Shaken (26 page)

I looked around. No one was fidgeting or sleeping. Even Harry seemed to be paying attention.

“If we’re going to discuss evil,” Dr. Horner went on, “first we must decide whether evil is defined as an act, or as a trait. Let’s do a thought experiment. An innocent, let’s say a child, is murdered. By a show of hands, is this an evil act?”

Almost every hand went up. I kept mine on my desk. Dr. Horner met my eyes, pointed at me.

“Your hand didn’t go up. Can you tell us why, Miss…?”

“Streng,” I said. “Jacqueline Streng. There might be altruistic intentions for the malice aforethought and…” my mind groped for the Latin term we recently learned, “
mens rea
.”

Dr. Horner smiled. “I see you’ve been studying hard, Miss Streng, but please cut the jargon and give me an example when murdering a child isn’t evil.”

“What if it’s a child dying of cancer, and in terrible pain? A parent, or someone else who loves the child, might attempt murder to end the suffering.”

“Excellent, Miss Streng. Mercy killing, by law, meets the requirements for murder. The act of committing the crime,
actus reus
, and the willful intent to commit the crime,
mens rea
, is indeed malice aforethought, and according to the present law, that parent is a murderer. In this scenario, how many of you think the act is evil?”

No one raised their hand. “But earlier, almost every hand was up. If the act itself isn’t evil, what is?”

Someone said, “Motive.”

“Ah.” Dr. Horner nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere. A parent’s decision to murder is based on ending a child’s agony. A noble, unselfish motive. Now let me show you a motive that’s a bit more selfish. Lights, please.”

Rostenkowski killed the lights, and Dr. Horner positioned himself behind a slide projector. He switched it on, and an image threw itself up on the movie screen on the far wall.

Someone coughed—an attempt to cover up a gag. I forced myself to look even though I had to hold my breath to do so. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“This victim has never been identified. The missing fingers and missing teeth have made it impossible to trace who she is. They were removed while she was still alive. The mutilation here—”

Dr. Horner used a pointer and tapped the screen, touching the victim’s pelvis.

“—was caused by a sharp instrument, a filet knife, or perhaps a scalpel. The victim was forced to eat these parts of herself. This white powder is salt, rubbed into the wounds. The burns here, here, here, and here were the result of a super-heated flame. Possibly a blowtorch.”

Dr. Horner turned away from the slide and stood in front of the screen, the ghastly image projected on his face and body.

“The autopsy determined, based on how some of the wounds had had time to heal, that she’d been tortured for at least twenty-four hours. We have no suspects, but some of the atrocities committed upon her have been seen in other, similar murders. The perpetrator has been dubbed
Unknown Subject K
by the FBI. We’ve taken to calling him Mr. K for short. Lights please, Sergeant.”

The overhead fluorescent light flickered on. It reduced the brightness of the slide, but not enough. Details could still be seen.

“Now I present to you my earlier question. By a show of hands, who believes Mr. K is evil?”

Every hand went up but mine. Dr. Horner focused on me. “Surely you don’t believe this is a mercy killing, Miss Streng.”

Titters from the peanut gallery. “No. Of course not.”

“So why didn’t you raise your hand?”

“I don’t know enough about the case.”

Dr. Horner folded his arms across his chest. “What more do you need to know?”

“Was she raped?”

“Aw, come on!” Harry, naturally. “She was tortured for an entire day! What does it matter if she was raped, too?”

“Rape is a crime of violence,” I stated, “but rapists tend to enjoy the act.”

Dr. Horner tilted his head. “Sexual assault is unverified. Those parts of her were cut away. No semen was found.”

“Was this the crime scene?” I asked. “Or was she dumped there?”

“We believe the apartment where she was discovered was where the crime was committed.”

“Were there condoms found in the apartment? Condom wrappers?”

“No.”

“Was it her apartment?”

“No. The room was supposed to be unoccupied.”

“Were there neighbors?”

Dr. Horner offered a small smile. “Yes, on either side.”

“No one heard her screams?”

“No. The same thing that allowed Mr. K to pry out her teeth also kept her from making any sound. A ball gag, holding her mouth open. Sold in sex shops across town and in the backs of pornographic magazines worldwide.”

“Did he use ball gags on his other alleged victims?”

“Let’s stick with this one. What is your reasoning that Mr. K might not be evil? His objective was obviously to cause pain and death.”

I tapped my eraser against my desk. “But what was his motive? Did he do this because he knew the victim and hated her? Is he a sexual predator, a lust killer, who derived pleasure from his acts? Or was this murder dispassionate? Maybe someone paid him to commit these acts, but he had no feelings about it one way or the other.”

“You’re going to make an excellent police officer, Miss Daniels,” Dr. Horner said.

“And I agree with you completely. Mr. K’s intent was to murder in a ghastly fashion, but his motive might have been personal, sexual, or even financial. But the question is, which is the most evil?”

Dr. Horner stepped closer to me, so the victim’s face projected onto his own.

“If you were at Mr. K’s mercy, Miss Streng, would you prefer him to be a sexual sadist who delighted in your agony, or a cold-blooded mercenary who dispassionately inflicted these tortures because he was just following orders?”

Chapter 2

1989, June 23

T
his guy isn’t a killer,
Dalton thinks.
He’s a butcher.

Dalton isn’t repulsed by the spectacle, or even slightly disturbed. He stays detached and professional, even as he snaps a picture of Brotsky tearing at the prostitute’s body with some kind of three-pronged garden tool.

There’s a lot of blood.

Dalton wonders if he should have brought color film. But there’s something classic, something pure, about shooting in black and white. It makes real life even more realistic.

Dalton opens the f-stop on the lens, adjusting for the setting sun. He’s standing in the backyard of Brotsky’s house, and his subject has been gracious enough to leave the blinds open. From his spot on the lawn, Dalton has a clear view into Brotsky’s living room, where the carnage is taking place. Though Brotsky has a high fence and plenty of foliage on his property, he’s still taking a big risk. There are neighbors on either side, and the back gate leading to the alley is unlocked. Anyone could walk by.

It’s not a smart way to conduct a murder.

Dalton has watched Brotsky kill two hookers in this fashion, and surely there have been others. Yet the Chicago Police Department hasn’t come knocking on Brotsky’s door yet. Brotsky has been incredibly lucky so far.

But luck runs out.

At least Brotsky has the sense to put a tarp down,
Dalton thinks. He snaps another photo. Brotsky’s naked barrel chest is slick with gore, and the look on his unshaven face is somewhere between frenzy and ecstasy as he works the garden tool. He’s not a tall man, but he’s thick, with big muscles under a layer of hard fat. Brotsky sweats a lot, and his balding head gives off a glare which Dalton offsets by using a filter on his lens.

Brotsky sets down the garden tool and picks up a cleaver.

Yeah, this guy is nuts.

Truth told, Dalton has done worse to people, at least as far as suffering goes. If the price is right, Dalton will drag someone’s death out for hours, even days. But Dalton gets no pleasure from the task. Killing is simply his business.

Brotsky is killing to meet baser needs. Sex. Power. Blood lust.
Hunger,
Dalton muses, taking a shot of Brotsky with his mouth full of something moist.

If Brotsky sticks to his MO, he’ll dismember the girl, wrap up her parts in plastic bags, and then take her severed head into the shower with him. When Brotsky returns, he’ll be squeaky clean, and the head will be gone. Then he’ll load the bags into his car and haul them to the dump site.

Dalton guesses it will be another eleven minutes. He waits patiently, taking occasional snapshots, wondering what Brotsky does with the heads. Dalton isn’t bothered by the heat or the humidity, even though it’s close to ninety degrees and he’s wearing a suit and tie. Unlike Brotsky, Dalton doesn’t sweat. Dalton has pores. He just never feels the need to use them.

Exactly eleven minutes and nine seconds later, Brotsky walks out his back door, dressed in shorts, sandals, and a wrinkled blue Hawaiian shirt. He’s lugging several black plastic garbage bags. The man is painfully unaware, and doesn’t even bother looking around. He walks right past Dalton, who’s hiding behind the girth of an ancient oak tree, gun in hand.

The hit man falls into step behind the butcher, his soft-soled shoes silent on the walkway. He trails Brotsky, close as a shadow, for several steps before jamming the Ruger against the fat man’s back. Brotsky stops cold.

“This is a gun, Victor Brotsky. Try to run and I’ll fire. The bullet will blow your heart out the front of your chest. Neither of us wants that to happen. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Brotsky says. “Can I put down these bags? They’re heavy.”

Brotsky doesn’t seem frightened, or even surprised. Dalton is impressed. Perhaps the man is more of a pro than Dalton had guessed.

“No. We’re going to walk, slowly, out to the alley. My car is parked there. You’re going to put the pieces of the hooker in the trunk.”

Brotsky does as he’s told. Dalton’s black 1989 Eldorado Roadster is parked alongside Brotsky’s garage. The car isn’t as anonymous as Dalton would prefer, but he needs to keep up appearances. The wiseguys he works for like Caddys, and driving the latest model somewhat compensates for the fact that Dalton isn’t Italian.

“Trunk’s open. Put the bags inside and take out the red folder.”

Brotsky hefts the bags into the trunk, and they land with a solid thump. The alley smells like garbage, and the summer heat makes the odor cling. Dalton moves the gun from the man’s back to his neck.

“Take the folder,” Dalton says.

The light from the trunk is sufficient. Brotsky opens the folder, begins to page through several eight-by-ten photos of his two previous victims. He lingers on one that shows him grinning, holding up a severed leg. It’s Dalton’s personal favorite. Black and white really is the only way to go.

“I’m a schoolteacher,” Brotsky says with the barest trace of a Russian accent. “I don’t have much money.”

Dalton allows himself a small grin. He likes how Brotsky thinks. Maybe this will work out after all.

“I don’t want to blackmail you,” Dalton says. “My employer is a very important Chicago businessman.”

Brotsky sighs. “Let me guess. I slaughtered one of his whores, and now you’re going to teach me a lesson.”

“Wrong again, Victor Brotsky. See the lunch box in the corner of the trunk? Open it up.”

Brotsky follows the instructions. The box is filled with several stacks of twenty-dollar bills. Three thousand in cash, total.

“What is this?” Brotsky asks.

“Consider it a retainer,” Dalton says. “My employer wants to hire you.”

“Hire me for what?”

“To do what you’re doing for free.” Dalton leans forward, whispers in Brotsky’s plump, hairy ear. “He wants you to kill some prostitutes.”

Brotsky turns around slowly, and his lips part in a smile. His breath is meaty, and he has a tiny bit.

“This employer of yours,” Brotsky says. “I think I’m going to like working for him.”

Chapter 3

1989, August 15

I
didn’t become a cop to do things like this.

The red vehicle pulled up and honked at me. It was one of those strange combinations of a car and a truck; I think they were called SUVs. This one said “Isuzu Trooper” on the fender. I found them to be too big and blocky, especially for an urban setting like Chicago. And with gas prices up to almost $1.20 a gallon, I doubted the trend would catch on.

The night was hot, humid as hell, and I was sweating even though I was nearly naked.

My candy apple red lipstick kept smearing in the heat, forcing me to reapply it. I had the whole block to myself, having chased the other girls away earlier. I’d done them a favor; action was molasses slow. Plus, the city was eight days into a garbage strike, and the stink coming from the alley was a force of nature.

“Your call, Jackie,”
my earpiece said. My partner, Officer Harry McGlade, waited in a vintage Mustang parked up the street.

“Aren’t you bored with this game yet?” I said into the microphone, which was hidden in my Madonna push-up bustier—an item that should have been worn under a top, not as a top.
Jacqueline Streng, working girl.
I reached inside the cup and readjusted my boob. The transmitter was the size of a pack of cigarettes, but harder and heavier, the sharp corners not meant to be wedged tight against delicate female anatomy. It hurt. The wires trailed up my bra strap, and to the earpiece, hidden by my Fredrick’s of Hollywood blonde Medusa wig.

“I’ll be bored when I’m actually ahead a few bucks,”
Harry said.
“Go on. Guess.”

I squinted at the guy behind the wheel. The street was dark, but he had his interior light on while he looked around for something. Possibly his wallet. Hopefully not a straight razor or an Uzi. He was Caucasian, late forties, balding, thick glasses. White collar, probably married with kids.

“BJ,” I said to Harry.

“Naw. I’m guessing something pervy.”

“He looks like a member of the PTA.”