Watch Them Die, page 5
part #2 of Morgan Young Series
“I’m confused. Were they stolen or not?”
“Not at first.” The man grunted. “My memory ain’t what it used to be. That’s a part of why I retired. Those lockers were always so damn fidgety. I don’t know if I locked it or if it was broken into. I remember coming in to start a shift and finding the locker door wide open. Nothing was busted, so I figured I just hadn’t shut it right.”
Dark closed over Morgan’s heart. It’d taken less than five minutes to get the truth from this man, and even that had turned out to be ultimately unhelpful. “Let me guess, you’d misplaced the handcuffs and blamed it on a locker theft?”
“That’s the short version.”
“You understand that a homicide has been connected to those cuffs? If this is the story you stick to, then every officer on shift that day will be thoroughly investigated. It’ll be a huge drain on time and resources from the MPD.”
The old man sighed, rubbing his temple with a shaking hand. “Yeah…”
“Do everyone a favor and come forward, okay? It’s the right thing to do.”
“You’re probably right.”
Morgan forced a slight smile and turned away from the sunlight that was in his eyes. The old man turned with him. “Now, between you and me, where was the last place you saw the handcuffs? Misplacing a pair is one thing, but two?”
“I honestly got no idea.” He tapped his head. “I told you, this thing ain’t working right.”
“Did you try retracing your steps?”
“No, because I’m not five years old. If they’re lost they’re lost, and there’s nothing I can do about it. All I can tell you is that I carried both pairs with me at all times. Most officers keep one on their belt and one in the locker, but not me. I felt safer having both.”
Morgan considered the idea that he’d been pickpocketed, for lack of a better term. The killer had taken the cuffs from this man somehow, and that either meant the killer had somehow gained access to a cop’s locker—probably a cop himself—or they’d been lifted from his belt without him knowing. If it was the former, then Internal Affairs would have to get involved, and that would slow everything down. If they did that and turned out to be wrong, more innocent people could die while the investigation was ongoing.
If it was the latter, however…
He was halfway through that thought, the concept of a man stealing handcuffs on a whim causing a fair amount of doubt, when Gary pounded on the door and let himself in. Morgan turned to see his red face, brushed with both frost and sheer panic. The moment his stare caught Morgan, his eyes widened and he snapped.
“We have to go.”
Morgan had no idea what was going on, but it took a lot to spook his old friend. It struck worry across his heart, confusing him with a surge of both anxiety and adrenaline. He imagined the worst, and nine times out of ten that dismal instinct was right. “What’s up?”
“It’s the killer.” Gary spun on his heel and stormed out, shouting three short, fear-inducing words through the hallway as he rushed back to the car outside. “He’s struck again.”
Chapter Fourteen
The crime scene was a narrow street buzzing with police cars. Civilians littered the scene, forcing them to park up the street and make the rest of their way on foot. Morgan didn’t mind—his dread of what was to come brought sweat to his forehead, and the cool air was a blessing in contrast.
Gary’s police badge came in handy when they finally squeezed between the watchers and made it to the scene. A uniformed officer took one glance and released the tape to let them through, then quickly returned it before anyone else squeezed through. Morgan was shocked to see that not a single reporter had made it here yet, but just as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the kitted-out van of a news channel turn the corner, halting in its tracks before the side door slid open and workers hopped out. It was like someone had left the gate open at the idiot farm. He didn’t have the patience to round them back in.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” Gary yelled over the noise.
Morgan agreed but no longer had the strength to speak aloud. As his eyes rolled over the scene before him, horror infested his mind and filled him with terror. The police tape circled a small area where a single car had been charred black from the aggressive assault of fire. Inside, the corpse of a single human being was stretched across the front seat. Morgan cupped his nose in one hand, a foul stench seeping through in spite of his best efforts to avoid it.
But he had to see.
A closer inspection revealed that handcuffs were still attached to the steering wheel. One black, burned arm hung from one of the rings, while the other contained a single detached hand. Morgan guessed what’d happened here, and although he didn’t like it, there was no denying what was right in front of him. The sight made bile rise from his stomach and into his mouth, leaving a disgusting stale taste lingering on his tongue.
“I think he tried to escape,” he mumbled.
“Actually, it was a she.”
Morgan and Gary both turned to the sound of the unfamiliar voice. A small Filipino man stood watching them, dangling a bright yellow bag at his side. He wore glasses that were far too big for his small features, and the sunlight caught on his shiny, shaved head. An official ID badge hung from his breast pocket. It read:
PAUL OCAMPO
DEPARTMENT OF FORENSIC SCIENCES
“Excuse me?” Gary said.
“I haven’t been able to get a proper look yet,” Paul explained, waving them toward the car. He slid a pen from his pocket and used it to point at the body’s lower half. “But it doesn’t take a genius to know that women have female genitals. It’s… kind of a big clue.”
“The genitals are—”
“Fused with her clothes, but distinguishable.”
“And the arm?”
“Simple. She tried to break free, managed to tear one hand off before she died trying. You know, I studied forensics for a long, long time, but surely you’re bright enough to see what’s right in front of you?” Paul cocked his head at the body. “Use your brain.”
Morgan didn’t need sarcasm to help him along, but he appreciated the observation. So much, in fact, that he refused to look any longer. He turned his back to the body, catching a brief glimpse of the woman’s vacant eyeholes. Her teeth showed like she was beaming.
It was an image he’d never forget.
“How long has she been here?” Gary asked.
Paul made a “meh” noise. “It was reported immediately. Took a few minutes for the fire department to arrive. Officers were here shortly after that, and then your superiors were informed. You’re with Homicide, I take it?”
“I am.”
As much as Morgan wanted to stay and chat, he desperately wanted to get far away from that god-awful smell. Without excusing himself, he hurried away to the far side of the tape where there were fewer people, resting his hands on his knees and fighting the need to throw up. Nothing, he knew, would ever compare to this grotesque scene.
Footsteps padded up behind him.
A hand rested on his back.
“Too much for you?” Gary said.
Morgan shook his head and raised a hand—a signal to indicate he needed a moment. “It’s him, isn’t it? The same asshole who killed Dusty?”
“I think so. Serial numbers on the cuffs are hard to read, but it looks like it.”
“But why…” Another surge of spew rolled up his throat, but he suppressed it. “I mean, how could anyone do that to another human being? It takes tons of preparation and a lot of balls to go to that extent. Not to mention they’re both car-related murders.”
“Do you think it holds any significance?”
“Who can tell with this sicko?”
“I was just asking.”
Morgan stood up straight, keeping a closed fist against his lips in case of another outburst. The body appeared for a second in his mind, closely followed by another of Dusty sitting in their secret treehouse when they were only kids. It was bittersweet, but it served as an antidote for this particular bout of vomit. “Sorry. It’s just messing with my mind a little.”
“Hey, I get it.” Gary patted him on the back again, but he must have realized he was getting too touchy. He withdrew his hand and stepped away. “The only reason I called you here was so you could get in and see it firsthand. I do have to get to work though. Do you need a ride home?”
“Nah. You do what you need to do. I’ll call a cab.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. Keep me posted.”
Gary heaved a deep sigh. “No problem.”
It wasn’t like he would’ve admitted it, but Morgan badly needed the air and a break after seeing what he’d seen. His brain was foggier than ever, the weight of this horrific event poisoning his mind with the morbid realism of what he was facing. Not only was Dusty’s killer still out there, but he was killing more people and they were still no wiser as to why.
Feeling hopeless, he said his goodbyes to Gary and headed up the street with his hand still pressed against his mouth while he searched for a cab. There was bound to be one or two here; so many people had arrived using public transport just to catch a glimpse of that unsightly nightmare, so he may as well use one, and the sooner he got back to Rachel, the better.
Chapter Fifteen
Some might have considered it cruel irony that the killer returned to his crime scene only an hour or so after leaving it as a big, burning fireball. Others, particularly the newspapers and internet bloggers, would get a kick out of calling it a cliché, but the truth of it was that he just wanted to know how close he was to being caught. Did that separate him from the other killers out there, or had they just made the same kinds of excuses? All he knew was that he didn’t want to be a killer. This was just something he had to do.
In reality, he wasn’t even a killer. Sure, he’d committed cold-blooded murder—twice now—but wasn’t it different if they deserved it? It wasn’t as though he’d gone out and acted on his animalistic whims. These people hadn’t been selected at random either. Both of them had signed their own death warrants, and he was simply carrying them out.
And he was doing it well.
The process had been careful and thorough. It’d started a year ago, when he’d devoted time to research and practice the art of pickpocketing in order to lift a policeman’s handcuffs. The option to simply go out and buy them had always been there, but that would’ve made him traceable, and besides, this way the cop would be interrogated. The trail would be hidden. For that same reason, he’d stolen cars from others. This wasn’t done without its own array of guilt, but his mission wasn’t to steal a car; it was to take revenge on these people, and theft was just a necessary way to achieve it.
The rest had been as carefully carried out as the preparation, and although the victims had cried and begged, he’d not hesitated in seeing it through. It hadn’t come naturally to him, but neither had the suffering he’d endured up to that point. It only stood to reason that he returned to this scene, blending in with the crowd to view the aftermath as one of them. Without that, he’d only feel like there was a thick, dark line between himself and the other killers. That line was an imperative tool to keep him in the confines of sanity.
Only a couple minutes after shimmying his way back to the car, a thin, wiry detective in a perfectly pressed suit made it onto the scene. Beside him, a black guy in a long coat approached the burned vehicle with misery written all over his expression. It wasn’t long before they were joined by some short man who insisted on pointing out key features of the corpse, all three of them leaning into the window with great intrigue.
This told the killer all he needed to know.
They were completely clueless.
Great, he thought as he edged his way toward the far side of the crowd. For some time now he thought the MPD were hot on his trail. His motivations were nothing if not obvious, but that was from his own perspective. Studying this case through the eyes of a police detective must have been a lot more confusing, and that was fine.
The killer had come so far to meet his goals, and there was an endgame. All he wanted was to complete his task, and then he would retire from this world of pain, torture, murder, and misery. As long as nobody stepped in the way between now and then, only a couple more people had to die. It wasn’t much to ask, and as the killer fled the scene for the second time that day, he already had his mind on victim number three.
It was only a matter of time until he got what he wanted.
Chapter Sixteen
Swirling patterns appeared on the ceiling as Morgan stared up at it from the comfort of his own bed. He should have felt safe where he was, especially with Rachel snoozing lightly beside him, but what he imagined in those ceiling swirls was blood, circling like a whirlpool as it became one with the rain and was carried down the street toward a nearby drain. It was a cruel joke played by the deepest, darkest recesses of his brain, and although he knew better than to give in to the questions it posed, a small part of him was left to wonder whose blood it was.
The obvious answer was Dusty’s.
Everything about this case left a disturbing knot in his stomach, but it all came down to his cousin. Every time he saw a poor tortured body or came within a hair’s breadth of a new clue, that emotion—panic and sadness or sheer excitement—all came down to the death of Dusty Young.
No wonder he couldn’t sleep.
Morgan rolled his head to the side and checked the time. It was a little after three, and at this point he knew there was no getting back to sleep. All he could do was lie here and wait for the sun to rise, then get up with a foggy head and less energy than a dead battery. But that didn’t stop him from trying; there were tricks for things like this that he’d picked up in meditation classes he’d done with Rachel a few years back. Morgan had come away knowing that if he created a safe place in his mind—in this case a jetty on a freezing, picturesque lake surrounded by mountains, and he was in a hot tub with an endless supply of red wine—he had to bat off every intrusive thought until he was entirely alone. It was supposed to help his breathing and heart rate, but this time it didn’t.
Giving up after a few minutes, he craned his neck to watch Rachel. It seemed he wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. Her endless turning and soft moaning indicated a rough dream. Morgan, feeling every bit of concern for her, pondered over waking her up or letting her nightmare run its course, but when her chest rose and fell in rapid beats he knew he had no choice—he leaned over and shook her with a soft, gentle motion.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said in a mellow tone.
Rachel swung her arm around. It hit Morgan with all the force of a twitching rabbit, but it was enough to wake her. She opened her eyes one by one and fought to sit up. “What’s going on? What time is it?”
“Nearly three thirty.”
“Why did you wake me?”
“You looked like you were having a bad dream.”
Rachel made a blowing sound through pursed lips and adjusted herself under the duvet. She said no more as she slumped onto her side, pulling the covers tighter around her body. There was no sound in the room after that, save for her heavy breathing. Morgan spent the next few minutes thinking she might be upset with him, and he wouldn’t blame her for that. He’d only done what he thought he’d needed to do, and now he had to suffer the consequences.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, there was movement.
Morgan sat up and reached for the beside lamp, flooding the room with light. He immediately saw his wife climbing out of bed, her hair a frayed mess around rosy red cheeks. She avoided eye contact with him as she opened the closet and pulled out a spare pillow.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concern overwhelming him.
“No, I’m not all right.” Rachel went for the door, stopping only when her hand was on the knob. “Like we don’t have enough going on already, now I can’t get a good night’s sleep.”
Morgan didn’t know what to say or do. He understood that maybe he shouldn’t have woken her, but she looked like she’d been struggling, so what was he supposed to have done? Guilt stole over him, but he would make no effort to apologize. To him, this was an overreaction. “I just thought you were having a bad dream.”
“I was,” Rachel snapped. “And can you blame me? We’ve got serial killers running around all over the place, we’re poorer than poor, and all you can think about is reinvigorating your private eye business. Now, on top of that, I’m not allowed to sleep?”
“Rachel, I—”
“I don’t want to talk about this now.”
“But we—”
“I said no.”
She passed through the door and slammed it shut. The walls shook, the sound echoing through the room like a pillar had collapsed. Morgan was left alone in stunned silence. He was wide awake now, there was no question about that. But what about Rachel? She’d never blown up like that before, and especially not over something so trivial. As far as he could see, this was a sign of a bigger problem, which meant he’d have to find the right time and tone to address it. Unfortunately, there was no rule book for things like this, and Morgan was clueless when it came to women; he’d only been with one in his entire life, and that one was stomping downstairs with all the wrath of the gods to sleep on the couch.
There was definitely something behind this, he realized. He just didn’t know what. She’d been the one who’d suggested he reinvested in his business, and until now she’d been fully supportive of his pursuit for Dusty’s justice. So what had caused this explosion? All he knew for sure was that he’d have to be careful from here on out, treading on eggshells and hoping she’d explain her thoughts and feelings in her own time, because the one thing he knew about women was that when they were this angry, they needed space.
