(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' (13 page)
She made her way home, still feeling the adrenalin rushing through her veins, the feeling of incredible power still with her. She hurriedly put the SUV in the garage, feeling the moistness in her loins. She walked quickly into the apartment, peeling off her blood stained clothes as she walked in. As if in a trance, she stepped into the bathtub, turning on the hot water, stepping into it, and washing the stink and blood from her, reliving the moment the axe had bitten deep into the men, ending their miserable lives. She stood under the hot water for a long time, fingers moving fast, pent up emotions running through her like molten lava, her body trembling, soft, moaning sounds escaping from her lips.
A long time later, she stepped out, feeling tired, the rollercoaster of emotions draining her of all energy. She put a robe on, walking through the apartment, picking up the dirty clothes and the shoes. She made a load of the dirty clothes, including the gloves, putting it into the washing machine. She glanced at the running shoes, stained with spilled blood now and for a split second, she thought about putting them in the machine too. But then she shrugged her shoulders, thinking that she would clean them up later, by hand. That done, she walked into the ‘room’, sitting on the carpet floor, and pulling the wooden box open. She put the silver badge, the one from the young officer in the box, together with the one from Dunbar and Moore and then she pulled the small diary from its niche and slowly, she started writing. Minutes later she was finished, putting the diary away, closing the wooden box. She closed her eyes, her mind working over the murders slowly, visualizing every move. She retraced her steps, making sure she had not made a mistake, had not left any clues. For a moment she thought about the broken axe, wondering what the cops would make of it, what they could learn. Probably a lot, she told herself, eyes open now, thinking that she had been stupid in leaving such evidence for the cops. Not that they would be able to get prints off it, but still…and someone had seen her SUV, of that she was sure; she had seen the car turning after slowing down. She had to hurry then; get out of there and in her haste, the axe was left behind. So they had an axe head and the color of an SUV. They couldn’t trace her by the license plate since it was stolen and the driver of the car, she was sure, had not been able to get a good look at her, so he wouldn’t be of much help either. A grin flickered on her face momentarily, thinking that the cops were a long way from figuring out who the killer was.
She felt exulted in her new found power, the power of life or death against men that were evil. The blue eyes became hard, cold as she frowned, deep in thought, the cold, calculating mind working all the ramifications of the last murder again. She locked the wooden box, turning the key, replacing the gold necklace around her slender throat. That done, she stretched on the carpet and seconds later, she was asleep, the beautiful face relaxed now.
Chicago Police Department 3151 W. Harrison St. February 5, 1995 0800 hours
Josh Turner dropped the file on top of his desk, fingers massaging his tired eyes. The results of the autopsies on the two dead officers had been completed and were just about what he expected…nothing much. The axe head was the only good news so far, but even that had not been of much help. No finger prints on it, so in all probability, the killer had used gloves. It was an odd axe, something that he had never seen before, looking more like an antique than anything new. According to Holt Lambert, this particular axe had no traces of carpet fibers and no oil residue and also the cut made by the blade was slightly different than on the two previous murders. The axe edge was smaller than the one previously used by the killer, meaning that the killer had access to more than one axe. But it was the same MO, so he was sure it had been the same killer, even if it wasn’t the same weapon as previously used.
Holt had found particles of bricks and mortar cement on the edge of the axe, mixed with blood. The killer had probably missed the first time while trying to kill Officer Morgan, striking the brick wall instead and then again when the killer finally cut his head off. They had followed up on the license plate and it had been stolen from a car parked at a mall, just hours before the killings. Their witness was still unsure of what he had really seen. except for the color of the SUV; it was silver, probably Japanese made, but he had not been able to determine what make. Concerning the killer, he was still confused, unable to give straight answers about the sex. He was more inclined to say it was a man, but in Turner’s mind, doubts lingered. He had called Moyer, the FBI profiler, filling him in on all the new details, sending copies of the crime scene photos, and Moyer had assured him that he would get back to him in a couple of days at the most, after studying the new crime scene photos and reading the new files.
He and Holt had talked about the axe, their minds churning, wondering what was the significance of such an odd weapon. In all their work as law enforcement officers, neither one had come across a weapon such as the one the killer had been using. Pistols and revolvers, knifes and machetes, an occasional sword, poison, those were the weapons of choice for most murders. On occasion, baseball bats or other blunt instruments were used by the perpetrators, but this one, an axe…and a strange looking one at that…was something new to him. He had seen axe murderers before, but they were not that common. An axe was an awkward murder weapon, usually one that was seized in the heat of the moment. This killer was bringing the weapon with him and by the look of the axe head and the remains of the handle, it was different. ‘There is something significant about the choice of weapon with this killer’, he thought, another puzzle in an already crazy investigation.
Turner glanced at the axe head, laying on his desk, still in a plastic evidence bag. He shook his head. The weapon looked old and something in his mind wanted to tell him that he had seen such a weapon…somewhere…in a book…a movie. He had shared the thoughts with Holt, until the man had shrugged his shoulders, saying; “You might want to take that thing to the museum…see if someone there could give you a hint of what it is. We ran tests on the metal…and the wood handle and neither of the materials is old, maybe a few years maximum.”
Turner glanced at Holt, a puzzled expression on his face at his words. “A museum…what the hell for?”
“Well…by the look of the damn thing…it’s no common axe, so maybe an expert can help you…shed some light on it.”
Turner mulled on that for a few minutes, shaking his head. “Yeah…well, I think I’ll do just that. What the hell….I don’t have much of anything else to go on and right now I would consort with the devil himself if it would help this damn investigation.”
Chicago Museum of Natural History February 7, 1995 0900 am.
Josh Turner parked his car in the museum’s visitor parking lot, stepping out and glancing at the dark sky. The weatherman was predicting at least ten inches of snow and another run of intense cold within hours. He shrugged his shoulders deeper into his coat, shaking his head, mumbling to himself about the damn Chicago weather. It was beginning to look as if this was going to be one of the worst years for snow in Chicago. He grabbed at the plastic bag containing the axe head, slamming the door shut, walking away briskly. It was too damn cold and he wished for a cup of black coffee, but that was going to have to wait. He was in a piss poor mood after a row with the Assistant Chief early in the morning. The newspapers and the TV reporters were having a field day with the Department and the investigation and the Chief had come in spoiling for a fight. Harsh words were exchanged, voices raised, until Thompson had come in, putting an end to the fight. Turner knew that if he didn’t get something solid soon on the investigation, then the Chief would use that as an excuse to get rid of his ass. “Like I don’t have enough crap to worry about” he told himself, running up the steps of the museum toward the entrance. He pulled the door open, finding himself face to face with the skeleton of Tyrannosaurus Rex and then he was making his way to a sign that said ‘Iinformation’, a plump looking young woman sitting behind a desk. She watched him walking toward her, her eyes taking in his every move, a smile etched on her face. It was early and not many people were around at that time of the morning.
“May I help you? she said, her voice small, shrill almost. Turner glanced around the almost deserted hallway, eyes returning to her, his right hand bringing the plastic bag with the axe head in it.
“I have this…axe and I need someone to help me with it…tell me what the hell it is.”
The young woman’s eyes fixed on the bag, and she raised her eyebrows in question, apparently unable to comprehend what she was looking at. She glanced at Turner’s face and then again at the bag and slowly realization dawned in her eyes. The brown stains on the axe head was blood! She shivered slightly, glancing at Turner again, her voice low and shaky now. “And…who are you? she asked softly, her eyes appraising him nervously.
“I’m sorry…ma am. Detective Turner…Chicago Police”, he said, his hand opening the wallet with the gold badge in it, showing it to her. “I would like to talk with someone about this axe.”
The woman’s eyes glanced at the bag for moment longer and then she shook her head slowly.
“Yes…that would be Dr. Mason…the museum’s assistant curator”, she said quietly.
Turner nodded his head in assent, waiting for her.
The young woman stood up, her right hand pointing at a door a few paces away to Turner’s right.
“You can go in the Doctor’s office and I’ll get the Dr. Mason for you.”
“Thanks”, said Turner, whirling around and heading for the office that the receptionist had indicated. He saw the sign on the door that proclaimed it was Dr. Mason’s office and he pushed the door open, stepping inside and closing the door softly behind him. He found himself in a small but comfortable place, incredibly neat and orderly, everything in it’s place. Rows upon rows of books lined the walls and a myriad of objects, old and magnificent, could be seen on shelves and on top of the desk, swords and helmets of a bygone era displayed on one wall. He took a step forward, his eyes now adjusted to the soft light inside the office, his head turning slowly, eyes taking in everything.
The wall behind the desk was covered with diplomas and awards and immediately to it’s right was a stand, crowded with trophies. He raised an eyebrow when he realized what he was looking at; someone in that office was a black belt in Karate, quite high if the trophies meant anything. His eyes lingered on the trophies for a moment, shaking his head at the numbers. He was a 5
th
‘Dan’ himself, but to him it was just personal, he never competed in the sport and very few people outside the department knew that he was a black belt.
The soft light bounced from a tall, glass case next to the desk, making it hard to discern what was inside and he moved forward again to see what it was. At the sight of it his eyes narrowed to slits and his heart beat painfully against his ribs. He took another step, eyes glued to the axe inside the glass case. It was the same axe head as the one he had in his hand, except that the one in the glass case made the one in his hand look insignificant. It was obvious to him now that the axe in the glass case was old, incredibly old. The axe head was about seven inches long, inlaid with silver wire in intricate designs. The handle was made of some black wood and the shaft measured easily four feet in length. His hand reached for the glass case when suddenly a soft, intimate voice behind him startled him and he swiveled his head around.
“Tenth century Viking axe, decorated with silver wire in the so called “Mammen style”, probably worth a few million dollars to a collector.”
His eyes came to rest on a woman standing by the door and then his breath caught in his throat. Eyes, of an indescribable blue, were fixed on him, her head tilted slightly to the side. She was tall and…incredibly beautiful, with hair the color of wheat, long and shiny cascading down to her slender shoulders. Her face was long, with a sharp little nose and her lips were ripe and sensuous. Her mouth was partially open in a smile and he could see a perfect row of white teeth.
The soft, intimate voice broke the silence again, saying; “I’m Dr. Mason…Mariska Mason”. She continued looking at him for a second longer, her eyebrow rising in question. “And you are…?”
He nodded his head and still stood there, unable to take his eyes off the creature in front of him. He realized his mouth was hanging open and he clamped it shut, feeling the red color of mortification spreading on his face. He ran his fingers through his short hair, feeling like a school boy on his first date.
“Sorry about that…Dr., I’m Detective Turner, Chicago police”.
She came forward then, enveloping him in her perfume, a soft but strong hand shaking his. From up close she was even more striking than he had imagined and once again he was caught speechless. He looked into her eyes and for a brief second he thought he saw something like recognition in her eyes when he mentioned his name, but it passed swiftly. He knew he was just dreaming, though. He had never seen a creature like her and he knew he didn’t know her from anywhere. There was no way he could forget someone like her, not even for a minute.
He shook himself out of his reverie as she retrieved her hand from him and then watched her walking toward her desk. She was wearing a black outfit, pants and a shirt, feet encased in black leather boots, a gold necklace on her throat. As she walked away, his eyes admired her from behind, watching the taut rear end strain the seat of her pants. She turned around, sitting down in her chair behind the desk, an impish grin on her face, almost like she knew he had been watching her butt and he swallowed hard.
Like a kid caught stealing candy, he thought, as her eyes fixed on him, bright and mischievous.
‘Jesus H. Christ”, the told himself, feeling uncomfortable as the blue eyes took his measure slowly. He shifted his feet, wondering why the woman was getting under his skin so easily.