Wild Night is Calling (3 page)

The last murder Dettwiller had worked had been one of the slasher vics. Technically it was the secondary scene; where the victim had been dumped, rather than where the victim had been killed. Dettwiller had been lucky—or rather unlucky—to have gotten the Dispatch call when he was only two blocks from the discovery. If Dettwiller lived to a hundred twenty, he’d never forget walking onto that open field, looking at that naked, dead boy, cut from his crotch to his throat. It had been the single most surreal moment in Dettwiller’s life.

Weapon extended, he approached the front door with trepidation. Dettwiller kept his finger alongside the trigger, rather than on it. He’d never been forced to fire at a human target while on the job and didn’t want to accidentally kill someone because of nerves. And he was definitely nervous. Going into a strange house, alone, one that two blood-drenched girls came out of minutes before, was a scene from a horror movie. But he didn’t want to let his edginess lead to a mistake. So he took it slow, safe, and by-the-book.

He peeked through the broken window, checking to make sure the entryway was clear before slipping through the door. The foyer was well lit. Bloody, smeared footprints formed a path across the tile.

“This is the police!” Dettwiller yelled. “Is anyone on the premises?”

There was no answer.

Using one hand, Dettwiller removed a shoe guard—a plastic cover that went on like a shower cap—and stretched it over his right foot. He tugged another guard from his pocket and repeated the process with his left, keeping his eyes on his surroundings and his gun out the entire time. He found one of the girls’ purses and picked it up, winding the strap over his shoulder. Then he cautiously followed the trail of blood spatters, walking down the hall to a carpeted staircase.

“This is the police!” Dettwiller repeated. “We are armed! Is anyone upstairs?”

He waited a moment, got no reply, and took the stairs slowly.

That’s when the odor hit him.

The smell wasn’t dissimilar to a butcher shop. But sharper, more acrid. The stench intensified with each step Dettwiller took.

He knew that odor. It was the reek of violent death.

When he reached the second floor, Dettwiller’s stomach was jumping all over. He wiped his mouth, swallowed, and walked to the bedroom. It was the source of the smell, and where the blood trail ended.

The first thing Dettwiller noticed was a boy, dead on the floor. There was a bullet exit wound where his right eye used to be.

The next thing Dettwiller noticed was the bed. He hadn’t known a human being could bleed that much.

Dettwiller didn’t get close enough to see which of the multiple knife wounds had been the killing cut. From his cursory look, it could have been any of the few dozen that turned this young man into something that more closely resembled a gigantic lasagna than a human being. He noted the position of the body, spread-eagled, and scrutinized the victim’s arms and legs.

Taking a step away, Dettwiller felt something squish underfoot. He looked down. Though his expertise in human anatomy was limited, he recognized the object to be a kidney.

Shuddering, Dettwiller crouched down, used a gloved hand to place the organ in an evidence bag. He also found the other girl’s purse, and wound that over his head. Then he got the hell out of there.

When he made it back to the squad car, he was out of breath, and his heart was beating like a heavy metal drum solo. The girls stared at him, wide-eyed and fearful, still clutching hands.

How could two sweet little things like this have done something like that?

Dettwiller stripped off his gloves and shoe guards and put them in a bag in the trunk. After getting a bit of composure back, he settled into the car on the driver side and closed the door.

“You want to tell me exactly what happened?” he asked through the steel mesh partition separating the front and back seats.

Caitlin launched into it. “We were out partying, and we went home with these two guys. Hannah was in the bedroom with Josh, and he attacked her. Right, Hannah?”

Hannah stared straight ahead, her expression blank. She managed a slight nod.

“She started screaming. I tried to go to her, but the other boy, Zach, wouldn’t let me. When I finally got away from Zach, I ran to find Hannah, and she’d gotten the knife away from Josh and… um… you saw. Then Josh attacked me, but I had my gun by then and I shot him.”

Dettwiller rifled through their purses and found their driver’s licenses. They’d told the truth about their names.

But he was sure that was the only thing they’d told the truth about.

“I counted over two dozen stab wounds. That’s quite a lot of self-defense.”

Caitlin returned Dettwiller’s stare. “Hannah has had some trouble in the past. She’d been attacked before. When it happened again, she did whatever was necessary.”

“Where’s the rope she used to tie his arms and legs to the bed?”

Caitlin didn’t answer. But she blinked several times.

“He had ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. I’m guessing the rope is somewhere on the property. Maybe the garbage. Maybe you threw it in the trees out back.”

“I think we need to speak to a lawyer,” Caitlin said.

“I think so, too. Especially since that boy Zach was shot in the back of the head. That doesn’t look much like self-defense, either.”

Dettwiller picked up the radio mike. “This is car six-fiver. Finished with the four-four-two. Going to hang out on Milton, see if I can’t catch some speeders. Over.”

He set down the mike, and then dug his cell phone out of his pants. “Thompson, this is Dettwiller. Can you talk? I got the girls. Good move, sending me here. Did you erase the call? Good. I’m taking them to the shed now. I’ll save one of them for you, for when you get off your shift. Let me tell you, these are some foxy little ladies. We’re going to have a lot of fun with them.”

Caitlin banged her fist on the mesh partition.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Dettwiller smiled. “Same thing you girls just finished doing. ‘Cept me and Thompson are planning on taking our time.”

He started the car.

“But you’re a cop!” Caitlin yelled.

“I am. And that’s why this is such a sweet set up. Thompson at Dispatch filters the calls and sends me to ones where I can pick up some sweet young thing. If everything checks out, I pick her up, we have our fun, and discard the body.”

“You’ll get caught,” Caitlin said. “There’s evidence.”

“I don’t leave evidence. And I can remove all traces of your being in my car in ten minutes with a spray bottle of bleach. I’m not nearly as stupid as you two. Which of you braniacs decided to call 911? Why didn’t you just flee the scene?”

“Caitlin called,” Hannah said, her voice flat. “She helps me.”

Dettwiller shook his head.
Amateurs.

“Let me take a guess. Hannah’s prints are on file, and the gun can be traced back to you. Rather than run, you thought you could bullshit the cops. Christ, girls, don’t either of you watch CSI?”

“But you called about a four-four-two!” Caitlin said. She was close to hysterical. Which was good. Dettwiller liked the hysterical ones.

“I called in a four-four-two. That’s a break for food. Which was a little white lie. I picked up some food, but I didn’t eat it yet.”

Dettwiller pulled the evidence bag from his pocket and opened in, taking a sniff of the fresh kidney. His mouth began to water.

“Beats the hell out of donuts.”

As Caitlin screamed, Dettwiller backed out of the parking lot. He wondered, obliquely, where he’d dump the bodies when he and Thompson were finished with them.

Then he settled in to eat.

EXCERPT from FLEE, a thriller novel by J.A. Konrath and Ann Voss Peterson, coming soon.

“Whenever possible, avoid engaging the enemy,” the Instructor said. “If engaged, run. Fighting should be your last resort. Patriotism has its place, but it costs millions of dollars to train people like you. You’re more valuable than the mission. If things go sour, flee.”

This is fun
I typed. Then I hit enter and waited for the reply. It popped up on my computer screen a moment later.

No pressure, but are we ever going to meet IRL?

I took the last sip from my bottled water and tried to ignore the jitter under my rib cage.
In real life. He assumes I have one.

I tossed the empty over my shoulder without looking. The sound it made confirmed I’d hit the garbage can.

How do I know you’re not some lunatic stalker? Or even worse, weigh eighty pounds more than your jpg?

I’d been chatting with Victor9904 almost daily for the past two weeks. I liked him, and he was the first guy I had ever hooked up with online that I wanted to meet
in real life
. Dating, for me, was complicated. Except for stretches of time when I was abroad, I kept to a tight routine. Cruising bars looking for men wasn’t part of that routine.

Do you have a webcam?
he typed.

Another jitter, this time tougher to ignore. Chatting online was one thing. Letting him see me was riskier.

Yes. But I haven’t showered yet this morning.

<grin> Neither have I. You chicken?

I smiled.
I don’t scare easily.

OK. I’ll set up a private webcam chat room and send you the URL. Give me a minute…

Sounds good.

I didn’t rush to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror, but I may have moved a little quicker than normal. My dark hair was shorter than I would have preferred, but it never got in my face and was easy to manage and conceal. I finger combed it, deemed it fine, and wiped a toast crumb from the corner of my mouth. I was wearing what I’d slept in, an old tee and some baggy sweat pants. Since I’d already told him I hadn’t showered, changing into nice clothes and putting on make-up would be disingenuous.

Besides, if a guy couldn’t accept the way a woman looked when she woke up, he wasn’t worth waking up next to.

Not that I was planning any sleepovers. Sex, on the other hand… it had been too long.

I wandered back to my computer, sat down, and noted my pulse was a tiny bit faster than normal. My webcam was built into the monitor. I switched on the application, and a few seconds later Victor IM’ed me the address. I typed in the URL, and then there he was, filling my computer screen, smiling boyishly.

He was actually cuter than his jpg. Blond hair. Strong chin, covered in stubble. Broad shoulders. Around my age, early thirties, and his blue eyes were several shades lighter than mine.

He said something, which I lip-read to be,
Good morning, Carmen. Nice to finally see you. Are you wearing a Cubs T-shirt?

I unmuted the picture and adjusted the volume.

“Yes, I am.” I smiled. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Victor stood up, revealing the White Sox logo on his jersey. Behind him I could make out a sofa, but the room details were blurry beyond that. With the sound level up, I heard his cat, a calico named Mozart, meow in the background.

“I’m a season ticket holder.” His voice was deep, rich, pure Chicago south-side. He sat down, grinning. “But I’m willing to work through this if you are.”

I shook my head, feigning disapproval. “I dunno. Season tickets? I’m not sure I could get over something like that.”

“Are you asking me to give up the Sox when we haven’t even had a first date yet?”

“If I did ask, what would you say?”

He rubbed his chin. “On one hand, I don’t want you to think I’m a pushover. On the other hand, if this is what you look like before a shower, giving up the Sox doesn’t seem like that big a sacrifice.”

I granted him a smile for that one. “You’re not hard to look at either, Victor. The Sox shirt notwithstanding.”

We stared at each other for a few seconds.

“This is the first time I’ve ever used a webcam for something other than business.” He leaned forward, like we were talking over a coffee table. “It’s weird. Intimate, but distant at the same time.”

“I agree.” I took a breath and a plunge. “Dinner would be better, I think.”

“Are you free tonight?”

I pretended to consider it. “Yes.”

“I could pick you up. Have we reached a level of trust where you’re willing to tell me where you live?”

“Let’s meet someplace.” Only one person in the world actually knew where I lived, and I wanted to keep it that way.

“You like German food, right?”

I nodded, remembering I’d mentioned that during our very first text chat.

“How about Mirabel’s on Addison?” he said. “Six o’clock?”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Me, too. But now it’s almost nine, and I’m on call. Gotta get ready for work.”

“Off to save some lives?”

“I’m hoping for a slow day. Maybe I’ll get lucky and no one in Chi-town will dial 911 during my shift. But if I do have to heroically spring into action,” he winked at me, “I’ll be ready.”

“See you later, Victor.”