

No one spoke for a moment, “I’m afraid that’s it, Chief,” Miles replied.

“Miles, why bother speaking if that’s all you got to say. I assume you’ve checked out the state hospitals for anyone that’s gone missing or just got out.”

“First thing we did, Chief, we also checked everyone just released from jail,” Miles replied. “None of them even remotely fit the profile of our boy.”

“Chief, let’s be straight. We’re going to need a lot of luck to catch this bastard. He’s like a ghost, no prints, nobody sees him, nothing. We need all the help we can get and there’s still no guarantees that we’re going to catch him.”

“That’s pretty much what I thought, Miles. Tonight, every blue uniform I can spare will be out there. I’m going to assign Tony and Max to the upper west side unless you can come up with a better place to use them.”

“Tony and Max are you kidding? Why don’t you give them the night off,” I asked sarcastically.

“What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that they’re useless. Besides they’ve got their own agenda. They’ll be out tonight combing the streets for T-Bone Higgins.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“T-Bone jumped bail and that sleazy bail bondsman from center city, Jew Cohan’s got paper on him. You know he takes care of Tony and Max on the side.”

“No, I don’t know that. And right now, I don’t need to hear this shit from you. I’ve got bigger problems, it’s closing in on 6:30 p.m., now you and Miles go over everything again and then get your ass out on the street and catch me a killer. Don’t worry about Tony and Max. They work for me. Are we clear? Now the two of you can get the hell out of here and send Max and Tony in. I want to talk to them.”