She takes the card and lowers her head. “I can’t believe Charles was taken down so easily. He was a big guy, always worked out.”
Just like Robert Stetson, a big guy. But size is irrelevant to a committed predator. “A Lion will take down prey twice their size.”
She shakes her head back and forth. “I hope you catch the monster who did this to him, Detective.”
“We’ll do our best, ma’am.”
Amber marches up to me. “So, it looks like there was no sign of forced entry. The victim opened the door, and Drake shoved his way in and…went to work.” I stop at the coffee table and kneel down, turning the head, so it’s facing me. “What are you doing?” Amber says.
“His nose has been broken recently.”
“Damn, I can’t believe I missed that!” She exclaims.
“It’s all right. I have faith you would’ve noticed upon examining the body in the morgue.”
“Based on the trauma to his nose, no human hand did this. If I had to guess, it was likely something heavy like brass knuckles or, in this case, the blunt end of an ax head. Which would have stunned him or completely knocked him out.”
“Right. And considering most of the blood is in the bedroom, that’s where the killer begins to divide the victim throughout the condo. Loud music blaring says the head was the last thing to go, he wanted the victim to suffer.”
“I need a volunteer for a reconstruction, which means you, Amber.”
“Sure,” she says.
Okay, Amber. Walk outside. You will be playing the role of the killer.” I turn to Sullivan. “The victim was wearing casual clothing the kind you lounge around in the house in. So I can assume it was his day off, or he was on the late shift whatever doesn’t matter. Mr. Donnelly hears a knock at the door he gets up and opens because who could it be at 9am in the morning other than maintenance needing to fix something? He walked to the door and says who is it? I point at Amber, who is standing out in the hall. “Maintenance,” she replies.
“So I walk over and open the door and bam the killer cold cocks me right in the nose, knocking me to the floor. The killer then walks into the apartment, closing the door and dragging me off to the bedroom to chop me up.”
After doing the reenactment, it dawns on me that this case is going nowhere. So far, all we’ve done is be Drake’s cleanup crew. It probably wasn’t a good idea to tell the killer’s former handler to piss off. There is nothing more infuriating for me is when I know who the killer is, but haven’t the first clue on where to find them. It drives me insane, like an itch you can’t reach, so sometimes times, you have to have someone else scratch the itch.
Frustration builds up in me, I need a drink. I storm out the room, lighting up a smoke. “Lobos, where you going?”
“Sir, I’m going to get someone who can help us. I’m tired of us being this fucker’s janitor.”
“Devi, you are not handing this case over to the Feds.”
“Not talking about that kind of help.”
His eyes grow wide. “Humph. Be careful with Agent Conroy. Something seems off about that guy.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean, but he’s the best chance we’ve got.”
Since I learned about Cala Sadir’s secret life and Robert Stetson’s, I can’t help but wonder if the rest of the victims had secret lives that made them targets for Drake. He’s not choosing the victims out of religious motivation; he’s picking them because, in his own twisted way, he is dishing out justice. And why is MI6 just now showing up to help me? Surely they don’t expect me to believe it took them this long to figure out one of their own is over here cleaning house in my city. My LT is right, something is very wrong here.
Heading across the parking lot, I light up a smoke and notice Agent Conroy leaning against my car, with this hands stuffed in the pockets of his black khakis.
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
“Funny to see you here, I was coming to find you.”
“I figured it was only a matter of time before you gave in and asked for my help, Detective.”
Damn, he must’ve been reading my mind.
Taking a drag from my smoke. “So you wanna get a drink? He just stares at me and doesn’t answer.” After a few seconds of waiting for a reply, I say. “Hey, man, it’s just drinks. It’s not like I’m asking for naked pics of the princess.” Then it hits me; he’s not staring at me. His gaze is locked on something behind me.
“Detective… I think you made a good call accepting my help. Because I do believe your FBI just showed up.”
I turn and see a lanky woman in a black pantsuit and Aviator sunglasses stepping toward me. Her pale blonde hair is tied back into a ponytail. “Ah, shit!”
“I’m guessing the FBI is a problem, yeah?”
“Sometimes. FBI has reduced Detectives to no more than sideliners in the past.”
“How dreadful,” he says.
The woman flashes her badge, which reads FBI in big blue obnoxious letters. “Good evening, Detective Lobos. I am Special Agent Sarah Munroe. I would like to talk to your superior, Detective. Where can I find him?”
“Finally come to steal my case, Huh?”
She leans in close, glaring at me with her steely blue eyes. “Detective, let’s get something straight right now. I’m not here to steal your case or hog all the glory; I’m here to help you make sure Drake ends up behind bars. Now show me to your superior Lieutenant Sullivan.” Her voice fills with
