Fractured (3 page)

“But?”

“I think there is a connection we haven't grasped yet. So does Santiago. There are different kinds of killers. Some are impulsive, some are methodical, some are opportunists, and some are … just insane. This seems like the latter, but to be trite, there's a method to the madness. We just don't see it.”

“It seems to me they are all insane.”

Ellie knew he meant it. Gaining satisfaction from the death of another human being was beyond his comprehension—almost. Bryce hadn't shed a tear when she fatally shot a serial killer in northern Wisconsin and saved
his
life.

“I don't know.” She relaxed against him more. “I'm not a psychologist, but I think there are degrees to everything. The victim tonight … it was
savage
. Over the top. I'm not sure just what we are dealing with.”

She shivered and the room was warm, not cold. Bryce tightened his arm. “That bad?”

She confirmed with another shiver. “That bad. If I scream in my sleep, don't be surprised.”

*   *   *

Jason slid onto
a bar stool and ordered a beer.

He needed it.

While he handled crime scenes as well as anyone, and better than most if he had to call it, this evening hadn't been stellar.

The imprint of that man's hacked-up face would haunt him. There was no doubt he didn't like it, but his ghosts were what they were, and Jason couldn't banish them at will. Most of his life, he'd done his best, but they lingered like shadows in the corners.

Besides that, something had happened with Ellie. He sensed it and maybe it was the detective in him, but if he had to call it, she had not just gone off on a relaxing vacation. While she'd handled herself as professionally as usual, she'd been a little wired, and not just by the murder.

He picked up his beer and took a long drink. Right now she was probably in Grantham's bed. After all, that's the first place
he'd
take her if it was an option.

Then again, that had been one ballistic murder scene. Maybe not. He doubted she was in the mood for anything but a long, deep sleep.

The piped-in music started playing Van Halen's “Runnin' with the Devil.” Seemed appropriate somehow.

Jason propped his booted foot on the bar stool and sang along in his head. The place smelled like stale beer and there were two biker guys in the back playing pool, but it was close to his apartment and he could walk over and grab a drink and not have to worry about crashing his career for a DUI. Besides, he might be sitting alone, musing over his half-empty glass, but at least he wasn't staring at empty walls, thinking about what he didn't have.

It was an enlightening discovery to realize he really hated being jealous. A counterproductive emotion and a waste of time.

He finished his beer, put several bills on the counter, and walked out just in time to see the accident.

Crosswalk. Impatient man with a cell phone to his ear ignoring the image of a pedestrian with a line through him, angrily arguing with whoever he was talking to and stepping out into traffic … it was a blur and happened very fast. The squeal of tires was like a human scream. The driver of the car coming south swerved, clipped another vehicle coming from the opposite direction, and both careened to a stop as the pedestrian, unscathed, hastily put away his phone and started to rapidly walk away.

No way
.

Jason sprinted forward and caught sight of the driver of the southbound car climbing out. She seemed okay as she struggled to escape the airbag. Jason knew the other driver was fine because he had the door open to his vehicle and was cursing loudly.

Jason gained the opposite side of the street, ran around the escaping culprit with one hand on his shoulder, and flashed his badge. “Police officer, bud. You are so busted.”

“Hey.” The guy jerked back. He was well-dressed and well-groomed, his perfect hair just a little disheveled because it was a breezy evening.

“You aren't going anywhere,” Jason informed him through his teeth, yanking him closer. “It's called leaving the scene of an accident, and I can tell you, judges really frown on that sort of thing. You'd better hope no one was hurt.”

Expensive wool dress coat and a resentful face, though the guilty party didn't have much of a right to have that expression. Jason was hard-pressed to keep from throwing a punch, but he'd already identified himself as a police officer. The man sputtered, “I didn't … didn't…”

“Think about anyone else?” Jason supplied, his voice icy. “I noticed. Then you tried to just walk away. Nice of you. Let's go.”

The shove he gave was probably a little harsh, but he was pissed off. Apparently people had been reporting the accident because he already saw a cruiser pulling up. He dragged the offender off the curb and onto the street, where traffic had started to back up because of the crash.

“Good response time, Officer.”

“We do our best.” The cop eyed the way he was hanging onto the other man. There was already another officer talking to the young woman.

It was his pleasure to explain. “I'm Detective Santiago, homicide, and this asshole walked into traffic on his cell phone and caused the accident. I am a witness, and I
will
testify in court.”

The beat cop nodded and smiled broadly. “That's
sweet
. Makes my job easy, that's for sure. What are the odds … I'll call it in, Detective, and get someone to direct traffic.” He pointed at the offending pedestrian. “You, come with me.”

The young woman stood by the shattered remains of a headlight, looking just as broken as the plastic on the pavement. She wore a short coat in a soft blue color and heavy mittens but no hat, long chestnut hair loose around her shoulders.

Her shell-shocked expression was something Jason had seen before when he'd been on the street. The other driver was a beefy man in a parka, currently out inspecting the damage to his pickup truck. He gestured angrily as he talked to the cop who evidently was done taking the woman's initial statement. Jason walked over to her side. It hadn't been her fault. If he wasn't there, he imagined there might be a confrontation with the big guy, which she was not at the moment ready to handle. Jason asked her, “You hurt?”

“No … no, I don't think so. I almost hit him. I could have
killed
him.” Her voice was barely a whisper, her lips trembling. She was pretty, and probably would be very pretty except she was pale as a ghost.

Damn, the wind was cold enough to slice right through a person. Jason hunched his shoulders and put his ungloved hands in his pockets. “Yeah, well, it would have served him right. Why don't you go get back in your car and get out your registration and driver's license. You'll freeze half to death out here in this wind and they are going to want to see both of those things.” He eyed the vehicle. The hood was buckled pretty badly and there was an ever-growing pool of liquid that looked like antifreeze on the street. “Anyone you can call to come pick you up after all the questions are answered? I think they are going to have to tow your car.”

She shrugged helplessly, looking distraught. “My roommate, I guess, but it's kind of late. Sometimes she takes something so she can sleep … God, this is awful.”

“I'll get you a cab,” he assured her. “Public servants. That's our job description.”

“You don't look like a police officer.”

He'd heard that one before. He probably would be more convincing with a surfboard under his arm and beach sand between his toes. Maybe it was the curly blond hair that somehow managed to look sun-streaked even in the dead of winter in fucking Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Jason's smile was thin as he thought about the horrific murder scene earlier. “This particular night, I kind of wish I wasn't. If you think your accident was awful, let me tell you, things could be worse.”

“You'd better have insurance.” The big guy came over, his expression holding the ugly fury of someone who'd had something unpleasant happen they didn't expect, his eyes fixed on the young woman. “Whatever happened,
you
hit
me
.”

“Yeah, that avoiding killing someone, that's a real crime. Lay off.” Jason shook his head and the look he gave the other driver was lethal. “I mean it, lay off. She's driving a BMW, sir. A pretty new one. Do you really think she doesn't have insurance? Feel free to be unhappy about your damaged vehicle, but don't be unhappy with her, get it?”

Considering the man outweighed him by about seventy pounds at a guess, it was a gamble, but he was kind of in the mood for a good fight. It had been an interesting—and frustrating—day.

Maybe it was something in his eyes, but the other driver raised his gloved hands, palms upward. “Look, I don't want trouble, but I was just driving down the street when she swerved into my lane. I need to know who is going to pay for this.”

“I think you're going to have to let your insurance companies decide this question. I assume they'll sue the pedestrian. He'll get a ticket for crossing against the light and probably charged with contributory negligence.”

“You a cop?”

“Homicide detective.”

The man eyed him. “You don't look like a cop.”

Jason replied sardonically, “Yeah, I know. Jesus, it's cold out here.”

 

Chapter 3

Lieutenant Grasso was at his desk.

Of course.

Everyone had personal issues but Carl was legendary for spending a lot of time at work. He even got there earlier than Ellie did. It wasn't like she knew much about his personal life even though they'd worked together on a high-profile case a few months ago; he was a pretty private person in her opinion, except when it came to the job. He had a reputation for being astute and tireless, not to mention having a decade more experience than she did.

Why not take advantage of it?

So Ellie propped a hip on Grasso's desk and said without preamble, “I've got two mutilated victims without a connection except the way they were killed. If you have any thoughts, I'd love to hear them.”

Grasso, as well-dressed as ever in an expensive dark blue suit and gray silk tie, nodded. “Hmm. Heard about that. Rough case. It's all over the department now that we have a second victim.”

She agreed with his assessment. It was actually an understatement. “The first guy … as far as we can tell was happily married, a successful professor at a big university, and we now have the second vic, who has no identity really, living in an essentially empty house in a downtrodden neighborhood. Not at all alike, but they were killed in the exact same way.”

Carl was in his early forties, tough but without Santiago's outward bravado, and he leaned back and looked at her with true consideration. “The face-slashing thing again?”

“Worse this time.” She didn't want to think about it. Any of it. Her dynamic with Bryce, the murder scenes, her mother's illness …

“Hmm.” Grasso was nice-looking in a sort of understated way, but his eyes were certainly his best asset. Keen, riveting, and a compelling silver color. Even thoughtful, as he was at this moment, he just looked savvy and maybe a little too intense.

“Like an
empty
house,” she told him with emphasis, a phone ringing in the background. “No furniture except a mattress, really, and a new television, and in the bedroom we found a backpack with a couple of shirts and a dirty pair of jeans. The trash had fast-food wrappers and aluminum beer cans. I'm wondering if he could have been a squatter. We're trying to track down the current owner. A neighbor told us that an older man lived there for years but he died and it passed into his estate, such as it was. If you saw the neighborhood, you'd know what I mean. Not the worst I've seen, but not the best either. The neighbors have a vague recollection of a grandson or a nephew but didn't have a name. Someone must be paying taxes on it but it has never been up for sale, at least not with a realty sign out front. The electricity is on though, so as soon as the offices open, I imagine we'll have a better hold on who our owner might be at least.”

Maybe,
she thought with well-earned cynicism. People did some damn strange things.

Grasso rubbed his cleanly shaven chin. “But the first victim was married?”

Ellie took a drink from her cup of coffee. It needed more cream because whoever had made it apparently went for industrial strength. “Married to a woman with an airtight alibi, and that's where I got the happily so, once she got past the hysteria of hearing her husband was dead. Mrs. Peterson was at a charity dinner for the university. Her husband missed it. She wondered why and eventually called in a missing person report, worried he'd been in an accident. Some accident that was. By then, his body had been found behind a row of bushes by the parking lot. He was a well-respected biology professor, widely published, and by all accounts that we heard, had a nice life. He drove a Mercedes, lived by the lake, and had been married for twenty years. Like this new victim, he had no ID on him when he was found.”

Grasso adjusted the sleeve of his suit coat, his brow furrowed. “Robbery? There's got to be a link.”

“Well, there can't be too many people wandering around this fair city willing to do that kind of damage to another human being over their wallet.” Ellie recalled the haunting crime scene again and immediately tried to block the image. “At least I hope not. It's pretty brutal. If robbery is the motive, I can tell you that it
could
be robbery with the professor because he might have had money on him, but I highly doubt it with last night's victim. The dicey neighborhood aside, he had holes in his gloves and his coat wasn't heavy enough for a Wisconsin winter. He didn't have anything to steal besides that new television and it was still there. The door was partially open, so they could have taken it.”