Knorath, Joe - Jack Daniels 03 - Rusty Nail (21 page)

The air was heavy with decay, and several insects buzzed around us. Blowflies. They laid their eggs in dead flesh.

We found the corpse in the kitchen. And it was ugly.

It sat in a chair, and was recognizable as a male, barely, because a few patches of hair clung to its face. The torso was bloated, the skin on the bare chest split as if sliced open. Maggots squirmed in the wounds, and black and yellow carrion beetles scurried over ruined flesh in tiny roadways. They’d devoured much of the face, the lips, the eyes, the nose.

Blue jeans, stained black with putrefying fluid, hugged the thighs. The feet were bound to the chair legs with wire, which cut to the bone.

The male cop went running for the door, hand over mouth. The female cop, her name tag said
Lindy,
also put hand to mouth, but stood firm. I held my breath and walked closer.

Cause of death wasn’t easily apparent. I concentrated on the ruin of a face, trying to see past the mottled flesh, past the insect activity, searching for some evidence of trauma. Nothing stood out.

I walked around to the other side of the corpse. The hands were wired together behind the chair. All ten fingers were missing, and a pool of dried blood stained the floor beneath them.

The insects hadn’t eaten the fingers; there were defined cuts along the knuckles. I scanned the floor for digits, not finding any.

That made me wonder again about the cause of death. I took a closer look at the face, still holding my breath, my heart beating faster and faster in an attempt to squeeze some extra oxygen from my blood. I peered inside the mouth, partially obscured by blowfly larva and beetles scuttling over stained teeth, and proved my hunch correct.

Outside on the front porch I sucked in clean air and tried to ignore the Indy cop fertilizing the lawn with his breakfast.

Officer Lindy called for a Crime Scene Unit and the coroner using her lapel mike, and then walked up to me.

“How’d he die? The chest wounds?”

I shook my head. “The rents in the chest occurred after death. Gases were released while he decomposed, and they stretched the skin and broke through. This guy died of suffocation.”

“How?” Her pallor resembled the sidewalk, but I gave her points for trying to learn from the situation. “Killer put a bag over his head?”

“No. Someone jammed his severed fingers down his throat. Probably tried to make him eat them.”

I looked across the lawn, down the street, at all of the middle-class suburban homes. A nice community that would never fully recover from the notoriety once this story got out.

I could have stuck around, kept an eye on the investigation, but there was no point to it. If the killer left evidence, I’d hear about it eventually. I had no doubt the deceased was the unfortunate Mike Mayer. Perhaps he had some connection to the killer, something that provoked his awful death. Or perhaps he was simply murdered for his identity, and tortured just for fun.

Either way, the guy I sought wasn’t in Indianapolis. He was in Chicago.

I gave Officer Lindy my card, then hopped in my car and headed north.

CHAPTER 32

I
CALLED THE
hospital on the way back to Chicago, and Bernice put a very groggy Herb on the phone.

“I had a heart attack, Jack.”

I forced a jovial tone.

“Astonishing, considering the peak condition you keep yourself in. Have they scheduled surgery yet?”

“Wednesday. Doctor told me my arteries look like Interstate 90 during rush hour.”

“Look on the bright side. At least you’re not dying of cancer.”

A long pause. My attempts at humor weren’t working.

“Jack . . . if I don’t make it . . .”

“Don’t talk like that, Herb.”

“I’m having a triple bypass.”

“Everyone has a bypass or three these days. It’s like going in for an oil change.”

“An oil change only costs twenty bucks.”

Herb began to cough, and I heard Bernice yell at him to stop coughing or he’d tear his stitches.

“Look, Jack, if . . . if the oil change goes bad, I want you to know that you’re the best cop I know, and I love you like a sister.”

Herb began to sing the chorus of “You’ve Got a Friend” by James Taylor, and Bernice took away the phone.

“He’s taking a lot of morphine, Jack. Don’t mind him.”

“What’s the prognosis?”

“He had more tests. They came back bad. That’s why they’re operating again so soon.”

“Why wasn’t this diagnosed earlier? He just had a colonoscopy.”

“I’m guessing it’s hard to diagnose a heart condition by sticking a camera up your ass.”

I’d never known Bernice to swear. The strain she was under must have been awful.

“I’ll call later.”

I made good time, stopping once for a fast food burger and fries and once for gas and some Yellow Bombers, legal amphetamine pills made with caffeine and synepherine and sold in packets of two. Truckers took them to stay awake. My lack of sleep had caught up with me, and mile after mile of nothing but flat, boring plains did nothing to keep me alert.

I arrived at the station at a quarter after four, heart pounding and palms sweating. I called Hajek, and he’d managed to get Mulrooney’s answering machine back to the lab without losing the messages. Of course, a voice print would only help with a conviction if we caught the guy, and I was no closer to catching him than I was when this case started.

I called up Al at the car rental place and asked if the Titanium Pearl Eclipse had been returned.

“Not sure. Hold on.”

He put me on hold for eight minutes, and by the time he picked up again my blood pressure was so high I could have put out a fire by pricking my finger.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . nope.”

Justifying manpower in the Chicago Police Department was tricky. We had no evidence of any crime in our district, other than on the videotapes, and no clear-cut connection between those and the rented Titanium Pearl Eclipse. And since the car was rented under an assumed identity, there was a good chance it might not even be returned.

But no stone unturned and all that crap. I scoured the station and threw together six cops and had them meet in my office.

“This is shit detail. Stakeout, teams of two, eight-hour shifts. Can’t interfere with your regular assignments, but I’ll sign off on overtime.”

I explained the target and what to do in case the target was sighted, and let them figure out the details.

Bains would hang me for the overtime, but maybe this would all be over before the paperwork went past his desk. We’d catch the guy, or I’d be killed, and in either case my concerns weren’t monetary.

After dismissing the troops, I called the Gary PD and asked for anything they had on Bud Kork, Charles Kork, Caleb Ellison, Lorna Hunt Ellison, and the daughter Bud claimed was dead. The fax machine whirred, and the info came chugging in. Lots of it.

My phone rang, and the desk sergeant told me there was someone in the lobby asking for me. Holly Frakes, Harry’s fiancée. I’d forgotten we were going shooting, and wondered how I could blow her off.

Then I decided, why the hell not? Maybe firing off a few rounds would help to release tension.

I met Holly downstairs. She wore a fitted tee that had
VERSACE
embroidered on it, and tight, faded jeans with tears in the knees that were usually bought by women half her age. Red pumps, probably by some obscure designer whom I couldn’t afford, rounded out the ensemble.

“Hi, Jack!” She smiled, apparently happy to see me. I endured a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I love your top. Who is it?”

I glanced down at the poodle fabric sweater I wore. “Her name is Kathleen B. Local designer.”

“You have to take me there.”

I could think of few things I’d prefer less.

Holly must have mistook my silence for confusion. “You’re still up for some shooting, right?” She lifted a pink leather satchel. “I brought ordnance.”

“Sure. Range is in the basement. Come on back.”

The desk sergeant nodded at me behind two inches of bulletproof glass, and buzzed us through the security door. I led Holly past a maze of desks, to the rear staircase, and we descended two flights of metal stairs, her heels echoing like hail on a tin roof.

The shooting range occupied the entire basement. It resembled a four-lane bowling alley, though the lanes went back as far as seventy-five feet, while a bowling alley ended at sixty. The rangemaster, a lanky guy in his sixties whom everyone called Wyatt, flashed tobacco-stained teeth at us as we approached. Wyatt had been here almost as long as Bill in Evidence. He was one of the only cops in the city who shot as well as I did, though I didn’t have a cool cowboy nickname.

“Hello, ladies. Qualifying or having fun?”

“Fun.” Holly placed her satchel on Wyatt’s counter and unzipped the top. I doubted anyone else in the world used Louis Vuitton as a gun bag.

“Whatcha got in here?” Wyatt stuck his beak into the bag, then eyed Holly. “May I?”

“Please.”

He removed a pair of impressive automatics; black barrels, slides, and grips, silver butts and trigger guards. Wyatt let out a low whistle.

“McMallin Wolverines. Designed around the classic 1911 Colt. Serious hardware. You compete?”

“Sometimes.”

“Quick draw?”

“Sometimes. You spotted the mods.”

Wyatt turned the guns around in his hands. “Recessed front and rear sights, burr-style hammer, wider trigger, and it looks like a dehorning job. Nice one too.”

“Thanks. The hammer is stock, but I did the sights, trigger, and dehorning myself.”

Dehorning involved rounding every sharp angle on a gun, so it didn’t catch on holsters or clothing. It could improve a draw by several milliseconds.

Wyatt sighted the gun, worked the slide, and ejected the magazine.

“Chambered for nine mil?”

Holly offered a full-wattage smile. “Forty-fives are too big, and I’m just a girl.”

“I noticed. But I’m guessing that doesn’t hold you back much.”

“Not much.”

I unpursed my lips long enough to speak.

“Can we get some headgear, Wyatt, or are you going to fondle her weapons all night?”

My glare cut off any potential wisecracks. Every time I came down here to shoot, Wyatt flirted with me. Every single time, for the last fifteen years. Now he didn’t seem to notice I was even there.

Wyatt grabbed some field glasses and ear protectors off the wall, and Holly handed me a weapon. It was slightly large for my hand. The grip was high but the Pachmary rubber made it comfortable. It was wonderfully balanced, though it had to go two pounds—twice the weight of my .38.

“It’s the officer’s model,” Holly told me. “Five-inch barrel instead of six.” She winked at Wyatt. “Bigger isn’t always better.”

“Amen to that,” he said, handing out the gear.

Holly took out a plastic bag full of shiny brass rounds. Since they weren’t straight from the box, I assumed them to be reloads. Wyatt noticed too.

“You load your own?”

“Lots of gun nuts think the nine-millimeter round lacks the stopping power of a .40 or a .45, but I’ve found that it’s the bullet that makes the difference, not the caliber. I pour my own lead and load my shells to 150 grains. The expansion and penetration can compete with anything out there. Design can make up for weight and velocity.”

I respected weapons. I even got a certain degree of satisfaction from them, as I would from any high-performance tool. But this woman was the Martha Stewart of firearms.

Holly popped her clip and loaded it. When she reached ten bullets, she slapped it in, worked the slide to chamber a round, and dropped it back out to add one more shot to the clip. I pressed the oversized release catch and did the same. We each filled a spare clip as well.

“Silhouettes or bull’s-eyes?”

Holly asked for silhouettes. Wyatt handed us two 25" ¥ 35" targets, each featuring the life-sized torso and head of a man done in black ink. On the chest was a white area the size of a pineapple, with the number five in it. On the head, an orange-sized circle contained a number ten.

Holly and I donned our gear and each walked to a lane and attached the paper to the overhead metal line with spring clips. I pressed a lever and the target moved backward on a pulley system, traveling down the range.

I watched Holly, and she stopped at fifteen yards. I did the same.

The lane floors were covered in a thick layer of sand, and at the end of the range was a pockmarked metal wall, tilted on a forty-five-degree angle. Rounds went through the targets, hit the wall, and ricocheted into the ground, where they buried themselves.

I started with a two-handed grip to get used to the recoil. The first shot surprised me. Not only was the trigger pull less than I expected—it moved like butter—but the recoil was extremely light and the muzzle rise minimal. Must have had a compensator built in.