Too Dark To Sleep Page 13

“Ruler across the knuckles if I did?” Nick smiled.

  “No. Foot up the ass,” Harley said as he got down to business.

  Maggie moved over to Dublowski. “Check with your team. See what progress they’ve made. Do it regularly until you clear out.”

  “Got it.”

  “You also need to check outside.”

  “Yeah, we kinda rushed in.”

  Maggie glared.

  The detective’s face fell. “Sorry.”

  “Take Padilla with you. He’s better with the big picture. Sterling can sweep in here.”

  “Can I do that? Can I tell them what to do?” He sounded like a little kid.

  “If you do it nicely,” Maggie said.

  Dublowski nodded and turned back to the lab techs.

  “Padilla’s first name is Randy,” she whispered.

  “Hey, Randy.”

  The dark-haired man looked up.

  “Do you suppose you could help me outside? You’re probably a whole lot better at this than I am,” Dublowski smiled.

  Self-depreciation with a smile. It worked with Halverson and now with Padilla.

  The tech nodded. “Sure thing.”

  As the two headed down the stairs, Harley examined the woman’s neck. “Hey, Barry, fill that memory card. We don’t want to take any chances.”

  The photographer nodded as he snapped some shots.

  “Get a chance to look at Phillips’ tape?” Maggie asked.

  “Poor quality. Like everything Monroe does. What do you think?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I don’t know. There’s something…”

  “Spit it out. It’s just you and me, baby.”

  “This is more like Rosenberg and Cramer. Look at the body. They way he’s handled it. The neck, the position of the head. Look at the cuts. There’s some confidence happening. It’s clean. No hesitation.”

  “Progressing?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think so. Body type’s different, too. Cramer, Rosenberg, this one. All tall.”

  “Statuesque,” Harley smiled.

  She nodded. “Phillips was a small woman. And he still had problems handling her. Not too big to fit through a window, but too small to handle the body.”

  “She had a nice set of bruises on her back. Probably drug her up the steps at least part of the way,” Harley said, carefully scanning the young woman’s body.

  “Yeah, I’d be interested to see if we’ve got the same thing here.”

  “Bets?”

  “She’s clean. I’ll lay money she was conscious when she came up. Or he carried her,” said Maggie.

  “Which means a big man.”

  “Yep.”

  Suddenly it hit her. How could she have been so stupid? “Jewelry.”

  Harley looked. “None.”

  “She pierced?” Maggie looked up at Harley.

  He tilted the head and looked at the back of the ears where there was less blood. The ME nodded. “Double on both ears. Looks like a cartilage pierce on the left.”

  “Dressed for going out, but no jewelry? Not in this tax bracket.” Maggie hovered over the woman’s hands. There. Small, indented, pale circles around two of the woman’s fingers. “Rings. At least two.”

  Harley bent close and nodded. “Why don’t you have dinner with me?”

  “Why don’t you finish up here?” Maggie said. “I’m going to check outside, then head home.”

  “No dinner?”

  “Maybe next time,” she said, already starting down the steps. “Take good care of her.”

  Padilla was still working as Dublowski trotted up. “Randy found a student id. Looks like her. Sarah Dougall. University of Chicago.”

  “You’ll need to notify the parents,” Maggie said solemnly. “Have them ID the body.”

  Nick’s smile drooped. How do you tell someone their child was split open and gutted like an animal? Halverson had a couple of beat officers handle the Phillips notification. “I’ll send some uniforms over.”

  “You go,” Maggie said. “It’s part of the job.”

  It was going to be hard for the young detective. Maggie saw it on his face. Notifying families wasn’t her favorite part of the job, but better her and Dublowski than a couple of uniforms. She quickly checked her watch. The team would be done by four. The sun would still be high.

  “You want me to go with you?” Maggie asked.

  “Would you? That would be great…” Nick began. “Shit, I need to call my wife. I’m supposed to be home by five.”

  “First twenty-four hours. Make sure she knows that,” Maggie said.

  “She’s still getting used to this detective thing,” Dublowski flashed his ah-shucks smile as he stepped away and pulled his cell phone out.

  “And do a final check with your team,” Maggie called out.

  “We need to get home.” Rayney’s voice flew into the back of her head. “It’s getting late.”

  “There’s still time.”

  “No.”

  “Fine.” She leveled her eyes at Rayney. “Dublowski can drive me if you won’t.”

  Rayney stared back. “I’ll drive,” he finally said.

  Maggie didn’t say a word as they followed Nick Dublowski to the North side. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  A hospital.

  A doctor.

  Walking toward her.

  Down an endless hall.

  She waited for hours. Hours sitting in a cheerfully painted room, reviewing the file on Nancy Cramer as she waited to hear about her own daughter.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Quinn.”

  His mouth moved and words came out. Maggie just couldn’t remember the face. She couldn’t remember anything but the sound of words and an empty face. And the blue scrubs.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Then the man simply turned and walked away. That was it. A life was gone. He delivered the news and walked away. How could he do that? How could he just leave? Maggie shook off the memory as they pulled into the Dougall’s driveway.

  The young detective tried to work up enough nerve as Maggie stood behind him on the steps of the house.

  “Just do it. Standing out here won’t make it any easier.”

  Dublowski pressed the doorbell.

  The door opened and Maggie saw Sara Dougall’s mother. A well-kept woman in what was certainly a well-kept home. In a few minutes all that would change. Everything would tumble down around her and nothing would be safe anymore. Nothing would ever fit together exactly the same.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked politely.

  “Mrs. Sharon Dougall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Dublowski, Area One, Chicago Police.” The young man swallowed, his throat already tightening up. “It’s about your daughter.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  The face was so familiar to Maggie. Empty eyes, slack jaw. Like watching someone die slowly, quietly. Dublowski tried to speak, but couldn’t, so Maggie stepped up. “Mrs. Dougall, Sarah was found not long ago.”

  The woman’s mouth moved, but nothing came out. Maggie nodded. A small, simple nod. No words, no false sincerity. No cold rhetoric. Just a nod and Mrs. Dougall received the message. As the mother stumbled forward, Maggie Quinn caught the woman. That was part of her job.

  Dublowski heard sobs as Quinn passed the details to the woman in the most intimate way possible. Her mouth close to the mother’s ear. A whisper that could barely be heard. That’s how it should be done, the detective thought. Not some awkward public announcement, but a secret too wicked and too painful to share with strangers.

  When the last word was spoken, the world coll
apsed in on Sharon Dougall and she wept for ten minutes as Maggie and Nick Dublowski stood by. The young man watched Maggie Quinn. The only sign of emotion was in her eyes. And it wasn’t tears she held back. It was something else. Something more painful.

  When Sharon Dougall finally sat quietly, motionless, Maggie spoke. “You’ll need to identify Sarah. She should be ready in the next hour or two. You’ll need to bring some form of identification.”

  The woman nodded, retrieved her purse and joined them.

  “Would you like to call your husband?” she asked.

  “No.” Sharon Dougall’s face twisted when she realized how harsh the word sounded. “It’s just... we’re not together anymore.”

  Dublowski’s hand was on the doorknob, ready to usher them out. Quinn’s words stopped him in his tracks.

  “She’s his daughter, too,” Maggie said. “Call him.”

  Dublowski expected the woman to balk, but she didn’t. Like an obedient child, Mrs. Dougall nodded and took out her cell phone.

  A chill ran through Maggie as she and Rayney waited in the street outside the morgue. The sun was dropping and her skin was crawling as the shadows grew longer.

  “You okay?”

  Maggie nodded.

  “How long does this take?” Rayney asked.

  “Depends.”

  Single word answers. He didn’t like it.

  “So why are we waiting? They made it in okay. Cops can handle it.”

  Maggie was silent.

  “You know we can’t stay much longer.”

  Another nod.

  The couple came out, each holding the other up. The husband tried to keep his wife going, but she collapsed on the second step. Seeing your kid laid out. How could you walk after something like that? Maggie watched as they somehow made it to Randy Dougall’s car. The couple hugged before they finally drove away.

  “Okay.” Maggie’s voice was small. “We can go.”

  As soon as they got home, Maggie took a shower. An old habit. Wash off the smell of the scene. She passed the door that hadn’t been opened in over a year and something pulled her. The metal doorknob felt warm, pulsing. Maggie instinctively pulled away. The dark was waiting in there for her. Waiting in her daughter’s room. Not today, Maggie told herself as she walked downstairs.

  “Here,” Rayney said, handing her a bowl as he plopped down on the couch next to her with his own bowl. Ice cream. Vanilla with strawberry and chocolate syrup, whipped cream and nuts. With a huge glob of light brown on top. It looked terrible and wonderful at the same time.

  “Strawberry and chocolate. And…”

  “Peanut butter.”

  Maggie tried to smile. “Banner day.”

  “Bitch of a day.” Rayney scooped some into his mouth. “Get ‘em all at the same time. It’s good.”

  Maggie tried it. Antoine Rayney was right.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It took twenty minutes to convince Rayney to let Dublowski drive Maggie to the autopsy. In the end, she just smiled, waved and walked out the front door.

  “I heard from Bosco. Says the blood from the window at Pershing was O positive. Phillips was…” Maggie waited for the man’s answer.

  “A negative?” Nick answered hesitantly. “The killer’s blood?”

  “Maybe.” Maggie snapped her gum. “O positive, could be just about anyone. Aren’t you going to ask me if he ran a DNA on it?”

  Nick tried not to sigh. “Did he run…”

  “Sample was too small.”

  “Then why did you want me to ask?”

  “So you wouldn’t have to be reminded next time.” Maggie flipped through her notebook as Dublowski drove. “You need to talk to Mrs. Dougall again. Go easy. All we need is a list of jewelry her daughter might’ve been wearing.”

  “Think it’ll show up?”

  “Maybe. It would be nice to be able to identify it if it did.”

  Dublowski nodded. “So, you never told me what the roommate said. Did Phillips have more than one boyfriend?”

  “That would be an understatement.” Maggie flipped open her notebook and put some folded pages on the seat next to the detective. “Should have everything you need for your report. You’re going to have to do some digging. Seems Melinda enjoyed ‘living off the land.’ Different guy, different restaurant. Sometimes every night of the week.”

  “Jesus.” Dublowski reached for the papers.

  “Drive, don’t read,” Maggie snapped. “Apparently, our girl liked married men. More money for dinner, less of a commitment issue.”

  “That means the killer’s probably married.”

  “Good chance. Her roommate had no names, but she did know restaurants,” Maggie said. “You’ll want to see if anyone recognizes Phillips and if they have any names or descriptions of her recent dates. Check credit card receipts.”

  “How the hell are we…”

  “Just do the work. Run any names they give you through the system to see if there’s a hit. You might luck out if they’re in the database. Two clicks and you’ve got your man.”

  “So how does Dougall compare with the others?” Dublowski asked.

  “You did the homework?”

  Shit, he was hoping Quinn was on a roll and would just keep feeding him information. Nick ran what he knew through his mind and out his mouth. “All rich. Good families.”

  “But different families,” she said. “Real-estate. Manufacturing. Investments. Mr. Dougall is an architect. Mrs. Dougall, fundraising.”

  “But they all have money,” Nick countered.

  “Yeah, well there’s different kinds of money. What else?”

  “All the victims are students,” he said as they stopped at a light. Dublowski used the time to sift through the papers.

  “And?” Maggie waited and watched as the young man scanned the photos. “Look at their faces.”

  Dublowski was silent as he stared at the four photos of the victims when they were alive. Maggie watched the young detective struggle, then removed one of the photos and slid the other three together. Most people needed three to see a pattern. Melinda Phillips wasn’t the third. Sarah Dougall was.

  “Jesus,” Dublowski whispered. “They’re all the same.”

  A horn sounded behind them. Nick didn’t know how long the light had been green. He hit the gas and tried to avoid Quinn’s glare.

  “Rosenberg, Cramer and Dougall. Both parents work,” Maggie said. “Phillips, only one parent has a job. Rosenberg, Cramer and Dougall. Parents are divorced. Phillips, happily married.”

  “Two killers,” Nick said.

  “Two killers,” Maggie nodded.

  Her man was back.

  Harley was taking his time on this one. His assistant, Terry, was preparing the suite. The victim’s clothes had been removed the day before and were drying in an adjoining room before samples were taken. The body had been photographed from every angle and picked over for anything left behind. Her nails were scraped before she was bagged. The blood was cleaned away. Everything which could be gleaned had been.

  “I need the film on her right away,” Harley told his assistant. Terry nodded and disappeared.

  Maggie and Nick waited outside the suite. Just being near an autopsy room again made the detective’s stomach turn. He held a mask in his hand.

  “You gonna wear that?” Maggie asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Maggie was too quiet.

  “What?” he finally asked. “What?”

  “Look, if you want all the Boys to tease you, go ahead. Wear the mask. If you want to be able to play in all their reindeer games, leave it on the table.”

  Dublowski paused.

  “And, yes, they will find out. They always find ou
t. They’re worse than a bunch of little old ladies.” She snapped her gum. “Look, if the Boys decide you’re a fuck-up, a wuss, it’s done. You think killers have no mercy, just try working with a bunch of twenty-year dicks. Only three categories, Detective. Fuck-up, one of the Boys or a hot shot. You choose.”

  Maggie Quinn was right. Nick learned it early on as a uniform. Chicago was Chicago. And Chicago cops had their own set of standard operating procedures. To fit in, you played their game. There weren’t perps. That was wussy talk. There were bad guys. No one used codes. They just said what happened. Killing, not homicide. Nick knew it, learned some of it the hard way. But this was different. This was an autopsy.

  “You can handle it,” Maggie said, answering his thoughts. “Just decide you can.”

  Take the bad guy down. Hit the target on the range. Run the obstacle course. Protect your partner. Those things Nick could do. He couldn’t, however, keep himself from tossing his lunch when he saw someone sliced open.

  “Of course,” Maggie suddenly said as she smiled, “if you see Harley putting a mask on, grab one too ‘cause you know it’s going to be nasty.” She chuckled as she remembered a particularly horrible floater, a large man made even larger by being locked in a metal storage trunk in July, then dumped in Michigan in August. Harley ate nothing but salad for a week after that.

  Nick wished Quinn would tell him the story behind the joke, but she never talked casually, never bullshitted like the guys in the department. She wasn’t one of the Boys. She was a hotshot. The young detective fidgeted.

  Harley’s assistant waved them in as the ME studied the x-rays.

  “Detective. Consultant,” Harley smiled as he clipped the x-rays to the light box. “You forget your mask at home, Dublowski?” The ME smiled.

  Maggie shot a sideward glance at Dublowski. “They always find out,” she whispered.

  “This is going to take a while, so let’s get going.” Harley hit a switch on the counter. The red light of a video camera mounted above the table blinked.

  “How’s it looking, Terry?”

  The assistant was watching the monitor on the counter. He used the remote to adjust the focus slightly. “Looks good.”