Splintered (6 page)

“All right, back to the case at hand,” Hutch announced. “Refill?” he asked and held up the bottle.

Struk looked relieved with the subject change but shook his head, declining the drink. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it, smoothing it out before sliding it across the table to Hutch.

“I made some notes on tips that came in through the tip line. Most of them didn’t seem credible, but a few looked worth investigating. I can’t officially get involved, but if you happen to get the same tips….”

Hutch picked up the paper and scanned it. The first one looked promising. A gentleman by the name of Andy Johnson called to report he’d seen three of the victims with the same man shortly before they disappeared.

“Do you know if anyone has followed up on this?”

“Not that I could tell, but I’m not sure,” Struk said with a shrug. “You wouldn’t believe the number of tips we get through the hotline on a daily basis. It takes a while to follow up on them.”

Hutch handed the notes to Byte. “Find out what you can on this guy, and let’s go have a chat with Mr. Johnson.”

Byte took the note, then checked his watch. “It’s after midnight. He may not be real receptive to being questioned in the middle of the night.”

Hutch ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Okay, let’s take him some coffee in the morning.” Hutch pulled out his smokes. “Stupid no-smoking law, I’ll be right back.”

“Actually, I need to get going,” Struk said and pushed up to his feet. “I have to be in at six for a meeting.”

“Thanks for coming and for the info. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve talked to Mr. Johnson,” Hutch assured him as he walked Struk to the door.

“I’d appreciate it.”

Hutch opened the door for him and met his gaze intensely. “I won’t rest until I’ve caught this bastard. I
do
care.”

Struk smiled and patted Hutch on the shoulder as he walked by. Hutch watched him until he disappeared around the corner before Hutch shut the door. Hutch also wouldn’t rest until he found out who killed Struk’s daddy and made sure he paid for his betrayal.

Chapter 5

S
EVERAL
UNIFORMED
officers were fighting to keep a large crowd behind the yellow police lines when Hutch arrived on the scene. He’d surmised the killer would strike again sooner than his twelve-week timeline, but shit, he’d hoped for a little more time to get a lead on the bastard before he struck.

No such luck.

He’d followed up on each tip Struk had provided him. The most promising turned out to be completely worthless. While Mr. Johnson claimed he’d seen three of the victims with the same man, he was only able to provide a vague description, one that could describe thousands of men walking the city streets every day. They were drowning in data, chasing their tails, and now they’d be adding to the well of information.

The scene was completely different from the previous one. Instead of the isolation of a back-country road, the killer had made a bold new statement with this dump. The nude body of a young black male had been displayed deliberately where it would be found quickly. Propped up against a dumpster behind a local boutique, ironically named Happy Endings, was the latest victim. Like the others, he was small in stature, weighing no more than one hundred and thirty pounds. He had the same five-point ligature marks, wrists, ankles, and neck. His genitalia had been savagely mutilated.

“You must be Agent Hutchinson.” A uniformed officer held out his hand as he approached Hutch. “I’m Sergeant Knutson.”

Hutch accepted the offered hand and shook it. “What have we got?”

“Right to the point, aren’t you?” Knutson pinned him with a hard stare.

Hutch held Knutson’s gaze without flinching.

“Right, then. We’ve photographed the scene. Body hasn’t been touched by anyone but Doc Fisher. He didn’t want to move the vic before you got a chance to view it.” Knutson handed Hutch some blue latex gloves and disposable shoe covers, then walked toward the dumpster. “Owner found the body when she came out to drop the trash before closing.” He pointed to a large garbage bag near the back door. “Obviously she didn’t make it to the dumpster. After the hysterics faded, we interviewed her, but she doesn’t know shit. Go ahead and do what you need. Just don’t touch anything.”

Hutch covered his shoes and snapped on the gloves. He didn’t comment on Knutson’s demand that he not touch anything, although he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying,
I’ll leave fucking up the scene to your department
. Throwing a jab at the locals, no matter how accurate or truthful, was never appreciated and wouldn’t get him anywhere.

He scanned the area. There was so much rubbish lying around, it was a crime scene tech’s worst nightmare. He almost felt sorry for them. Everything, no matter how insignificant it seemed, would need to be bagged and tagged.

Hutch moved carefully so as not to disturb any evidence, squatted near the body, and pulled out his penlight. The dead man was propped up with boxes, feet placed together, knees positioned wide open. Boxes were positioned under his armpits, the forearms creating a V. His hands were manipulated into fists, the index finger of each hand pointed obscenely toward his disfigured groin. Hundreds of burn marks, the type usually made by a lit cigarette, covered much of his torso, legs, and arms. Between the burn marks, cuts, and bruises, there was barely an inch of skin that had been left without some type of injury. The thought of what this poor bastard had endured had Hutch fighting an overwhelming rage at the senselessness of it that left him shaking.
Focus, Hutch, it’s just another body. No name and no family. This is just a job.
He ran through the mantra several times, trying to block out everything else but the facts in front of him. He had learned to remove himself emotionally from what he was witnessing. The day he could no longer stay detached was the day the job would crush him, something he feared would happen sooner rather than later if he couldn’t control his temper and outrage.

Focus
.

The killer had taken his time in staging the scene. Considering he was working while the boutique was still open, that took balls of steel. He was evolving. Already narcissistic in his beliefs, he was now taunting the police. He had no concerns that he would ever be caught by such an inferior species. This new dump was the killer’s way of saying, “I know the Feds are in town, and I appreciate the attention.” Fortunately for Hutch, megalomaniacs often made stupid mistakes, and he planned on being there when this fucker made his.

Moving away from the body, Hutch removed his gloves and shoe covers. As he dumped them in the tech’s disposal bag, he felt a tickle race down his spine. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he felt as if eyes were boring into him. A quick look around the scene didn’t turn up anyone watching him. He then turned toward the crowd—who were there, no doubt, hoping to catch a glimpse of something they could brag about to their friends later. At first, he didn’t see anyone paying him any attention, but then he caught sight of pale blue eyes.

Backpack slung over one shoulder, the man was average in height with a muscular build. Other than his above-average size—possibly a jock—he looked like a thousand other kids traipsing across the campus of UIC. Shaggy blond hair, sharp angular features, he had that all-American hometown boy look to him. What caught Hutch’s attention was the way the guy’s eyes went wide when their gazes met. Hutch stared back, unblinking, as intelligence and innocence looked back at him. There was something familiar about him.
I’ve seen you before, but where?
Judging by the look in the kid’s eyes, Hutch was familiar to him too.

“Agent Hutchinson, Doc Fisher would like to have a word with you.”

Hutch turned and nodded his acknowledgment to Knutson. When he turned back to the crowd, the kid was gone. He stood staring at the empty spot for a long moment, trying to recall where he’d seen the young man before, but the connection eluded him. Setting aside the puzzle for now, Hutch turned once again from the crowd and joined Knutson and an elderly man dressed in blue scrubs, who he assumed was Fisher, near the coroner’s van.

“Dr. Fisher?” Hutch asked and held out his hand in greeting.

“Agent Hutchinson,” he responded by way of acknowledgment and shook Hutch’s hand. “I understand you’ve had a chance to inspect the body. Will you need more time, or can I have it moved to the morgue?”

Hutch cringed when Fisher referred to the victim as
it
. It was proof he was losing his edge.
Goddammit, man, get your shit together.
Hutch repeated his mantra.
It is just another body. No name and no family. This is just a job.
“Yes, but can I ask you a couple of questions before you go?”

“Sure,” Fisher responded and then turned to Knutson. “Let them know they can bag the body for transport, would you?”

“Yes, sir,” Knutson said with a nod.

As soon as the officer walked away, Fisher asked, “What can I do for ya?”

“This victim has many of the same wounds as my last victim, but they look… I don’t know, different.”

“Are you referring to the Jefferson County cases?” Hutch nodded. “I haven’t viewed any reports, mind you, but considering that body was dumped in a rural area, it’s quite possible the difference you’re seeing is in the decomposition, or possible animal and or insect activity.”

“No, they concluded the body was discovered shortly after it was dumped, and I didn’t see anything that would have indicated an animal had gotten hold of it. It’s the cuts and burns—they look almost too clean, like maybe our perp washed the body?”

“It’s possible, or perhaps they were inflicted postmortem,” Fisher surmised.

“That wouldn’t make any sense,” Hutch concluded. “My guy gets off on making his victims suffer.”

“Either way, I won’t know until I’ve done a full examination. Was there anything else?”

“Do you mind if I sit in on the autopsy?”

“Not at all. I have another examination to complete tonight but say 6:00 a.m.?”

“I’ll be there,” Hutch assured him and shook Fisher’s hand again. “Thank you for your time.”

Hutch bit his lip and scowled, concentrating hard as he took in the scene around him. Nothing about this crime scene made sense. Where the previous victims had been found in remote areas, this one was in a relatively public place. While the prior bodies had been dumped haphazardly, this one was positioned in a morbid way to shock those discovering him as well as the investigators. The wounds were also different, yet the same. The same five-point ligature marks and evidence of torture and mutilation were there, but the major difference was, for the first time, the wounds had either been washed or inflicted after death.

“It makes no fucking sense,” Hutch muttered in frustration as he continued to scan the area.

“Excuse me?” A tech looked up at him questioningly.

“Nothing, keep up the good work,” Hutch said distractedly and made his way out of the area.

As he walked back to his car, he lit up, pulled his cell from his coat pocket, and then dialed Byte.

Byte answered on the first ring. “Hey, Hutch, what’s up?”

“What do you know about staging and posing bodies?” Hutch asked.

“Well, it’s very rare. Only about 1.3 percent are left in unusual positions, with 0.3 percent being posed and even less than that for staged victims. Umm…. In all the known cases, the victims and offenders are white and on average have been older. Oh, and the victims are predominately female. Why?”

“Because I have a young black male staged and posed.”

“Holy shit!” Byte yelled into the phone, forcing Hutch to pull it back from his ear. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“No, I’m not kidding you.”

“You think it’s our guy?”

Hutch slid into his car and shut the door. “Everything about this scene is wrong. I suppose it’s possible we have a copycat killer,” Hutch said dubiously.

“I know that tone,” Byte commented. “You do think it’s our guy, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do, and I think he’s sending us a message.”

“Which is?” Byte queried

“Or rather a thank you.”

“What?” Byte asked, sounding incredulous.

“He knows we’re here, and I believe this latest victim was his way of thanking the bureau for sending in some worthy adversaries.”

“That’s just fucking great. It means he will more than likely change the game. Test our intellect and investigative skills,” Byte scoffed.

“Bingo.”

“Son of a bitch,” Byte grumbled. “So we going to play?”

“What do you think?”

“Game on, motherfucker!” Byte hooted.

Hutch rolled down his window and flicked the butt of his cigarette out and then fired up the car. He had no intention of playing this guy’s deadly game; Hutch’s sole purpose was to end it.

Chapter 6