Shaken (37 page)

The third floor hallway was empty in both directions, and I didn’t see any open storage units. I walked slowly, looking at padlocks. Every door had either a lock, or a metal band that sealed the unrented units.

I turned the corner, then stopped. A few yards ahead, one of the doors to a storage unit was open about a foot and a half, some light pouring through the bottom.

“Third floor, unit 345,” I whispered to Herb. “Ask the manager who it belongs to.”

I listened to Herb ask, heard mild protestations and more talk of warrants, and then my partner used some very bad language and the manager became cooperative.

“Cute,”
Herb said.
“It’s rented under the name John Smith. Paid for the month, and the deposit, with cash. I’m looking at his rental agreement. Listed his place of residence as 2650 South California Avenue.”

Cute was right. That was the address of the Criminal Courts Building, adjacent to Cook County Jail.

“Check on our backup. I’m approaching 345.”

I dug out my Colt, its weigh reassuring, and approached the storage unit on the balls of my feet so my heels didn’t click. This was one of the larger units, with an orange metal door that lifted overhead on rollers. It was three-quarters of the way closed, which meant it was open about eighteen inches. When I got within three feet I squatted down, checking to see if someone was standing inside. I didn’t see legs, but toward the rear of the storage area I caught a shadow of movement.

I aimed my weapon at the door. “This is Lieutenant Daniels of the Chicago Police. I’m ordering the man in unit 345 to come out slowly, hands in the air. This is a direct command from a police officer.”

I pressed my back against the door of an adjacent unit, out of the line of fire. Then I listened.

No response. No movement.

“I repeat, a Chicago police officer is giving you an order. If you don’t come out right now, hands in the air, I will open fire.”

I wasn’t going to open fire. I could just picture the inquest and subsequent suspension and lawsuit if I shot someone through the door to a storage unit. But nine times out of ten, suspects usually followed my commands.

I waited. Apparently this was a one out of ten situation. Setting my jaw, I eased myself over to the door, getting down on one knee, looking under the space between it and the floor. Again I saw movement, near the rear.

Without hesitating, I gripped the underside of the door and jerked it, sending it upward on its rollers, extending my gun hand with my finger on the trigger, moving fast into the space, ready for anything.

But I wasn’t ready for this. In twenty years on the force, this was the most horrible thing I’d ever seen.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

“Jack?”
Herb said in my earpiece. He said some other things as well, but I didn’t hear them because I was bent over, throwing up my breakfast all over my Jimmy Choos—something I hadn’t done since I was a rookie working Vice.

When I recovered, I checked the hallway both left and right, sweeping the area even though the perp was obviously gone. The only thing the storage unit contained was the IV stand, an empty tripod, the machine, and the misshapen, naked, dead man with the slit throat.

Then the dead man opened his eyes. I couldn’t hear his agonizing moan through the ball gag, but his pinched face spoke of unbearable pain.

I hurried to him, hitting the button on the infernal machine to stop the rotation even though I was potentially contaminating a crime scene. Then I pressed my hand to the gushing wound in the man’s neck, even as he thrashed away from my touch.

“Herb! Call an ambulance! And cover the exit, our perp—”

“Holy shit.”

I heard Herb twice, first in both ears and then in one. I turned and saw him standing there, jaw open, staring at me and the vic.

Herb did what I’d done. He turned and puked.

My mind seemed to both slow down and speed up at the same time. If Herb was up here, there was no one covering the exit. We needed to catch that son of a bitch. But we also needed to save this poor bastard, which meant calling an ambulance. And I couldn’t take my hand off his neck, or off my gun, in case the perp came back.

“HERB!” I shouted with all I had. “AMBULANCE!”

He pulled it together, calling the paramedics on his radio, then calling backup to tell them to cover the car parked outside. Hot blood gushed through my fingers, down my arm.

“Backup’s still a minute away,” Herb said.

I thought about ordering him downstairs to try to head Mr. K off—because there was no doubt this was Mr. K—but I wouldn’t send him after that maniac without backup.

“Cover the hallway,” I said, tucking my gun into my holster and unbuckling the ball gag on the victim because he was blowing air through the hole in his neck.

As soon as the gag dropped free, he cried out in a voice that would haunt my nightmares forever.

“LET ME DIE! LET ME DIE!”

But I couldn’t let him die, even though he eventually did. I kept pressure on his neck wound, trying not to look at him, trying not to cry, not even able to talk soothingly to him as his life mercifully slipped away.

Chapter 3

W
hen backup arrived at Merle’s U-Store-It, there was more vomiting, every time someone new showed up. I got wise and pulled a garbage can over to the scene, but that was about the only wise thing I’d done that day. Even Phil Blasky, who had a stomach made of titanium and could often be seen eating lunch while doing an autopsy, flinched when he saw the body.

“He’s been here at least three days,” Blasky said during his cursory examination. “Maybe longer. He’s wearing an adult diaper. Got two healing IV marks on his arm, where the needle pulled out from the spinning.”

According to Blasky, Mr. K had visited the vic at least three times, to change his IV bag, keeping him hydrated and alive during the terrible agony he’d endured.

“Tripod probably held a camcorder,” Herb said. “Or maybe a camera taking time-lapse photos. Gives some cred to the theory that Mr. K is a hit man.”

I nodded. When the Outfit ordered an execution, they often wanted proof. A picture was a nice memento to keep around to remind you what you did to your enemies. Both Herb and I had worked cases before where videotapes were involved, but those were sex murders. This death didn’t appear to have a sexual element. This was about causing as much pain as possible.

The particular torture Mr. K employed dated back to medieval times, where it was known as the Catherine Wheel. It resembled a circus knife-throwing act, where someone was strapped to a large, round board, spread-eagled, and then spun in circles while knives hit the spaces between their limbs. But in this case, there were no thrown knives. The pain came from broken limbs—the victim’s arms and legs were each fractured in several places.

For seventy-two hours, a small electric motor had spun him slowly around, his compound fractures stretching and rubbing together, until his arms and legs were so swollen they looked like they’d been inflated.

I couldn’t imagine a more horrible way to die. “Nothing at all. Not a damn thing.” Officer Scott Hajek, from the crime scene team, frowned at me. He couldn’t find a single shred of evidence anywhere, inside or outside the unit. No fingerprints. No footprints. Even the floor had been swept prior to our arrival. Mr. K didn’t leave anything behind.

“Jack, I’d like to talk when you have a sec.”

I glanced at Herb, whose fat jowls were hanging down like a basset hound’s. Then I nodded and walked him down the hallway.

“I left my post,” he said when we were far enough away from the others. “You told me to wait downstairs and watch the exit.”

“Herb…”

“I screwed up, Jack. If you want to lodge a formal reprimand—”

“I don’t want to lodge a reprimand. Forget about it, Herb.” He stared at me, pained. I tried to keep my face neutral. Because it wasn’t Herb’s fault. He’d come to my aid when I didn’t respond. I was the one who should have exercised some control, told my partner the perp was on his way down.

It wasn’t Herb’s fault Mr. K got away.

It was mine.

And I deserved more than a reprimand. For letting that monster escape, I felt I deserved to have my badge taken away.

“Let’s focus on what to do next,” I said, eager to get off the subject of blame. “We’ve got his car, his plates, his address. We can go talk to him.”

“But we didn’t catch him in the act, Jack. Did you see him in the locker, with the vic?”

“No,” I admitted. “Did we get a good look at his face when he walked into the building? Can we even put him at the scene?”

This was a common problem with law enforcement. Sometimes, we knew who the bad guy was, but couldn’t legally connect him to his crimes. Getting a conviction meant following a specific protocol. If any step along the way wasn’t rock solid, the state’s attorney wouldn’t even attempt to prosecute.

“Dust the elevator,” I said. “And the knob on the security door. Let’s see if we can get that watchman downstairs to ID him.” I had a bad thought. “We should also check to see if our perp has a locker here under his real name.”

My worry turned out to be prophetic. The man we followed here did indeed have a storage unit in his name, also on the third floor. Locker 312. That meant he had a reason to be at this facility, and could easily plead innocence in connection with the murder scene. Even if we did find a fingerprint, it wouldn’t matter.

Smart guy. Smart, careful, and utterly devoid of humanity. While Herb called judge after judge, trying to find one who would issue a warrant to search unit 312, I considered our next move.

There was only one. We had to talk to the guy.

It was doubtful he’d give us a full confession. It was doubtful he’d even let us into his home. And if he did let us in, I wasn’t sure that was a place I wanted to be.

I’d encountered quite a few psychos in my day. But never one that scared the shit out of me like Mr. K did.

Chapter 4

J
ohn Dalton lived in a condo on 1300 North Lake Shore Drive, in an area known as the Gold Coast, one of the most exclusive—and expensive—parts of the city. He was sixty-two years old and drove a 2006 black Cadillac DTS. He was once in the military, did a tour in Vietnam during the war, had a firearm owner’s ID, and a Platinum American Express card, where he listed his occupation as “independent contractor.” No criminal record. Not even a parking ticket, which in Chicago was almost unheard of.

Herb and I had been following him earlier that day on a long shot. A week ago, a body had been found in an empty lot on Chicago’s South Side, near Seventy-fifth and Evans. The ball gag and salted wounds, coupled with the bizarre method of death, lead to the inevitable Mr. K rumors, and a black DTS was spotted leaving the scene. The murder wasn’t in our jurisdiction, but we had nothing else going on and decided to lend a hand.

There were over four hundred vehicles registered in Cook County that matched this description, most of them belonging to limo drivers and car services. Discounting those, women, minorities, and men under a certain age—it had long been assumed Mr. K was a single white male who would now be in his fifties or sixties—that left us with eighteen possibles. We chose to follow Dalton simply based on his driver’s license photo. He looked unassuming, but wore a black suit and a black tie that practically screamed
I’m a hit man for the mafia
. Not a very scientific approach to crime-solving on my part, but I’d seen cases broken on smaller hunches.

Now we were faced with the very real possibility that John Dalton really was Mr. K. We didn’t have enough evidence for an arrest warrant, or to search his premises, and we were still waiting to hear from the judge if we could get a warrant for the storage locker Dalton had rented.

In the meantime, there was nothing illegal about talking to the guy. At the very least, we needed to ask him if he saw anything at the U-Store-It.

I parked the Nova in front of a fire hydrant on Goethe Street as Herb licked the last bit of cucumber sauce off his fingers. He’d polished off two gyros since we’d left the storage facility, demanding to stop for food since he’d thrown up the bran on the scene.

Me? I never wanted to eat again.

We extracted ourselves from my car—I with more grace than Herb—and I grabbed my laptop. Then we walked toward Lake Shore Drive, to the circular driveway of the condo complex. The outside of the high-rise building was white, balconies facing Lake Michigan, the cheapest of which was worth more than I earned in ten years. The doorman, almost as paunchy as Herb and looking damn uncomfortable in his dark wool uniform, let us in when we showed him our badges. The lobby was plush—carpeting, a sofa, a bank of mailboxes that also boasted a FedEx drop box. Apparently, when the uber-rich wanted something delivered overnight, they didn’t want to have to walk very far to send it.

The elevator was fast, and a minute later we were on the twentieth floor knocking on the oak door to unit 20a.

The man who answered was unremarkable. Average height, looks, build. He wore the same black suit we saw him in at the storage facility, but up close I could see it was tailored. His tie was still on, cinched tight on his neck. The bulge in his coat from earlier, the one I thought was a gun, was no longer there. He was clean shaven, the barest hint of gray stubble on his chin. I also noticed his skin was tight—too tight to be natural on a man his age. Mr. Dalton was no stranger to plastic surgery.

He looked at us as a fish might peer out from an aquarium, without interest or expression.

“May I help you, Detectives?”

Herb and I exchanged a glance. Neither of us had told the doorman who we were here to visit, so no doubt Dalton had an arrangement with him, asking to be informed whenever a cop came into the building.

“John Dalton?” I asked.

He didn’t answer, nod, or react in the slightest. “Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago PD. This is my partner, Detective Benedict. We’d like to ask you some questions about your whereabouts earlier today.”