Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (16 page)

“I understand the reporters couldn’t hear the Mayor because of all the cell phones at the press conference,” Buchanan said from behind Mann.

Mann smiled in spite of the scene in front of him. The rumors certainly sped around the department. “I think His Honor had a stroke when he looked around. I didn’t wait to hear the fallout. Let the Commissioner have that pleasure, he gets paid way more than I do.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” the Medical Examiner said. “Then again, he doesn’t have to look at things like this.”

“No doubt on this one,” Mann said, more of a statement than a question.

“Nope,” Buchanan said, shining a flashlight on the chest where the killer’s symbol was carefully carved in the skin. Mann had that same feeling. The chest didn’t look right, even accounting for the carving.

“You had your look?” Mann asked.

“I just got here a few minutes ago. Want to do a walk through together?” Buchanan asked.

“Lead on, Master.”

Buchanan stepped over the threshold. Out of habit, he checked to see if Mann was wearing gloves. He pointed to the light switch on the wall. “We had to tighten the bulb to get this to work. I suspect the killer loosened it himself. Want to see it the way the killer wanted us to?”

“Ya, I want to try and see it through his eyes. I still can’t figure this guy out. Why a male victim this time?”

“This one was definitely chosen. He knew this victim or chose him for some reason. Everything screams planning. He knew the apartment layout. I highly suspect he brought the rope with him. He knew about the rafters. He had been here before.”

The lamp positioned under the body cast strange shadows over the body but clearly showed the vicious violence. Two ropes ran from the rafters, suspending the body by the hands. The legs were tied to ropes and anchored to two large piles of weights. He appeared to be doing a jumping jack in the air, like some perverse cheerleader. His mouth was taped with duct tape. More duct tape was running from around his head to both arms to hold his head up. Both eyes were swollen shut; one ear was dangling by a bit of skin. Blood ran down both arms from where his wrists were tied.

The now familiar sign was carved high on his chest. Below that bloody mark, the man’s stomach had a large gash from sternum to groin that had been sewn back up with thick black thread. He didn’t have any genitals.

“His name was Lionel Hart, Lou,” Mann heard from behind him. “Lives alone.”

Mann kept looking at the scene as Lanyon read the report from the doorway. “Super found him because the door was open. He had seen the door open early this morning but figured Hart had just taken some trash down or something. When he saw it again later this morning, he opened the door and found the body.”

“He mention the mark?” Mann asked.

“Don’t think he noticed. He didn’t go in the apartment. It isn’t really noticeable from the door because of the way the lamp is positioned.”

“The lamp isn’t really set to display the body well. Was it moved?” Mann asked.

“Nope, right where he left it to highlight what he really thought was important,” Buchanan said, walking behind the body.

“What the hell is that?” Mann asked, as he came around the body.

“A flute.”

“A what?” Mann’s mind adjusted to the upside down picture and the scene came into focus. There was about six inches of flute sticking out of the victim’s rectum. “How long is a flute?” Mann asked.

“I don’t know, maybe two feet,” Buchanan said.

“So you’re Davis’ nephew,” Arnold Olinyk said, leaning against the counter.

“Ruby is my aunt, Mr. Olinyk,” Degget said, looking around the small kitchen. It was surprisingly clean for a retired cop’s place. Everything was in place, no dishes in the sink. Degget wondered if that was because his uncle’s friend had just returned from an extended vacation or if it was always this neat.

“That much is obvious. You don’t exactly have your uncle’s size,” Olinyk said.

“No sir, I’m afraid my one cousin’s already taller than I am. And he’s only fifteen.”

“Call me Arnie. How about a beer?” Arnie said, motioning to the kitchen table. “All I got is Bud Light, if that is good with you.”

“My favorite,” Degget said.

“Good man. Never turn down a man’s beer, even if it tastes like cold horse piss.”

Olinyk dug out a couple of beers and popped the caps. “Davis told me about you being under for two years and about you getting burned. Two separate tries on your life? Christ, I never even fired my gun once in the line of duty. How you doing kid?”

Degget looked into the older man’s eyes and saw genuine concern. “I’m five and O at the moment. Five of them in the ground and I’m still kicking. I lived with these shits for two years. I know what they are so I’m not having too much trouble with having blown them away, if that is what you’re asking.”

“Bloody right,” Olinyk agreed. “Bad guy draws down on you, somebody is going away and it sweet Jesus better not be you.”

Degget clinked Arnie’s upraised beer bottle in response.

“And you think SOCU is where the leak came from?”

Degget paused, still concerned about Olinyk’s loyalty, and Arnie just laughed. “Don’t worry, son. There ain’t no love lost between me and that bunch of desk-riding suits at SOCU. I can’t say any of them is bent but they sure aren’t cops.”

“How so?”

“Like I said, I’m not saying they are hinked but they sure aren’t what I was figuring when I got assigned there. I mean, I was the token old guy. When the Mayor formed SOCU, he needed some gray hair to give the new squad some legitimacy. I was a decorated detective with a solid arrest record. But I already had my twenty. I was hanging around ’cause I loved the job. I liked putting away the bad guys and I thought this was going to be some kind of kick ass Untouchables thing.”

“The Mayor sure makes it sound like it. Our last best defense, right?”

“It’s a small squad, only like a dozen guys that work very independently on the surface. You figure a flying squad like this should do some real damage, right? Nobody stands in their way and they get the job done. Not the way it works. I’ll tell you, Flem is no Elliot Ness and the squad ain’t the Untouchables. More like LA Law.”

Arnie finished off his beer and got up to get another. Degget waved off his offer of another and Arnie continued. “I’m a street cop. They put me in a suit and gave me my gold but I was still a street cop. But I was through with the little guys. You arrest one of them and ten guys are lined up to take his place. I was after something big and I thought that was what SOCU was all about. I was expecting big cases, big takedowns and lots of warehouse raids. Two years and I never went on a raid, never broke down a door. Christ, I hardly pulled my gun.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Degget said, remembering the past few weeks.

“No but all of these arrests were so bloody civilized. And they didn’t really mean snot. Everything was political and designed for good press. All there was were lots of spreadsheets and org charts, meetings and discussions, conversations with the Mayor. Independent my ass. The Mayor had his hand up Flem’s tight puppet ass from the start. Everything was for show.”

“You mean they weren’t good arrests?”

“Oh they were good. Too good. Everything always stood up in court with an amazing conviction rate. We got some major drugs and guns off the street but that was it. All the arrests were for show. If it looked good on the news, it was what the Mayor wanted. And the conviction rate? If you ignore anything that might not get a conviction, even if it takes somebody down only for a while, you are going to keep your record intact. Only bet on the sure thing, you are going to win but you don’t win big.”

Degget thought about it for a moment. “But you never suspected that anyone was dirty?”

“Everybody’s probably dirty. Hang around with the kind of money we touched and the bloody Pope would be tempted. But get a cop killed kinda dirty? No way. I wouldn’t have pegged anybody on the squad for that kinda dirty. These aren’t real cops; they are just fast tracking for the political posts. Christ, most of them have their nose so far up Flem’s ass, their snot is brown.”

“Nothing that stands out? No excessive violence? Citizen complaints? IA investigations?”

Olinyk snorted. “You’d actually have to face someone to rough him up and that might wrinkle your suit. No, these guys were picked because they were part of the political machine, not because they could stand toe to toe with anybody.”

Degget stayed for a while longer talking with Arnie but didn’t really come away with anything useful.

Deputy Inspector Stephen Livermore sat back in the creaking wooden chair behind Keough’s desk at the task force headquarters. Sitting on the other side beside Mann, Keough slid a cup of coffee across the desk.

“Andy, I’m sorry that they pulled you back on this,” Livermore said.

Keough shrugged. “I was expecting it. Four killings are too much for a lowly Captain. As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to it. I hate the psycho cases.”

“Just as long as you understand that this is just a political thing. A Deputy Inspector looks better at the press conferences. If James could have come up with an Inspector, I would still be reading about this case in the papers.”

Mann grinned. If they had to have more brass involved, he was happy with the choice. Livermore wasn’t particularly concerned with his political career. The Mayor was doing his best to deny the psycho. Eventually, even he would have to admit the truth. Meanwhile, Livermore would keep the politics away from the investigation and let Mann take it in whatever direction was necessary.

“I’ve read most of the reports. I was up all night skimming what has been accomplished so far. I want to hear personal opinions.”

“The gang angle is in the toilet,” Keough said.

“That about covers it,” Mann confirmed. “We haven’t come up with anything. Every major club has disavowed. Even the small-time guys are smart enough to know they don’t want this heat. They’ve normally got what three, maybe four, percent of the budget aimed at them? They know the task force is going to bring major heat so the smart ones have been cooperating – as much as cooperating means to those lowlifes.”

Livermore agreed. “What about a cult?”

“That holds a little more hope,” Mann replied. “The whole thing stinks of devil worship. I’ve got people on it now but so far, we have come up empty. We have some evidence that it is a single killer or at least no evidence that there is more than one. I’m leaning that way.”

“What do you have on the sign?”

“Everything and nothing. Could be anything. The guys on the cult angle see it as some sort of goat. Fairly traditional symbol for the devil.”

“Opinion?”

“A single man,” Mann said firmly. “A real bad ass, totally screwed up, psycho who is going to go totally ape-shit before long.”

Keough nodded his agreement. “And, he’s not limiting himself to women. You haven’t found a pattern yet? His next target could be anyone? The press is going to have a field day with this one.”

“We have come up with one lead.”

Mann showed Livermore two pictures of a matchbook. The open cover was black with
Night Dance
written in sparkling gold letters. Inside the cover was a telephone number.

“We found this at Hart’s place. We found another one at Jeanne McIntosh’s apartment.”

Livermore looked at the second picture. “This is McIntosh’s phone number?”

“No, life couldn’t be that easy. It belongs to another woman. We are checking her out but I think she is unrelated.”

“Do you think they might have been left by the killer?” asked Livermore.

“No. It was found in a drawer of Hart’s bedside table. It has Hart’s fingerprints on it and is in his writing. McIntosh’s was in her apartment and the killer never got that far.”

“Do you think McIntosh and Hart knew each other?”

Mann held up the palms of both hands. “His number was not in her address book. We are cross checking phone records. We are going to have to redo all our interviews with her friends. We already know she went to the
Night Dance
so they could have met there. Hart’s name wasn’t on any of our lists from our investigation into McIntosh but that isn’t surprising.”

Livermore rubbed the back of his neck. “Jealousy, maybe revenge?”

“Maybe,” Keough said. “We’ll know more when we find out whether they ever dated. If they were sleeping together, we might be able to tie a third acquaintance to them. If we can do that, then we might have our psycho. The Yeck kill could have been a cover-up.”

“More likely,” Mann added, “the
Night Dance
is a hunting ground. Thing is, the
Night Dance
was fighting the no smoking ban and handed out about a million of these matchbooks.”

Livermore was silent for a moment before he continued. “What does Buchanan have on the Hart kill?”

Mann flipped a file open and slid it around so Livermore could see the pictures. The first one was of Hart hanging by his hands.

“Alf says this is getting worse and I can confirm that,” Mann said. “Hart was severely beaten. He was beaten for hours. Whoever did this was meticulous. Virtually every bone is his body was broken. Hart was alive for most of it, too.”

Mann thought about his initial impression of the body. Now he knew why the body looked so wrong. Every bone had been broken. His chest had been caved in from severe blows, likely from a metal baseball bat. “For one person to do this kind of damage, they had to have beaten him, rested, beaten him more, and rested and so on. We found evidence that he stopped and had a couple power drinks that Hart had in his fridge.”

Livermore flipped the pictures while Mann continued. “The killer cut him from sternum to groin. His internal organs had been removed. This time, we found them in the trash rather than spread around. The empty space remaining between his broken ribs had been scraped clean – like a pumpkin. He then filled the cavity with cow manure and sewed him back up.”

“Cow manure?”

“Pretty clear message. The man was literally full of bull shit.”