Splintered Page 4

“Call me Granite.”

  “Carson,” Struk responded.

  “Byte here is working on taking all this data you see and trying to work it into something a little less overwhelming.”

  “Tough job,” Struk muttered, still taking in the room with an awed expression.

  “Don’t go blowing up his head,” Granite groaned. “He thinks he works harder than either me or Hutch as it is.”

  Byte flipped him off.

  “Granite is a geo profiler. He’s working on trying to pin down where this guy lives.”

  Struk looked back and forth between Granite and Byte, then nodded. “The names make sense now.”

  “Stick around long enough, and he’ll give you one too,” Granite told him as he flopped back on the bed and grabbed his computer. “Hutch has a strange aversion to calling people by their real names.”

  Hutch directed Struk toward the wall and spent the next half hour going over what he and his team had learned thus far. He made sure he named each of the victims, pointing to first their picture in life and then in death as he said their names. Struk stayed silent, eyes intense, taking it in. His expression turned more and more somber with each name and photo Hutch pointed to. By the last one, the color had drained from Struk’s face, and he was visibly shaking.

  Hutch removed the crime scene photo depicting Kimura’s naked body and handed it to Struk. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “So many,” Struk muttered.

  “I damn sure need one.” Hutch went to the small bar and grabbed the bottle of bourbon with a trembling hand. Struk wasn’t the only one feeling grim.

  Hutch had already seen each of the photos and spoken the names of the victims several times, yet it didn’t get any easier, nor would it, no matter how many times he repeated the process. He was having a difficult time detaching himself from the cases. Hutch poured two fingers of the bourbon, surprised when Struk snatched it up and threw it back, downing the liquor in one big gulp. Hutch raised a brow at Struk but didn’t comment. He knew the feeling all too well. He refilled Struk’s glass and then poured one for himself.

  “I see why homicide has a higher rate of officers giving in to the bottle. I don’t know if I could do this every day,” Struk said glumly, slumping into a chair.

  “You’re not homicide?” Hutch asked, a little stunned at Struk’s statement.

  “No. Vice.”

  “I had assumed incorrectly. Why were you in the briefing?”

  “Captain wanted a representative from each department in the meeting. To be quite honest, I don’t think he considers this a high-priority case, but he knew you would be there and was putting on a good show of it.” Struk swirled his whiskey in his glass, staring at the amber fluid.

  Hutch met Byte’s angry gaze and shrugged. They’d already come to the same conclusion as Struk. Hutch took the seat next to Struk. “So what’s the word on the street?”

  “No one is really talking about it, at least not on my turf. Most of the people I deal with are too worried about getting off or getting their next fix to care about what’s happening around them. I’m going to try and see what I can find out with some of the male street hustlers tomorrow night. They might know more or at least have heard some rumors.”

  “That’s a good idea. You said you’d done some research?” Hutch asked.

  “Yeah, I got a buddy who works over in Oak Park—beat cop. They’ve had three murders with the same MO as the two murders we’ve had.”

  “Dante Reed, Mike Mitchell, and Ralph Mayr,” Byte piped in.

  “Wow,” Struk said, awed.

  “He’s like a walking encyclopedia.” Hutch chuckled. “I seriously don’t know how he keeps it all straight, but I’m damn glad he does and that’s why he’s on my team.”

  Byte preened a little and tapped a finger against his temple. “It’s a highly superior machine.”

  “Oh good Lord,” Granite groaned. “I swear, if you two blow that son of a bitch’s head up any further, I’m going to beat the shit out of both of you. He barely fits through the door now as it is.”

  “Ignore him,” Byte told Struk. “Granite is pissy because the only thing he has inside his head is rocks.” He leaned over a little closer to Struk. “It’s why he’s so bad at dressing himself.”

  “Hey! I heard that,” Granite grumbled. “Your prissy candyass can suck my dick.”

  “There you go again,” Byte responded with a roll of his eyes. “It must be hell being so hard up you have to try and weasel sexual favors out of your coworkers.”

  “Bite me,” Granite countered.

  Struk was taking it all in, eyes bouncing back and forth between Byte and Granite as they continued their shenanigans. “Don’t pay them any mind,” Hutch said. “They actually do like each other, I promise.”

  “Are they always like this?”

  “Pretty much. I deal with the stress of the job with this”—he held up his glass—“and they deal with it by bickering. We all have our coping mechanisms.”

  Struk shook his head and seemed to relax a little, a hint of a smile curling his lip. “Guess we know which one I’d choose.” He took a sip of his drink and then set it aside.

  “Play in our sandbox long enough, you’ll need both,” Hutch assured him. “So back to what your buddy said. Did they ever identify any suspects?”

  “They had a couple with the Reed investigation. His boyfriend was at the top of the list and then a neighbor who had been harassing him, but both had iron-clad alibis and were cleared.”

  “I read the reports on both of them. What about with the other two murders? Neither file mentions a suspect?”

  “That’s because there wasn’t any. Zac—that’s my buddy—he said it was common knowledge around the station that they were dealing with a serial killer with the Mitchell murder, had it confirmed with Mayr.”

  “I didn’t find that in any of the reports,” Hutch said and thrummed his fingers against the table. “In fact, not a single mention that any of the murders were even tied together in any way.”

  “Nope, and you won’t either,” Struk said assuredly. “They have the same mentality in Oak Park that we have in Jefferson. No one wants this case, and they just keep their fingers crossed that he dumps his shit in someone else’s yard.”

  “Nice attitude,” Byte grumped.

  “Wait, so you’re saying they knew he was killing in other jurisdictions?” Hutch inquired.

  Struk leaned his elbow on the table, cupping his chin between his thumb and middle finger as he tapped his index finger against his upper lip. “I don’t know. I’m simply comparing the attitudes of their station and mine. With all the cuts, guys are running on fumes as it is. I’m not making an excuse for any of them, but no one wants a serial killer in their backyard, especially a force who is already overworked and underpaid.”

  “That’s what the fucking Feds are for, to pick up the overload on larger cases,” Hutch growled and then pressed the bridge of his nose as a throbbing began in his head. “Sorry, I’m not accusing you. It’s simply a general statement.”

  “No offense taken, and I agree with you,” Struk said easily. “You seem to know everything I do, so I have to ask, why did you ask me to meet you?”

  “I noticed you at the briefing. You were the only one who appeared to be taking the case seriously. I saw the way you flinched each time one of your fellow officers used the word faggot.”

  “I hate that word,” Struk muttered, his face contorting into a look of disgust.

  “And you hate the way they’re dismissing these murders because of who the victims were,” Hutch surmised.

  “Fuck yeah. I became a cop to protect and serve the community—not just a few, but the whole damn community.”

  Hutch leaned back in his chair, swirled the bourbon in his glass, and then drained it as he studied Carson Struk. With his blond hair cut short and tight, clean-shaven face, and muscular build, his looks fit the cop persona, but it was the intensity shining in his blue e
yes that made him stand out. He had a fire within him, a passion for right and wrong, good versus evil.

  “What made you want to become a cop?” Hutch asked.

  “Family tradition. Both my dad and grandpa were cops.”

  “I think there is more to it than that.”

  “Uh-oh,” Byte muttered.

  Struk shot a glance at Byte. “Uh-oh?”

  “He’s trying to get inside your head,” Byte warned. “Run, save yourself. Once he gets in, he’ll know all your secrets.”

  Struk cut a panicked look at Hutch. Hutch waved it off. “He’s just fucking with you again.”

  Byte made a disgruntled sound, but he couldn’t hide his grin. Byte knew Hutch all too well. Of course he was trying to get inside Struk’s head; it was something he did with most people he met. Hutch loved discovering people’s deep-down dark secrets. It’s what made him a great investigator.

  “Is it a secret?” Hutch nudged.

  Struk stared at him for a moment and then shook his head. “My dad was killed in the line of duty when I was twelve. At least that’s how they classified it. He was killed by a fellow officer, the murder covered up.”

  “Why?” Hutch inquired.

  Struk looked away, but not before Hutch caught a glimpse of the sadness in his eyes. “Secrets,” he muttered dismissively.

  Ah, the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place. “Carson,” Hutch said gently. As soon as Struk turned and met his gaze, Hutch asked, “Was your dad gay?”

  Struk tried to look outraged as he stared at Hutch, but he couldn’t quite pull it off, the truth obvious in the sadness in his eyes. Hutch continued to stare at Struk, unflinching and without judgment, calmly waiting for him to respond. After a long, drawn-out moment, Struk took a heavy breath and nodded.

  The way Struk had flinched each time someone had made a crass or negative remark completely made sense now. The man he’d seen as a role model, whose shoes it was his goal to fill, had been killed because he was gay. It was the ultimate betrayal. For Struk, catching the killer when his colleagues refused to was personal. It was as if he had to relive the injustice of it all over again.

  Hutch glanced at Byte, who was looking at him with a questioning look. Hutch gave him a slight nod, and Byte turned his attention back to his computer, his fingers flying over the keys. Their main focus had to be the case they were currently working on. It would take every bit of it to stop the madman, and Byte knew that too. Hutch knew Byte as well as Byte knew him, though. Byte was no doubt already making notes and sending out feelers into the death of Struk’s father.

  “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

  SEVERAL 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.