Killing Red (27 page)

This window, like the one Chapa had climbed out of, appeared to be original, meaning that it was more than half a century old and built to last. He wondered how much force it would take to break the double-thick glass, and how much of a racket it could make.

No doubt he had already broken a law or two by climbing out there and peeking in through a window. But it couldn’t be anything too bad, not yet at least. Calling Andrews back and carefully and calmly explaining his actions, then asking his friend for help was an option.

It was not too late to do that, but he worried it might be too late for Annie. Explaining his situation in a way that would make sense to a federal agent would not be easy, and by the time Andrews got people together and up to the North Side, twenty, thirty, maybe more precious minutes could be lost.

He lifted himself back into a squat. Then Chapa coaxed his left arm out of its sleeve and slipped his shoulder free, then bunched the sports coat around his right elbow. Remembering what Mr. Swinn had taught him in his high school physics class, Chapa aimed for as close to the middle as he could reach, and drove his elbow into the glass with one sharp strike.

The window shook just a little, but the impact did more damage to Chapa’s arm and shoulder than to the glass. He struck it again, then again, six times in succession, until he heard a faint cracking sound.

He ran his hand along the pane but could not locate the weak spot. Tapping on it, Chapa realized the glass was even thicker than he had anticipated. Greater force was needed.

With each blow he had risked losing his balance, and then everything else. Besides, his elbow was throbbing, and the cut in his back was barking at him in a big way.

He rolled his upper body inward, turned his head away, and drove his right shoulder and elbow into the glass. Once again, he heard an encouraging though faint sound, but there was no give. Chapa looked closely at the window to see if there was some way to pry it open. It was sealed tight. Deciding that he had not given it his all the last time, and knowing that his options were less than limited, he leaned forward until he could see the alley below, then threw as much force as he could generate into the stubborn glass.

For a moment, the entire window seemed to bow, allowing Chapa a split second to consider what might happen if the whole thing gave. Then the glass shattered and he tumbled into the darkness beyond.

He fell to the floor, taking with him the small table and the plants on it. His shoulder struck hard against the wooden slats, and was immediately sandwiched by the full weight of his body. Chapa lay there for a moment, and wondered how the stitches in his back were holding up.

The window remained in place, and Chapa knew he was lucky to have avoided the jagged pieces of glass that were still clinging to the top and bottom of the frame like teeth to badly damaged gums. There was more light in the room now, but it was all coming from outside the broken window. Chapa looked back in its direction and wondered if this is what live prey sees just before the predator closes its mouth.

Knowing he was in a vulnerable position, Chapa quickly rolled to his knees, then stood and looked around before brushing off bits of glass and surveying for blood. He waited for the sting to set in, knowing that razor cuts can take a few seconds to show. But the only fresh wound was the one he’d earned by landing on his shoulder, and there would be time to worry about that later.

His heart was sprinting, and that was comforting in a way, as though his body and mind were in perfect sync. At that moment, Chapa’s awareness of everything around him was electric. He was in the zone.

The apartment was set up a lot like Annie’s, but with much less stuff in it. Chapa did not bother calling out to anyone, figuring that half of Chicago had probably heard him crash through the window, and anyone in the apartment already knew he was there.

He took a moment to look around as much as he could. Across the way, Chapa saw the opening to what he assumed was the kitchen, but it was too dark to see anything else.

In the limited light, he saw a mattress pressed against one wall of the living room. It had no box springs or frame, but looked well-slept in. Across from the makeshift bedding stood a neatly organized work center that included a large, cheap wood desk.

An envelope Chapa had seen through the window was sitting on top of the desk. He picked it up and studied the label. It was just like the one the postman was carrying. Next to the envelope was a magazine that Chapa had noticed from outside as well. He flipped through it and confirmed his suspicions.

In one of the drawers he found packing supplies, in another a ledger and a smattering of files. The largest drawer was heavier than the others, and filled with video and audio tapes. Most were unmarked, a few had dates scribbled on neatly applied labels.

An old trunk sat on the floor. It had been painted green at some point, but that was probably not its original color. Chapa tried to bend down and examine it, but that hurt like hell, so he compromised and settled for a full squat.

The wooden trunk was unlocked, but the lid was heavy and it opened unevenly. He tried to look inside, but none of the light from the window could reach it. He switched on a small lamp that was at the far side of the desk, and was able to see more of the room, though there wasn’t much there. The lamp’s cord extended just enough that Chapa was able to hold it over the trunk.

Inside he found a series of ropes and bindings, as well as a pair of pliers, some cutting tools, and a gray metal tackle box, which he carefully removed and set on the floor. It was old and heavy, and reminded him of one that he’d had as a kid.

This one, however, was not packed with lures. Chapa flipped the lid open and found syringes, including one filled to capacity. He rubbed the back of his neck and wondered if that needle had been used on him. Three of the small bottles, the kind a doctor plunges a needle into, were labeled,
Perc, SP,
and
Rohy
. Under a half-full bottle, Chapa found a list of drugs with various amounts assigned to each. A medicinal cocktail recipe—a pinch of this, two drops of that, mix well, inject into victim.

He also found some gauze and suture tucked alongside a pair of surgical scissors. At the bottom, he discovered some medical clamps and a larger, unlabeled bottle that was half filled with a clear liquid.

Chapa was reaching inside the trunk for the bottle when a noise stopped him. It was not like the one he’d heard when he was listening through the door. This was more of a shuffling sound that came from back in the far darkness, not too close, but definitely somewhere in the apartment. Maybe a pet moving around, or a breeze sneaking through an open window. Maybe something else.

He took the shade off the lamp and used it like a low grade flashlight to scan the room until he found what he was looking for. There was a light switch on the dividing wall between the kitchen and a hallway that led to the rooms.

After putting the lamp back on the desk, Chapa returned the tackle box to the trunk, then quickly moved across the room and flipped the switch on. A single bulb that should have been replaced long ago illuminated much of the walls and most of the floor, but left the corners and far end of the hall to the imagination.

He looked back toward the front door and confirmed that it was locked, though the deadbolt had not been turned and the chain lock dangled freely. The floor creaking beneath his feet, Chapa started down the hall.

The first door on his right opened to a small bathroom. A single beige towel hung over the shower curtain. Chapa pressed his hand to it and found it was damp. He pulled the curtain back, revealing an empty tub, but the scattered drops of water clinging to the porcelain suggested it had been used earlier that same day.

Chapa left the bathroom light on as he continued down the hall. He stopped about halfway down, at a narrow closet door on his left. Inside he found a single empty hanger.

The bedrooms would be at the far end of the hall, one on each side, just like they had been down in Annie’s place. A pungent smell was coming from that end of the apartment.

Standing between the two closed doors for a moment, Chapa tried to quiet his thoughts and listen for any sound. He heard nothing. Remembering the layout of the other apartment, Chapa decided to check out the room on his left, the one that corresponded with Annie’s bedroom, first. The smell hit him full on as soon as he opened the door. Not being able to see anything inside increased the putrid odor’s impact.

It was a combination of sulfur and rotting food, blended with a bleachy medicinal tinge. The windows were covered with thick dark curtains, and the only light he could find had to fight its way through a filthy ceiling fixture that was caked with dead insects. Several black garbage bags, some filled to the breaking point, others no more than halfway, were strewn around the room in no particular fashion.

Chapa assumed they were the source of the smell, but decided to leave that for the cops to confirm. A large slab of wood, longer than a door and just as wide, rested on a pair of sawhorses. The makeshift table was stained various shades of brown and red with a few white splotches mixed in.

More pieces of hardware, including a couple of saws, a set of screwdrivers, and a length of chain were scattered across the table. A navy blue ski mask that could’ve been the one Chapa had seen the gunman wearing in the holdup video had been casually tossed beside the tools, but there was no gun on the table.

At the end closest to him, several unmarked gallon bottles were lined up behind a series of paint trays. Chapa picked up one of the bottles, unscrewed the cap, and took a whiff. Rubbing alcohol.

He noticed one item that was out of place with everything else on the table. It was the photo of Mikey that had disappeared from his wallet while he’d been unconscious. Chapa picked up the child’s picture and slipped it into his shirt pocket without giving a damn about fingerprints or any other possible evidence.

The wall above the work area was covered with newspaper and magazine stories. Time had yellowed many of them, others appeared to have been photocopied. The oldest and most brittle was Chapa’s original piece that ran the morning after Grubb’s capture. Annie’s name had been circled in black pencil, and the newspaper story was neatly taped in place, next to a page out of a
TV Guide
from the late-nineties that listed a cable documentary on Kenny Lee Grubb.

There were several other photos on the wall, including one of a man Chapa recognized as Officer Pete Rudman. In the picture Rudman was mowing the front lawn of a simple ranch home, apparently unaware that someone was watching. Two additional photos of an unsuspecting Rudman showed him coming out of a grocery store with his wife, and casually getting in a few holes of golf.

Chapa now realized, maybe for the first time, that staying with the Kenny Lee Grubb story all of those years had probably saved his life. Dominic Delacruz had been murdered, and Pete Rudman’s death certainly deserved another look. He didn’t want to think about Annie already being dead, but knew it was more than a possibility. So there it was, like a circle formed by connecting the dots. The girl, the store owner, the cop, and he had to place himself in that group, the reporter. Chapa was still alive only because Grubb wanted him to finish telling the story. What had Grubb said to him a few days ago?
The circle will be complete.

He spotted four more of his stories taped to the wall. After a couple of minutes of searching for his byline, and trying to make some sense out of something only a lunatic could understand, Chapa realized he was making a mistake by getting drawn into the grizzly display. He forced himself to turn away and examine the rest of the room.

The wall-length closet at the other end was closed, and Chapa decided to leave it that way. Getting to it would mean stepping around one of the garbage bags, and over another, and the foul combination of odors was starting to get to him. His senses were still torqued from the buzz of navigating that ledge. Everything was keen and right on the surface.

Chapa left the room and shut the door tightly behind him. The smell had clawed up into his nose and seemed to be following him closer than his own shadow. He walked over to the other door and turned the knob without hesitation.

Locked.

He tried it again to make sure it wasn’t just jammed, but it would not budge. He jiggled it up and down. The lock felt new, but had some give to it. A few years earlier Chapa had written a series on the various techniques that criminals regularly used. It earned him an award, but the recognition did not land him the raise he’d expected. The trophy itself, a gold hand clutching a quill, served as a paperweight for several months until he finally tossed it in a box with the others. But now he would finally get something of value from that experience.

He tapped on the door and determined it had a hollow core. This would not take long. Chapa stepped back, then slammed his foot into the thin wood, just a few inches from the knob. He didn’t worry about the mess or noise. What’s a flimsy door after you’ve already scattered the living room window all over the floorboards?

The second time, he heard the wood around the lock begin to crack. His third kick sent the door swinging open. As the light from the hall made its way inside, Chapa could see that this room was different from any he had ever been in. The high voltage sensation was still jetting through his system, but now there was something else happening too.

Instincts or intuition, whatever its name, was telling him that things here were even more twisted than he could imagine.

He reached through the splintered door frame and groped around for the switch, determined to get a better look before going any farther. When he found it, Chapa hesitated for a moment, then flipped the switch, and light filled the room.

Chapa stood fixed in the doorway, trying to decide whether to step into the room or get out of that apartment as fast as his bruised and adrenaline fueled body would allow him to.