Finally, I bent over the sleeping giant and my heart skipped a beat.
In his jacket pocket, broken in three large pieces, was a gingerbread man cookie.
Chapter 14
THE QUESTIONING BEGAN AT THE HOSPITAL. After a doctor looked me over and declared I'd live, I joined my fellow officers in the interrogation process. Captain Bains had shown up, as had Benedict, the Feebies, several people from the mayor's office, and the assistant district attorney.
We went by the book and wore our kid gloves to avoid messing up a possible conviction. A judge was called and warrants were issued to search the suspects' homes. Lawyers were present during questioning, and in a rare turn of events, they felt full confessions were in the best interests of their clients.
The guy with the earrings had sustained a concussion from the eight-ball sandwich I'd fed him, and he'd be out for a while. But Bluto and Tattoo Boy were conscious and able to talk. And talk they did.
But when all was said and done, with all of our caution and persistence, we were left with little more than when we'd begun.
Bluto and his buddies had been hired to break my legs. They'd been given a photo of me, my address, and cash to share among them. I'd been tailed to Joe's from my apartment, which they'd been watching, and after finishing their intended beating they were supposed to leave the gingerbread man cookie with me.
They didn't know the man who hired them. They didn't know about the Jane Doe murder. Their residences were searched and came up clean. Their alibis for the time of Jane Doe's murder were tight. Their only crime, other than assault and battery on a police officer, was extreme stupidity at having stumbled into so much trouble for so little cash. It wouldn't even begin to cover their doctor bills, let alone legal representation.
They'd been brokered by a man named Floyd Schmidt, who operated a goon-for-hire service out of a bar on Maxwell Street. Floyd was initially uncooperative when we brought him in, but he quickly agreed to talk about anything and everything to avoid being implicated in the Jane Doe murder.
A man had come to see him at the bar, offering five hundred dollars to cripple me. Floyd could give no description other than the fact that he was white, average height, between twenty and forty years old.
"I swear, I never looked at the guy. This business, you look at people, they get uncomfortable, don't want to use your services."
No one was too surprised.
The gingerbread man cookie was the same type as the one found with Jane Doe's body. The picture of me had been processed by someone in a private darkroom rather than a commercial house. We managed to recover two of the original hundred-dollar bills used to pay for Floyd's service. We used an ALS to try and photograph fingerprints, but only lifted a set from Bluto.
In other words, we had zip.
I was exhausted, aching, and generally cranky. Herb suggested I go home. Seeing no reason to argue, I did.
And of course, I couldn't sleep.
Some Tylenol helped with my various aches, many of which had stiffened up since the fight. But even with my energy meter at 0.0, I couldn't completely relax.
He was out there. He knew where I lived. He knew I was after him.
He even took a picture of me.
While it was a close-up, I could tell it was taken at night, while raining, and I'd been wearing my trench coat. It was yet to be determined the type of camera and lens he'd used, but I knew when he'd taken it. At the Jane Doe crime scene.
The Gingerbread Man had been there. He'd picked me out as his adversary. And now he was playing some kind of warped game.
The Feebies had touched on it during a break in the interrogation process.
"There's a high certainty that this man was also the one who gave you the candy," Dailey had said.
"Vicky should have a printout this afternoon on similar product-tampering cases."
"This man has singled you out as his enemy. Be prepared for some personal contact anytime soon. A letter, or a phone call. Maybe he'll even meet you face-to-face, without you knowing it's him."
"You should be under surveillance, Lieutenant."
I politely declined, saying it hadn't escalated to that level yet.
But now, alone in bed, I couldn't help but feel a bit paranoid. In all the years I'd been hunting down killers, I'd never had one decide to hunt me.
The thought left me anything but drowsy.
I replayed the videotape of the Jane Doe crime scene in my head, an easy feat to do because I'd seen it dozens of times. I hadn't noticed any of the onlookers carrying a camera, but another viewing was certainly warranted.
I switched over from my back to my side, which was a bad thing to do because I immediately took note that Don wasn't next to me. When I'd arrived at the apartment a little earlier his furniture and things had been removed from the hallway. It had been Don, rather than a thief, because he'd left me a message written on my door in black marker.
"Your an asshole, Jack," had been the message.
Spelling was never one of Don's strong points.
But I still missed him. Or maybe not him exactly. I missed having a warm body lying next to me. I suppose we had more of an arrangement than a relationship. I got to hold him at night, and he got a free apartment.
There have been marriages built on less.
I flipped onto my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to let sleep overtake me. Gradually, slowly, eventually, drowsiness set in, pulling me into sleepyland.
Then the phone rang.
I bolted out of bed like a startled fawn and had the phone to my face before I was fully awake.
"Daniels."
"Hope I didn't wake you, Jack. We've got another one."
I closed my eyes and gave my head a shake. The clock told me it was a little past noon.
"Where?"
"A 7-Eleven on Addison," Benedict said. "About a block away from you."
I blinked and nodded, weighing the news.
"Be there in five."
"There's something else. Maybe you should prepare yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"He left another note. It's addressed to you."
"What does it say?"
Herb cleared his throat and read in a monotone.
""Number Two. Dear Jack, I saw you at Joe's. Not bad for a bitch. I didn't get my money's worth, but it was fun anyway. Too bad that bald guy helped you out. I think you would look beautiful in a wheelchair. But there's still time for that.""
I said, "Christ."
"There's more. "I will keep killing these sluts. It's my mission. I've left you another present, but it's deeply hidden. Run, run, as fast as you can, Jack. You can't catch me...but I'll catch you. The Gingerbread Man.""
"The crowd, Herb. Make sure we get close-ups of everyone. I bet the little weasel is there right now, watching. See you in a bit."
It only took a few minutes to throw on a suit and get over there. I didn't even need to drive. The crime scene was practically in my backyard.
Four squad cars had preceded me, parked in front of the entrance to the store, cutting off the lot. Several uniforms were securing the scene, taping it off. Another was keeping the crowd and the growing number of reporters at bay. I hung my badge around my neck and entered the circus.
Herb, who always managed to beat me to crime scenes even if they were only a block away from me, was standing next to the garbage can at the storefront. The lid was off, and something bloody was sticking out into the air. In Herb's hand was the note, bagged in a large Ziploc.
I found a tissue in my pocket and wiped my runny nose, trying to overtly scan the crowd. If I was obvious about it, I might scare our man away. And I was sure he was nearby, watching.
No one jumped out at me.
"You look like a train wreck," Herb offered.
"Thanks for caring."
I turned my attention to the garbage can. It was another woman, her ass rising up out of the refuse like a bloody mountain. Without trying to absorb too much detail, I could see that her buttocks, vagina, and rectum had been mutilated almost beyond recognition.