Victim #8
Breckhart tromped blindly through a puddle of water, soaking his black wingtip shoe, sock, and halfway up his right pants leg. He looked down and growled, “Son of a...” He shook his foot. It mattered little since the remainder of him was nearly soaked through from the constant drizzle. He continued through Murphy Park. Dim, sulfurous yellow lights sparsely spaced along the concrete paths that spider-webbed through the grassy areas, ancient trees, and along the rank smelling riverside barely lit the darkness.
Next to a weathered, graffiti-covered trash barrel, several men and women in slickers were waving about flashlights. They could be seen behind a line of police tape cordoning off a large section of the park. On the outside of the tape stood several gawkers and journalists from various media outlets beyond the local rags and stations. The city of Woodhill had become big news recently. A media army from around the state and even national news outlets had set up camp to get the latest gory details that helped sell advertising. They descended like vultures circling carrion to take remnants back to the nest of a starving audience, feeding the hungry mouths squawking for everything they could devour. The old maxim, “If it bleeds, it leads,” came to mind. They didn’t care, regardless of who had to suffer or die for their repast.
There was also another one of those damn mimes, pretending they had binoculars and focusing them on the crime scene. Not much disturbed Breckhart, but he found the mime in bad taste, more so than usual. Regular civilians looking on were just part of the game. Regardless of how sickening a sight might, they hungered just so they could say they were there when gossiping to their friends and family. But play-acting like the mime was doing was trying to make light of a tragic situation. He considered going over and smashing the mime’s imaginary binoculars through his whiteface and out through his stupid beret.
Just beyond the mime were three gang members, dressed in denim and leather, one of them a female. He recognized both the woman and one of the guys with her. The other guy was a new face. Breckhart made a mental note to follow up on that later. He had run several members of the gang in over the past decade for drugs, disorderly conduct, assault, and even murder and rape on a couple of occasions. They were badasses who called themselves Killing Pain. The last murder rap they were charged for ended with four of the gang members guilty of raping a secretary who was leaving work late one snowy evening. They left her dead body beneath the bridge where they had committed their foul deeds. Brass knuckles to her left temple were the cause of death in that case.
Breckhart stirred from his reverie by calls filled with static coming across radios hidden beneath the rain gear of the bevy of officers working the crime scene. County Coroner Leon Wilson stood in the center of it all alongside Chief of Police McLemore, First Lieutenant Clancy, and a couple of flatfoots. They were all holding Styrofoam coffee cups and shivering. Victim eight was lying at their feet. Breckhart contemplated the recent killing spree giving Woodhill a bad name. Namely, its three parks where all the victims had been found beginning a little over two weeks ago. The outside media had dubbed the city Wood Casket Hill and drummed up the hype, no thanks to that idiot Bart Smith at The Citizen Star.
Breckhart stepped up to the “Do Not Cross—Police Line” tape fluttering in the breeze and ducked beneath, a stream of water rolling off the brim of his hat. A wafer-thin rookie planted himself in front of the burly Breckhart.
“No civilians, media, or unauthorized personnel are allowed beyond the line, sir. Please step back.”
Breckhart studied the rookie. He was a good-looking kid whom he was deciding whether to smack the shit out of to give his face some rugged character or just flash his detective badge to clear the air. He was really in the mood to break the kid’s jaw and rip him a new one, but with the chief standing just a few yards away, not to mention a few dozen digital and video cameras, he chose to curb his temper. The importance of these crimes was too great and too high profile. The killing spree did not need any more negativity. He opened his trench coat and flashed the badge pinned to the inside pocket. Sure, it was cliché, but Breckhart was a traditionalist in many things related to his job. He did keep his mind open and sharp to swing with the current trends favored by perps.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the rookie as if he’d been psychically admonished. He knew Detective Breckhart was the best on the force, if not the entire state, in solving a crime and finding the bad guys. He just hadn’t had the honor of meeting the man in person and had only seen him across the station a time or two. “Go on through, sir. Can I get you a hot coffee or umbrella?”
Breckhart paused. A glimmer of a smile appeared on his unshaven mug. It was nice to hear someone offer something without wanting the world in return after Breckhart had spent the evening arguing with his girlfriend. It had been the same ol’ “You love your job more than you love me” bullshit. He patted the rookie on the shoulder and said, “No, thanks. Keep up the good job and keep those media leeches out.”
The rookie’s smile practically lit up the seesaw across the path and his posture snapped fully erect. “Yes, sir, detective, sir,” he replied with a salute.
Breckhart maintained his smile and walked on past, mumbling, “He’ll either make first looey in no time or get shot while saving a cat out of a tree.” He let his natural frown return.
Breckhart noticed Clancy peering over the shoulder of Chief McLemore.He could barely see the slight hand movement of Clancy nudging the boss and pointing back Breckhart’s way as he approached. The chief turned as the drenched detective entered the ring of utility lights circling the crime scene. Breckhart was aware they could tell by the look on his tensed face that he was not in a good mood. Most of the officers gave him a quick glance then turned away to busy themselves with something else. This was going to be one helluva long night and Breckhart would more than likely send most of the officers walking away with their tail between their legs by morning.
“Glad you could make it, Breckhart,” said the chief.
Breckhart eyed the man. Behind the wearied face, he thought he heard just a hint of relief in the chief’s voice. It was part of Breckhart’s profession, picking up on the subtlety of proffered words and body language. The flatfoot replied with a grunt and nodded his head just enough the chief accepted it as an acknowledgment.
“Looks like the same M.O.,” the chief said, “but possibly a different killer. Cut the victim’s throat just like all the others, from ear to ear. But this time the blade was definitely held in the left hand instead of the right. Could be a copycat.”
Breckhart bent down and pulled back the cover, making certain his broad shoulders and back blocked the line of sight from the cameras. He looked at the pale body of a young woman, probably no older than twenty-three or four, once beautiful but now just a dinner waiting to serve the worms and insects. Her blood had pumped out from the deep cut, but the rain had washed away the majority of gore. Her baby blue jogging top was stained with red. He unzipped it just enough to ascertain there was no evidence of her clothing ripped or torn beneath. None of the other victims had been raped. If this was a copycat, he wanted to make sure they were not upping the ante.
He pulled a flashlight from beneath his coat to better inspect the cut. It appeared to be the same type of blade. As the chief had said, the slice was made with the left hand. He looked at the victim’s face and could see the bruising. She probably took a wallop to her right cheek. Then, her head was held flat, the thumb and fingers leaving their mark on each temple.
He fully unzipped her top, pulling it off her shoulders and down to her elbows. He found the bruises on each from the predator placing his or her knees on the victim’s upper arms to help hold her down while they made the cut.
“Someone’s going to have a big spray of blood all down the front of their body,” Breckhart said to no one in particular. He spoke loud enough for McLemore and Wilson to hear, but hopefully soft enough the mics behind him wouldn’t be able to pick up much. “The perp nailed her in the face and knocked her flat. Then sat on her chest, pinning her arms with their legs and her head with their right hand. Notice the single thumb bruise on her right temple and the bruises from fingers on the left.”
He looked at the dead woman’s fingernails and found traces of blood.
“She was probably still alive when the perp made the cut. She fought for her life before she was pinned. She took some skin. Make sure her fingers get covered and a DNA sample is taken,” Breckhart said to Wilson. He knew Wilson knew his job, but he was tired of this killer slipping through his fingers. He didn’t want the evidence contaminated or lost any more than necessary.
A red balloon, its helium all but spent, floating on a gust of wind just above the wet blades of grass, bumping the victim’s ashen face. Breckhart casually looked back over his shoulder. A lot of killers liked to witness the attention and the mania that resulted. It gave them a thrill. Neither the journalists nor the gawkers really registered with him as being overly excited or anxious. The mime had disappeared. Maybe someone had kicked him in his imaginary ass.
What Breckhart did catch sight of was a clown walking in the background, holding a withered collection of balloons. The pelting raindrops forced his paint to melt from his face in a grotesque design. As if clowns didn’t freak people out enough. The clown realized he had been noticed and dissolved into the darkness.
“We looked for footprints,” the chief said, stirring the detective from his observation, “but the rain has been coming down non-stop, and she had been dead for at least an hour or two before we got the call. A couple of teenagers riding their skateboards in the rain found her,” said Chief McLemore. He nodded his head in the direction of the two boys being questioned by Sergeant Thompson. Breckhart thought Thompson was lazy and mentally made that his next stop, wanting to interrogate the boys as well.
Chief McLemore added, “She had no I.D. on her. Just a necklace with the name ‘Tracey’ spelled out on the charm. The chain was either broken or cut during the attack. Either the killer knew what they were doing or just got lucky because there are no cameras pointing this way. We are in the process of checking the tapes to the two cameras at the park borders to see if we can find the victim entering the park and anyone suspicious following.”
Breckhart looked at the trash barrel. “Has anyone checked the trash? All the barrels and dumpsters, here and the surrounding businesses and alleys.”
“I have people working on it. Nothing so far,” replied Chief McLemore.
Breckhart covered the dead girl then brushed the mud from his knees the best he could as he rose up. “I’m done looking at her for now. I’ll swing by the morgue later.”
He walked over to the sergeant and two boys, each holding a skateboard vertical against a leg and the nose buried in two inches of water and mud. They looked like typical skate punks but nothing about them said “killer” or visibly marked them as some gang member.
Another rookie was holding an umbrella over Thompson to protect his book so he could take down information. Breckhart reached for the book and grabbed it from the sergeant’s hands while he was writing. He shoved the sergeant from beneath the umbrella and into the rain. Breckhart still had his flashlight in hand and raised it to read what notes Thompson had taken. A minute later, the detective swung the light up straight into the face of the two boys.
“Okay, time to spill the beans instead of this waste of paper you provided Super Cop here.”
Breckhart’s rough words spat so close in proximity to their faces were shocking to the boys after speaking with the sergeant. “Don’t you want to know our names?” asked the black-haired boy.
“The sergeant already has them in his notes. I don’t give a damn. Did either of you touch her?” Breckhart asked in a brusque tone.
“Dude, like she was already flatlined when we found her,” said Trey Martin, a skater with blond hair down to his shoulders and partially hidden by a ski cap.
“I don’t mean that way,” said Breckhart. “I meant when you found her, did you move the body, check her pulse, get to second base on a corpse?”
“Man, you are seriously mental,” said Jakob Bukowski, the second skater who was sporting short, black hair beneath a headband covered with a skull and crossbones design.
“Oh, yeah?” Breckhart shot back. “I figure two losers like you probably don’t have real girlfriends so copping a quick feel would be right up your alley.”
“Hot or not, I don’t touch dead chicks,” said Bukowski, obviously appalled at the idea. “We were skating puddles and we saw a person in a jogging outfit laying on the ground at the bottom of the hill we were riding. She wasn’t moving and the rain had gone from a sprinkle to coming down cats, dogs, and ponies, man. We cruised down the hill and made our way over, calling out to see if she was okay, but she didn’t answer, ya know.”
“Obviously,” chimed in Martin.
Bukowski continued, “Then as we got up next to her, we could see bloodstains on her and her throat wide open. I’ll never be able to give my girlfriend a hickey again without thinking about that shit. Yeah, that’s right, I got a babe, copper.”
Breckhart ignored the smart remark. He was trying to get a rise out of them. He found most witnesses like these two anti-authority types would loosen up and say stuff they might not normally tell an officer.
“So, was that it? You saw the body, looked at her, didn’t touch her? Nothing else?”
“Yeah, we saw someone running from behind that tree just over there,” said Martin, pointing to a sycamore about thirty feet away. “It was raining so hard we couldn’t see the person clearly, but the face stood out.”
“In what way?” Breckhart asked, his voice revealing a bit of excitement.
“It sort of glowed,” said Martin. “Like it was really pale despite the darkness and rain. Most of the jogger’s clothes were dark, so the face just sort of popped, like ’Pazow, here I am’.”
“And you couldn’t tell if the person was male or female? Or any details about the clothes—color, design, patterns?”
Both boys shook their heads. Then Bukowski said, “No, but the freak laughed his ass off as he ran away. That creeper was spooky.” Martin nodded in agreement.
“You said ‘he’. So, it was a male?”
“I ain’t sure, man. I just used the word. The laugh was so freaking high pitched and wild it sounded like one of those crazy Australian birds.”
“You mean a kookaburra?” Breckhart asked Bukowski.
The boy thought about it for a second and then nodded his head. “Yeah, really crazy sounding shit like that bird.”
Breckhart added to Thompson’s notes then asked, “Which way did the suspect run?”
They both pointed. Breckhart elbowed the sergeant and motioned with his head. The sergeant shot the larger man a dirty scowl, but Breckhart returned it with a hateful look that quickly put the sergeant in his place. Thompson stomped off to gather a couple of more officers and go search for signs of the suspect’s trail. The officer holding the umbrella held his position.
Breckhart saw the two boys smiling as the sergeant left in a huff. Bukowski stuck out his fist and said, “Dude, that’s so rad! You rock!”
Breckhart bumped fists with the boy then with the other. He pulled a couple of business cards from his pocket and handed them to each.
“You think of anything else...and I mean anything, no matter how small, you give me a call. Who knows, you might need a buddy on this side of the line for some minor mishap. Now, go get out of the rain before you catch a cold you little ingrates.”
They both smiled, nodding their heads in approval. Breckhart closed the notebook and handed it to the officer with the umbrella before walking off, heading for the tree.
He found exactly what he expected on the ground. There was a mish-mash of footprints where the killer probably had stood, and several other prints, more than likely from the officers searching the area.
Dumbasses, he thought to himself.
He shined his light on the tree, searching from the roots up to his eye level. The branches and leaves were so thick that most of the bark was dry on this side of the tree. About chin high to Breckhart, five-and-a-half feet or so, he saw something unnatural. He moved his face closer to get a better look. Dried blood was smeared on the bark. He stepped a little to the left and then the right side of the tree and found more blood, possibly from the killer’s hand. The killer had hidden here, leaning against the tree and watching events unfold. Breckhart shined his light down on the ground once more to ensure he hadn’t overlooked any cum in case the bastard was getting off on someone discovering his work.
“Chief, get someone over here with an evidence bag,” he yelled. “Do we have a K-9 on-site?”
Chief McLemore hurriedly made his way towards Breckhart, yelling over his shoulder the entire way. “Trotsky, get the dogs over here! Clemens, bring your gear, pronto!”
Breckhart told him what the skaters had said then pointed out what he discovered. Clemens took photos and the samples. He bagged them after giving the dogs a sniff. The search dogs took off on the trail, heading the same direction the boys had said the killer had run. They headed towards the Arts District, which was filled with hundreds of people going to several smoke-filled clubs that were blaring loud music. There were little shops featuring music, paintings, books, Mother Nature supplies next door to all-night cafes and health food restaurants. All that stuff that held no interest for Breckhart. The trail led them across a busy street and to a gutter filling with a torrent of water flowing into it. There the dogs seemed confused. They sniffed the sidewalk and seemingly wanted to follow it deeper into the district but, they also stuck their snouts in the gutter, barking frantically.
“Get a team down in the sewer now,” ordered Chief McLemore. “Keep one dog here and take the other to see if it can pick up a trail further down.”
“I’m betting that the killer ditched the weapon or some clothing down there and kept moving,” said Breckhart.
Lightning flashed, then thunder shook the plate glass window of the clothing store they stood in front of. The rain came down in heavy sheets once more. Officers reported back the water was flowing too fast and deep to safely send anyone down or to find evidence.
“Shit,” said the chief. “Whatever it was is probably washed down to the river by now.”
The hairs on Breckhart’s neck stood on end. He quickly turned and looked at the tie-dyed garments covering mannequins in the window. The window was lit up complete with flashing lights. The store was closed. Beyond the mannequins was a rack of coats on clearance he could barely see before the remainder of the store was lost in darkness.
“What’s up?” asked the chief.
“Not sure. Just had a feeling that someone was watching us.”
The second dog lost the scent. No other evidence was found in the park, the low-lying area of the crime flooding over. Nothing else could be done at the time. Breckhart opted to go back to the station and wait to see if the officers questioning the neighbors door-to-door came back with anything of use and waiting on the coroner’s report.
