J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

No burlap bag this time. The victim’s face was clear. And worst of all, identifiable.

Dr. Francis Mulrooney. The eccentric, gentle handwriting expert. A man whom I considered a friend.

The tape ended, reverting to blue screen.

Anger came first. Then sadness. Then, like a slap, fear.

The killer had murdered Diane Kork and Francis Mulrooney, two people involved in the Gingerbread Man case. The killer also knew where I lived.

When I received the first tape, I took it to be a boast by the perp. Look what I can do, and you can’t catch me .

This second tape was more than a boast. It was an obvious threat. He was saying You’re next .

I placed the tape and the envelope into a fresh plastic garbage bag, and headed for Mulrooney’s office, keeping a careful eye on the rearview mirror. Why did it seem like every looney in Chicago knew where I lived? Did they give out my address at Serial Killer School?

The day was partly cloudy, I’d guess it at seventy-five degrees. Score one for the Weather Channel.

The graphologist’s office was on Fifty-ninth Street, at the University of Chicago’s Hyde Park campus. I took Lake Shore Drive south, a twenty-minute trip, exiting at the Museum of Science and Industry on Fifty-seventh, following Stony Island to Fifty-ninth. The campus area covered about five square blocks, wooded and peaceful and brimming with coffee shops and used bookstores and academic activity. But south of Stoney, and west of Drexel, the neighborhoods turned very bad very fast, with high crime rates and Emergency Stations every few blocks – phones that linked directly to 911.

I parked next to a hydrant and entered the old brownstone where Mulrooney worked. A fat security guard sat behind a round counter. He had a squashed appearance, with several chins, and resembled a bullfrog perched on a toadstool. I flashed my gold, my earlier anger and fear stored safely behind a cloak of cool professionalism.

“Where’s the office of Dr. Francis Mulrooney?”

“Second floor, last door.” His voice was high and whiny, ruining the frog motif he had going for himself.

“Is it locked?”

“Probably.”

“Can you open it?”

“Sure.”

We took the elevator, a small space that could carry five people, four if they were as rotund as my security guard friend. Someone had scratched some swear words into the stainless steel panel next to the buttons. Even our highly praised bastions of education weren’t immune from folks who thought “shit-breath” was high comedy. Why didn’t vandals ever quote Shakespeare? I’d love to see graffiti in iambic pentameter.

“Has Dr. Mulrooney had any visitors lately?”

“Students.”

“Any adults?”

“No.”

“Have you seen this guy hanging around?”

I showed him the Unabomber Xerox, which I now carried everywhere.

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw Dr. Mulrooney?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Left the building at his usual time, around one.”

“Did he seem worried? Scared? Distracted?”

“Seemed normal.”

The door opened. The guard went first, leading me down a thinly carpeted hallway to a hollow core door I could have opened by sneezing on it. The first two keys didn’t work, but the third was a charm.

I thanked him, and he waddled off. The office wasn’t much larger than the elevator, and certainly more crowded. All four walls were lined with crammed bookshelves. A desk sat in the corner, covered with papers and folders and clutter. An older model Dell rested on the desk, the monitor partially obscured by Post-it notes, a screen saver bouncing around a Microsoft logo.

I nudged the mouse, and the Windows desktop appeared, which was almost as cluttered as his real-life desktop. I clicked on Outlook and read a few e-mails. Nothing interesting. Then I clicked on the Start Menu and looked at Recent Documents. Nothing there either.

I searched his real desk next, uncovering a combo phone/answering machine beneath a stack of student reports. A number four blinked in the red LED window. I hit Play and began going through drawers.

The first message was from me, canceling our appointment. The machine beeped, and the next message played.

“… you’re going to die…”

The voice was a whisper, barely audible. A few seconds of silence followed, then a beep.

“… today…”

More silence. Another beep. I found the volume control and turned it up.

“… did you like the video, Jack? You’re next…”

That seriously weirded me out. I pressed Play and listened again. The sex of the speaker was impossible to determine. I tried to find the Eject button to save the tape, but the machine had no tape – this was a model that recorded digitally. Whispers could be voice-printed, but I didn’t know if unplugging the machine would erase the data on the chip. I left it alone for the time being.

The desk yielded no secrets, save for a single key with a round green tag that Mulrooney had carefully labeled House spare .

I pocketed the key, closed the door behind me, and took the stairs back to the frog.

“I need Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s home address.”

He had a large black binder labeled Faculty Directory , and I learned Mulrooney conveniently lived a block away, on Fifty-eighth.

The walk was pleasant, though my cheap shoes pinched my toes. Mulrooney’s building was an apartment, three stories, two tenants per floor. The single key fit both the security door and his door, on the ground level. I knocked first, in case he had a dog, and when no noise erupted from within I went inside.

His dwelling was the opposite of his office, everything neat and tidy. I gave the place a thorough toss, beginning in the kitchen, then the bedroom, bath, and living room.

Like his office, I couldn’t find any signs of a struggle. Unlike his office, there were no messages on his answering machine.

I found an address book, tucked it into my pocket, and locked the door when I left.

Abducting someone isn’t very hard. Mulrooney was a slight guy, short and thin. A reasoner, not a fighter. A large man could have muscled him into a car or truck within a few seconds, without attracting much attention. Or he could have been drugged, or tricked, or gone someplace with someone he trusted.

I stood on the curb and called Officer Hajek at the Crime Lab, asking if he had time later to swing by Mulrooney’s office to see what could be done with the answering machine. He promised me he would.

“… did you like the video, Jack? You’re next…”

I shuddered.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been a target, but that didn’t mean I was used to it.

I walked back to my car, acutely aware of my surroundings.

HERB WAS WAITING for me in my office. He looked to be in good spirits, and cradled half a large bag of Chee•tos. His walrus mustache had a distinct orange tint. It matched his orange fingers, orange shirt, and orange tie. That’s how I knew for sure Herb wasn’t the killer; he would have left an easy-to-follow trail.

“Morning, Jack. You look upset. Saw the captain?”

“He looking for me?”

“That’s the buzz around the station.”

Great. I left the garbage bag containing the latest video on my desk, told Herb I’d be back in five, and headed for the lair of Captain Bains.

As expected, Bains didn’t greet me with flowers and a big hug. The large vein in his forehead bulged out when he saw me, and I heard him grind his teeth; not a happy sound.

“Goddammit, Daniels. I recall ordering you off the case. Do you recall that?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And since then you’ve been involved in an arson, a high-profile arrest outside your jurisdiction, and your face is all over national news telling the media you’ll stick your foot up their collective asses.”