Shaken (19 page)

A few steps later, I touched it. Big. Square. Vibrating slightly beneath my palms.

A refrigerator.

Actually, two refrigerators, side by side.

This was good. Fridges had lights. If I opened the doors, I’d be able to see.

I sought the handle of the closer one, stepped back, and pulled.

No light came on. And the rancid meat smell got worse.

Reaching a tentative hand inside, fearful I’d touch something awful, I began to explore the fridge.

It was empty. Even the drawers and the racks were gone. I thought back to the morgue, to Phil Blasky and his assertion that the body had been kept in a refrigerator.

Shivering, I reached for its companion.

I really didn’t want to open it. But at the same time, I knew I had to.

Filling my lungs, blowing out a deep breath, I stood in front of the second fridge.

Just do it.

I yanked the door open, staring inside.

Ten sets of eyes stared back at me, belonging to the ten human heads stacked neatly on the refrigerator’s wire shelves.

Present day

2010, August 10

W
hen Phin saw Jack on the iPhone screen, tied up on the floor and helpless, he wanted to put his fist through the wall.

“There are, ah, controls,” Warden Miller said. He was a meaty, red-faced man who had a mustache that rivaled Herb’s. “If you tap the image, you can zoom in, move the camera a bit.”

Grinding his molars, Phin followed Miller’s instructions and a white cross appeared on the screen, superimposed over Jack. By touching different parts, he could pan and tilt. Two white dots, when pressed, let him move in and out. Phin got a close-up of Jack’s terrified, crying face, a ball gag in her mouth. Then the man in the room with her stood in front of the camera, blocking the shot. The man wore a hat, the overhead camera view making it impossible to see his face.

“You talked to Brotsky?” Phin asked the warden. He felt as if his veins were full of antifreeze.

“He’s not saying anything.”

“Can we talk to him?” Herb asked. He was standing over Phin’s shoulder. Harry sat in the chair across he warden’s expansive desk, with his face in his hands.

“Of course,” Miller said. “We’ve got him in the isolation unit.”

Driving into the visitor’s parking lot of Stateville Correctional Center made Phin feel a bit nervous. After all, he was wanted for several crimes, and Stateville might be where he wound up if he were ever caught. The complex itself seemed to be designed for the express purpose of intimidating anyone who walked in. A thirty-foot-high concrete wall, topped with razor wire, surrounded the institution. The main buildings were called
round houses
, and as their name implied, they were circular, with the cells arranged along the walls. In the center of each was a watchtower. This design was known as
panopticon
, which made the inmates feel that at any given time, they were being watched by the guards.

Warden Miller led the trio down an officious-looking hallway, through a barred security door, and into a very long corridor. The air was warm, stuffy, and smelled like sweat and desperation. Phin clenched the iPhone in his hand, watching the image. He wished there was audio, because the man seemed to be talking. Then he lifted his head up and stared right into the camera. Phin didn’t recognize the guy—he didn’t have long black hair like Luther Kite supposedly did. But Kite easily could have cut and dyed it.

“Herb, Harry, check out this man’s face.”

They crowded in around him, but as soon as they did, the man’s face was obscured by something he was holding up to the camera. Something small and thin, made of white plastic. Phin zoomed out, trying to focus, and the lens adjusted automatically—

—showing two clear blue lines on Jack’s pregnancy test. The one Phin hadn’t been able to find.

“Is that…?” Harry’s voice trailed off.

“Jesus Christ.” Herb put his hand over his mouth. “She’s pregnant.”

Phin felt the edges of his vision get dark. He quickly handed off the phone to Harry and then turned away, dropping to his knees, clutching his belly as he threw up on the tile floor.

Three years ago

2007, August 8

S
ix Corners used to be an historic shopping district, clustered around an intersection where Milwaukee Avenue, Cicero Avenue, and Irving Park Road all intersected.

National Storage was housed in a six-level brownstone, and Tom Mankowski, along with his partner, Roy Lewis, were standing on the sidewalk in front. Tom was tall, lean, and in profile he looked a lot like the image of Thomas Jefferson on the nickel. Roy was a bit stockier, broader in the shoulders, and resembled the boxer Marvin Hagler.

I parked in front of a fire hydrant, figuring I’d disregarded the law so many times that day, once more wouldn’t matter. I normally wasn’t such an
ends justifies the means
type of person, but endanger the life of a child and I was willing to be flexible.

“Have you been inside yet?” I asked as we approached. Both men wore suits, as befitting Homicide detectives, though Roy’s fit better and was less rumpled.

“Just got here, when we saw your bucket roll up,” Roy said.

“My bucket?” I said.

Roy became sheepish. “I meant your classic vintage automobile, Lieutenant.”

I turned to Tom. “Background on John Smith?”

“Manager wouldn’t reveal personal details over the phone. Said we had to show up in person and prove we were cops before he gave us an address.”

“Then let’s go prove it.”

The lobby was a step up from Merle’s U-Store-It, and contained a water cooler and several floor plants, along with a security camera hanging on the wall. The watchman sat behind a large desk, sans bulletproof glass. His nametag read AL. He was in his sixties, and had a gray pompadour that rivaled the King’s during his
Blue Hawaii
years. He also smelled like he took a bath in cheap cigars.

“You the cops?” Al asked.

All four of us flashed our tin.

Al nodded. “I took the liberty of pulling up John Smith’s rental agreement.”

He tapped some papers on his desk, which Herb snatched up. It was refreshing to deal with someone cooperative for a change.

“Do you recall what John Smith looks like?” I asked. “No idea. We got close to a thousand units here, and six other employees.” He reached into his desk and pulled out half a cigar.

“Can we check out his locker?”

He nodded. “Absolutely. We reserve the right to examine the contents of our renters’ units if we believe they contain dangerous or illegal materials.” Al jammed the cigar into the hinge of his mouth, then pulled a bolt cutter from under his desk. “Let’s go and see.”

We walked down an access hall, to the freight elevator. “According to this, John Smith lives in Portage Park,” Herb said, reading the paperwork. “Paid by credit card. He’s had the unit for two months.”

I wasn’t feeling good about this one. John Smith was a common name, and it was doubtful Dalton would rent a locker somewhere with security cameras.

“What’s this guy done?” the manager asked just as the lift arrived. “Kill somebody? Drugs? Kill somebody for drugs?”

“We think he’s smuggling Cuban cigars,” Tom said. “You ever have a Cuban?”

“Years ago. Best thing I ever put in my mouth.”

“These are special cigars,” Tom said, “full leaf wrappers, rolled between the thighs of promiscuous women.”

Apparently Tom didn’t feel good about this one either.

The elevator spit us out on the fifth floor, and Al led us to unit 515. Wielding the bolt cutters with apparent enthusiasm, Al snapped off the combination lock and gripped the door handle. He pulled it up in a quick, smooth motion, lifting the door up on rollers, and we all got one of the biggest surprises of our lives.

Twenty-one years ago

1989, August 17

T
he severed heads were all female, lined up carefully on the refrigerator shelves so they all stared at me. Some were more decomposed than others, the bluing flesh decaying and clinging to the bone, making them appear mummified. Others were so fresh they almost looked ready to start speaking.

Each of their faces was grotesquely slathered with makeup. Fire-engine red lipstick, thickly applied and wider than the actual mouth. Pink rouge bright on the pale cheeks. Their wide eyes—their most shocking feature—were missing eyelids, the sockets framed in dark eyeliner. Some of the eyes were milky white. Others had begun to shrivel, like raisins.

The stench blasted over me, prompting a gag. I slammed the fridge closed and backed up, once again plunging the basement into darkness. Every square inch of my naked body had broken out in goosebumps. I stood there for a moment, my mind wrestling with the horror I’d just seen, the implications of it. I tried to swallow, but my throat was too tight. This was so far removed from anything I considered reality, I felt a mental break, a disconnect. Like I was watching someone else go through this, instead of experiencing it myself.

I blew out a big breath, so hard my cheeks puffed out. Awful as it was, I knew what I needed to do.

I had to escape, and get help.

In order to do that, I needed light.

Reaching out through the darkness, I groped for the refrigerator door handle. My fingers locked around it, and I questioned my will to actually open it again, to view the obscenity once more.

I pulled.

The heads stared back, their dead eyes boring into me.

Leaving the door open, I turned around, taking in my surroundings, needing to concentrate. The overhead metal girders and steel support beams confirmed that I was in a basement. A small basement, with two windows sealed with glass blocks. There was a wooden staircase in the near corner, leading up to a closed door. A water heater and furnace stood against the far wall.

I needed a weapon, but nothing jumped out at me. Wincing, I once again focused on the refrigerator. The freezer door was still closed. Much as I didn’t want to, perhaps there was something in there that could help me. I crept up to it, braced myself, and tugged the door open.

Empty.

Then, from upstairs, I head a soul-shattering, mind-blowing scream.

Present day

2010, August 10

M
r. K stares down at Jack Daniels, her teary eyes wide with fear.

She is indeed something special. It’s almost a shame to reduce her to the squealing, pleading animal she would soon become.

He has killed a hundred and sixty-three people. He’s sure of this number, because he took meticulous notes. They always end the same way, terrified and screaming, bleeding and gasping. Even the strong ones, the hard ones, the brave ones, eventually broke.

Broke
is the correct word for it. When enough pain is induced, human beings cease to be human anymore. They revert to a primal state, with no higher reasoning.

This will quite possibly be the last murder of his illustrious career, and he almost didn’t take this job. But it seemed like a fitting, final chapter to his life. A satisfying last act, to neatly bookend all that came before.

Plus, the money was extraordinary.

“Victor Brotsky sends his regards, Lieutenant,” he says, pointing up at the overhead camera. “He paid me a great deal to be here for this historic event. I find it fitting that he chose me, don’t you?”

Jack screams something into her gag.

“You’ll get a chance to talk soon,” Mr. K says. “I’m going to put you under for a moment. When you wake up, you’ll be on the Catherine Wheel. Then we’ll begin. I must say, I was quite surprised to find that pregnancy test in your bathroom garbage. You didn’t think this is a bit of a late start? Why did you wait so long to have a baby, Jack? Had you done so at a reasonable age, your child could be in college by now. Instead, its life will be over before it has even begun.”

Mr. K opens up the black bag he’s brought along, taking out a syringe and a glass vial.

“Luckily, I still have some friends in town. Medical supplies are so hard to get on short notice.”

He sticks the needle in the vial, filling it with the sedative, plunging it into Jack’s arm. As her eyelids begin to flutter, Mr. K takes another item out of the bag, holding it in front of Jack’s face.

“Take this, for example. You can’t simply waltz into any drugstore and buy a high-grade speculum like this one.”

Jack screams once more as she drifts away to unconsciousness.

Three years ago

2007, August 8

“T
hat’s just…
wrong
,” Tom said.

The five of us were gaping at the contents of John Smith’s storage unit. The twenty-by-twenty-foot locker was populated by lawn gnomes. Hundreds of them. They were all lined up in rows, each maybe eighteen inches tall. Red, pointy hats. Green suits. White beards.

“There’s a whole army of them,” Tom said. “Like they’re ready to march out of here and fight a tiny little war.”

“That settles it.” Herb nodded his head, his chins jiggling. “I’m buying a lottery ticket later.”

“Buy one for me, too,” I told him.

As far as lawn gnomes went, these weren’t particularly attractive. Their pinched, elvin faces had odd, shocked expressions on them, and their backs were bowed, as if suffering from some sort of gnome scoliosis.

“What is wrong with you white people?” Roy asked.

“Excuse me?” Al said.

“You don’t see no brothers putting these creepy little fuckers out on their lawns.”

“How about that one?” Herb asked, pointing.

One of the gnomes had brown skin.

“I am not seeing that,” Roy said, shaking his head. “That doesn’t exist for me.”

I tilted slightly left, then right. The gnomes seemed to be tracking my movement, their eyes following me. It was eerie.