Brad tried to figure out how he’d missed the warning signs with Toscana. She’d been on the periphery of events with the snipers, but there’d been nothing to make him suspicious. She was aggressive and career oriented. Driven to get ahead. Even at the range and having pizza, he had felt no danger. “If you keep killing, they’ll know it wasn’t me.”
Toscana laughed. “Maybe. But forever you’ll be remembered as a disgraced cop. I can live with that.”
“There are people who won’t accept that I did the killings. They’ll keep hunting for you.”
“Ah, isn’t that cute.” Toscana sneered and her voice mocked. “Your precious group of friends will fight to clear your name. They might try, but there is overwhelming evidence against you.”
“The next time you murder, they’ll pour over the crime scene, the evidence, the method. They’ll find you.”
Toscana sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Coulter. The dream world you live in. I tried to vary my modus operandi, but obviously I slipped up since you figured out the cases were connected. In the future, I’ll plan better and make sure there are no breadcrumbs for your friends to follow. Even if they connect a few murders, it will be too late for you. You’ll be in heaven or hell with your beloved Maggie.”
Brad’s gut clenched. He had an idea where they were headed. “Are we there yet?”
Pain ripped through the back of his head; the full force of the blow knocked him to his knee. He rolled onto his shoulder rather than having his face pounded into the ice. That happens when you have your hands tied behind your back. The icy cold was soothing. He blinked his eyes, his vision cloudy. He could nearly make out a face framed by the hood of a parka. As his vision cleared, he was yanked to his feet, the gun jamming into his neck.
“Stop being a smartass. Shut the fuck up and move.”
They continued south. The city was in complete darkness. Clouds formed around the streetlights, giving an eerie, eighteenth-century-London feel. If Jack the Ripper had popped out from between houses, he wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d rather take his chances with the Ripper. Pain pounded in the back of his head in time with the beat of his heart. If he could get his heart rate down, maybe the pounding would subside. Then Toscana jabbed the gun deeper into his neck. Yeah, his heart rate wasn’t coming down anytime soon.
Toscana shoved him toward the abandoned building. Sandstone and brick walls had defied seventy years of harsh weather. The windows had not survived vandalism and were boarded.
“Open the door,” Toscana ordered.
Coulter stepped through the doorway first, the gun still firmly against his neck. The room was in darkness, their footsteps echoed, and he sensed they were in an open area, maybe half the size of a school gym. Coulter stepped farther into the room. Toscana followed, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding the gun at his neck. They headed through the room. Coulter stopped and Toscana bumped into him. He listened. It was faint, but someone was moaning ahead. A sniffle, then moaning.
Toscana shoved Coulter toward the increasing sound. They came to a heavy door. “Inside.”
Coulter opened the door.
The moaning ceased. A voice pleaded, “Please, stop.”
The dark room flooded with light. When Coulter’s eyes adjusted, he saw a young man secured by ropes to a chair. Michael Trant. He was slim, emaciated, and mid-twenties. His brown hair was long, to his shoulders, with a greasy shine. He looked nothing like Roger Kearse.
Blood oozed from dozens of cuts. His face was bloated like he’d been in a heavyweight championship fight. One eye was swollen shut. He had the vacant stare of someone high on opioids.
“Hey, are you Michael Trant?” Coulter stepped toward the man.
Toscana jammed the cold steel of the gun into Coulter’s neck.
“Move and you die,” Toscana said. “Slowly kneel.”
Coulter knelt. “Hang in there, Michael.”
Toscana pulled Coulter’s head back by his hair. “Shut up. Stay on your knees.”
“What the hell are you doing, Toscana?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m executing the sentence they should have received. The courts are gutless. These predators are allowed back into society to continue their depravity, to prey on the weakest. If the courts don’t stand up for the victims, who will?”
“You?”
“Yes, me.” Dice slid the cattle prod out of her pocket and jammed it into Coulter’s side.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The APB on the unmarked police van finally paid off. A patrol cruiser had spotted the van parked in Victoria Park. Jackson coordinated TSU raids on several houses. They arrested a dozen with outstanding warrants, seized drugs from every house, but didn’t find Brad, Michael, or the killer.
Steele tossed his helmet into the back of the Suburban in frustration.
“What a fucking waste of time.”
“We kicked a hornet’s nest of lowlifes and drug dealers in the area,” Zerr said. “They’ll be crapping bricks for weeks.”
“You realize that they’ll all be back onto the street before dark, right?” Steele asked.
“Sure, but it was fun,” Zerr said.
“But it didn’t get us any closer to finding Brad or Michael or the killer.”
“You’re being whiny again.”
Jackson headed over to them.
“Get anything worthwhile, Sarge?” Steele asked.
“Not initially. There was a weird person hanging around here a few weeks ago. Dressed all in black and kept to the shadows.”
“Probably doing surveillance for the second murder.”
Jackson nodded and blew onto his fingers. “Yup. Another guy said at least an hour ago, two were people heading east toward the rundown Symons Mattress factory.” Zerr and Steele exchanged glances. Every cop knew about the Symons factory. In the summer, on warm nights after shift, occasionally cops gathered for a brew or two after work.
“Homeless
