Пётр Левин – Blood Wolf’s Path (страница 8)
“Right. And you say he slept with you that night, ma’am?”
“Yes… When I got up for water and checked on her, she was dying… I called my husband…”
“And you, sir – how were you woken?”
“My wife. Her face was covered in blood. She said someone killed our little girl…”
“And where was the boy then? Still in bed?”
“I don’t know… I ran straight to my daughter’s room…”
“Why all these questions?” the wife snapped – clearly hiding something.
I stood. “Last question, ma’am. Where’s your ice-pick knife? Let’s check your purse.”
“Nooo!” she screamed, falling to her knees before her husband. “Forgive me… it wasn’t on purpose…”
The pale mayor drew a revolver.
“Don’t—” I started, but it was too late.
He shot his wife in the head, then fired three rounds into the boy’s neck, then one into his own jaw.
On the way back, Cherry asked, “Why kill the boy? Black lives matter.”
“Not his son. The Black brat was jealous. The mayor was always at work, so the mother started bringing the boy into her bed. That night, he got up and drove the ice-pick into his sister’s neck. The mother found her still breathing, pulled the knife out – and that’s when the blood poured. The boy stayed clean. Instead of saving her daughter, she saved him – tossing the knife out the open window, later retrieving it and hiding it in her purse. Even without the weapon, I’d have broken them in ten minutes.”
“Poor mayor,” Cherry sighed.
“That bastard? He might’ve been a doctor and a good shot, but he was no leader. Maybe now we’ll get a real Republican in office. Now get out of my truck – grab a cab and report to the chief. I’m not driving you.”
“And you?”
“You don’t want to see me tonight – I’ll be in a bad mood. Might bite someone…”
Cherry flinched. That told me she really
Hopefully no one would get killed tonight, so I could spend tomorrow digging into Krivochlen’s case – maybe finally tracing the origins of this werewolf epidemic and helping Kuksucker find a cure.
Chapter 5 – The Boston Strangler
The morning started with a dressing-down from Kozloryl… The chief was fuming and spitting insults. Droplets of spit from his bastard mouth splattered onto my new suit – the one Cocksucker had given me.
“Jerry, you’re a real piece of work. A triple homicide at the Marriott – the mayor killed his family and blew his own brains out right in front of you. How could you let that happen?” Kozloryl squealed, yanking the blinds shut.
“Me? What about your Cherry? She’s a detective too! Why aren’t you chewing her out?” I shot back.
“She just started on the force. And you know the situation… She’s Black, and I don’t need trouble with those darkies,” Kozloryl said nastily.
“You old asshole! Listen to me now – I don’t give a damn about your hang-ups. You chew me out one more time, and I’ll plant one right in your face, got it, you little prick? You and your career only went anywhere because of me and my partner – how many times did we cover your sorry ass?” I shouted.
“Now, Jerry, I—” Kozloryl faltered. My outburst hit home.
“Go to hell, mustache-face. You just drenched my jacket in your spit,” I yelled.
“Wait, let me just say—” he stammered.
I didn’t listen. I stormed out and slammed the door hard. Finally, I could say what I really thought. And most importantly, it was the truth. That worthless piece of crap had been belittling my work for years, stealing all the credit for himself. Screw him.
I was pissed – and ready to go all in. I went over to Cherry and told her we needed to talk. She flinched.
“Why so tense today, Cherry, sugar? Come on, tell me what’s up. The chief mentioned some case to me…” I tossed out.
“Oh, right. The case. Looks like we’ve got a serial killer in the city. The press doesn’t know yet – just suspicions – but it’s starting to look that way. Remember the Anna Stern case your favorite Fox handled?”
“A 40-year-old woman raped with a bottle in her own apartment, then strangled with a bathrobe belt. Investigators worked the leads but came up empty,” I recited.
“Today, two weeks later, another woman turned up dead – Linda Brown. Same MO. Rape. Strangled with stockings,” Cherry said.
“And she’s white too?” I asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Cherry clearly didn’t get where I was going.
“Listen up—” I grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her out of my partner’s chair – “I’m getting damn tired of your constant, scared little hints about your skin color. I don’t give a crap until you people start making it the point of every conversation. From now on, when I ask a question, you answer it – directly, without your stupid hints.” I let go, and Cherry plopped back down into the chair, her chin trembling.
“Yes, she’s white,” she nodded, almost in tears.
“So I take it the case is ours?” I asked, softening my tone.
“Yes. We can go right now,” Cherry said.
The victim lived in the southwest outskirts of Boston on Clifford Street. I lived in the same area, so it meant driving back – but with a purpose this time. I flipped on the siren. The house was cordoned off, a few people standing behind the tape. As Cherry and I approached and I flashed my badge, a man in a worn blue sweater, maybe 50, called out:
“Linda was a good person. Find her killer.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“George Servanto, sir. My family and I have lived here twenty years. We knew Linda – she was our neighbor. We often visited her…” He seemed genuinely eager to help – or at least that’s how it looked at first glance.
“Notice anything suspicious?” I asked.
“No. Just that the power went out around midnight. I was reading when it happened. A minute or two later, the lights came back on – I’d just managed to pull a flashlight from the drawer,” Servanto explained in detail.
“And does that happen often?”
“In twenty years, I can’t remember it ever happening…”
“Alright, thanks,” I said, turning toward the house.
Inside, the front door and lock were untouched. The killer had either used a pick or – more likely – the victim had let him in. No sign of a struggle in the entryway. In the living room, on the couch, the body lay face down.
The left stocking was torn, the right missing entirely. The killer had strangled her with a bathrobe belt still tied around her neck. A comb protruded from her anus, handle first.
“Well, did the bastard leave us anything?” I asked when I saw the familiar scowl of Herner, the god-tier forensic tech.
“He didn’t just leave something – he left his underwear,” Herner said, clearly itching to share.
“Good. Hopefully they stink enough for the dogs to catch a trail,” I said, encouraged.
“They did. The scent led to the road, then stopped. Likely he got into a car,” Herner reported.
“Time of death?”
“Too early to be sure – the AC was running all night. But my guess, with the cooling factored in, is between midnight and one a.m.”
“Son of a bitch – left his underwear, but turned on the AC to throw us off,” I muttered.
“Maybe it was already on,” Herner suggested.
“No – judging by the stockings and warm sweater, she was the type to feel cold. Let’s check the cameras. Cherry, call Doug Quark at HQ – he’s sharp.”
“What should I tell him?”
“Just give him the address – he knows what to do. Have him pull city camera footage. There’s a gas station nearby – maybe it caught something. Give him the timeframe Herner just told you. He’ll figure it out.”
Cherry was already grating on my nerves.
“Well, this case is a mess,” I told either myself or Herner. “Only good thing – the killer’s left-handed. Easier to track.”