been here at least three days,” Blasky said during his cursory examination. “Maybe longer. He’s wearing an adult diaper. Got two healing IV marks on his arm, where the needle pulled out from the spinning.”
According to Blasky, Mr. K had visited the vic at least three times, to change his IV bag, keeping him hydrated and alive during the terrible agony he’d endured.
“Tripod probably held a camcorder,” Herb said. “Or maybe a camera taking time-lapse photos. Gives some cred to the theory that Mr. K is a hit man.”
I nodded. When the Outfit ordered an execution, they often wanted proof. A picture was a nice memento to keep around to remind you what you did to your enemies. Both Herb and I had worked cases before where videotapes were involved, but those were sex murders. This death didn’t appear to have a sexual element. This was about causing as much pain as possible.
The particular torture Mr. K employed dated back to medieval times, where it was known as the Catherine Wheel. It resembled a circus knife-throwing act, where someone was strapped to a large, round board, spread-eagled, and then spun in circles while knives hit the spaces between their limbs. But in this case, there were no thrown knives. The pain came from broken limbs—the victim’s arms and legs were each fractured in several places.
For seventy-two hours, a small electric motor had spun him slowly around, his compound fractures stretching and rubbing together, until his arms and legs were so swollen they looked like they’d been inflated.
I couldn’t imagine a more horrible way to die.
“Nothing at all. Not a damn thing.” Officer Scott Hajek, from the crime scene team, frowned at me. He couldn’t find a single shred of evidence anywhere, inside or outside the unit. No fingerprints. No footprints. Even the floor had been swept prior to our arrival. Mr. K didn’t leave anything behind.
“Jack, I’d like to talk when you have a sec.”
I glanced at Herb, whose fat jowls were hanging down like a basset hound’s. Then I nodded and walked him down the hallway.
“I left my post,” he said when we were far enough away from the others. “You told me to wait downstairs and watch the exit.”
“Herb…”
“I screwed up, Jack. If you want to lodge a formal reprimand—”
“I don’t want to lodge a reprimand. Forget about it, Herb.”
He stared at me, pained. I tried to keep my face neutral. Because it wasn’t Herb’s fault. He’d come to my aid when I didn’t respond. I was the one who should have exercised some control, told my partner the perp was on his way down.
It wasn’t Herb’s fault Mr. K got away.
It was mine.
And I deserved more than a reprimand. For letting that monster escape, I felt I deserved to have my badge taken away.
“Let’s focus on what to do next,” I said, eager to get off the subject of blame. “We’ve got his car, his plates, his address. We can go talk to him.”
“But we didn’t catch him in the act, Jack. Did you see him in the locker, with the vic?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Did we get a good look at his face when he walked into the building? Can we even put him at the scene?”
This was a common problem with law enforcement. Sometimes, we knew who the bad guy was, but couldn’t legally connect him to his crimes. Getting a conviction meant following a specific protocol. If any step along the way wasn’t rock solid, the state’s attorney wouldn’t even attempt to prosecute.
“Dust the elevator,” I said. “And the knob on the security door. Let’s see if we can get that watchman downstairs to ID him.” I had a bad thought. “We should also check to see if our perp has a locker here under his real name.”
My worry turned out to be prophetic. The man we followed here did indeed have a storage unit in his name, also on the third floor. Locker 312. That meant he had a reason to be at this facility, and could easily plead innocence in connection with the murder
According to Blasky, Mr. K had visited the vic at least three times, to change his IV bag, keeping him hydrated and alive during the terrible agony he’d endured.
“Tripod probably held a camcorder,” Herb said. “Or maybe a camera taking time-lapse photos. Gives some cred to the theory that Mr. K is a hit man.”
I nodded. When the Outfit ordered an execution, they often wanted proof. A picture was a nice memento to keep around to remind you what you did to your enemies. Both Herb and I had worked cases before where videotapes were involved, but those were sex murders. This death didn’t appear to have a sexual element. This was about causing as much pain as possible.
The particular torture Mr. K employed dated back to medieval times, where it was known as the Catherine Wheel. It resembled a circus knife-throwing act, where someone was strapped to a large, round board, spread-eagled, and then spun in circles while knives hit the spaces between their limbs. But in this case, there were no thrown knives. The pain came from broken limbs—the victim’s arms and legs were each fractured in several places.
For seventy-two hours, a small electric motor had spun him slowly around, his compound fractures stretching and rubbing together, until his arms and legs were so swollen they looked like they’d been inflated.
I couldn’t imagine a more horrible way to die.
“Nothing at all. Not a damn thing.” Officer Scott Hajek, from the crime scene team, frowned at me. He couldn’t find a single shred of evidence anywhere, inside or outside the unit. No fingerprints. No footprints. Even the floor had been swept prior to our arrival. Mr. K didn’t leave anything behind.
“Jack, I’d like to talk when you have a sec.”
I glanced at Herb, whose fat jowls were hanging down like a basset hound’s. Then I nodded and walked him down the hallway.
“I left my post,” he said when we were far enough away from the others. “You told me to wait downstairs and watch the exit.”
“Herb…”
“I screwed up, Jack. If you want to lodge a formal reprimand—”
“I don’t want to lodge a reprimand. Forget about it, Herb.”
He stared at me, pained. I tried to keep my face neutral. Because it wasn’t Herb’s fault. He’d come to my aid when I didn’t respond. I was the one who should have exercised some control, told my partner the perp was on his way down.
It wasn’t Herb’s fault Mr. K got away.
It was mine.
And I deserved more than a reprimand. For letting that monster escape, I felt I deserved to have my badge taken away.
“Let’s focus on what to do next,” I said, eager to get off the subject of blame. “We’ve got his car, his plates, his address. We can go talk to him.”
“But we didn’t catch him in the act, Jack. Did you see him in the locker, with the vic?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Did we get a good look at his face when he walked into the building? Can we even put him at the scene?”
This was a common problem with law enforcement. Sometimes, we knew who the bad guy was, but couldn’t legally connect him to his crimes. Getting a conviction meant following a specific protocol. If any step along the way wasn’t rock solid, the state’s attorney wouldn’t even attempt to prosecute.
“Dust the elevator,” I said. “And the knob on the security door. Let’s see if we can get that watchman downstairs to ID him.” I had a bad thought. “We should also check to see if our perp has a locker here under his real name.”
My worry turned out to be prophetic. The man we followed here did indeed have a storage unit in his name, also on the third floor. Locker 312. That meant he had a reason to be at this facility, and could easily plead innocence in connection with the murder
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