J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

Silently, Herb reaches back into the utensil drawer and finds a paring knife. Long-bladed weapons aren’t good in a fight. They get caught on clothing. The large blade makes penetration more difficult, and easier to defend against. A short blade is easier to control and wield, and can do more than enough damage.

Herb takes one for each hand.

The microwave reaches 15 seconds left… 14… 13…

Benedict spreads his feet apart, widening his stance.

12… 11… 10…

The kitchen is dark, but he knows every inch of it. He imagines the three steps he’ll have to take before the quick right turn into the living room.

9… 8… 7…

He bends his knees and crouches down. He’ll hit low, use his weight to knock the person over.

6… 5… 4…

Herb takes a deep breath, holds it, clenching the knives as hard as he can.

3… 2… 1…

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

Benedict is already two steps into his run. Before he can make the turn into the living room he bumps straight into the man standing next to the refrigerator.

Momentum takes Herb forward, but the shock of hitting someone sooner than expected, plus the slippery floor, makes him lose his balance. He falls facefirst, trying to break his fall with his knuckles, realizing at the last possible moment that falling on two paring knives is a bad idea.

Herb manages to stretch one knife in front of him.

The other penetrates his chest and slips between two ribs, puncturing his right lung.

The pain is instant and intense. A sharp, searing pain, accompanied by a sudden urge to cough.

Ahead of Herb, the intruder also hits the floor. It’s followed by a clanging sound, something metal hitting the tile. A crowbar? A gun?

“Herb?”

Bernice. She heard the sound. Herb tries to warn her, but he can’t take a breath. Nothing comes out, only painful wheezing. He pulls at the knife in his chest, and it comes out with a wet sucking sound.

A foot catches Herb in the face. Herb lashes out with the knife, finding a calf, digging the blade in.

There’s a scream, low and loud, and the leg is pulled away. Herb hears limping footsteps heading into the living room. And then he hears something that almost stops his heart: the stairs creaking.

Bernice is coming down.

Herb tries to get up. He’s struggling to breathe, and there’s a wet hissing sound coming from the hole in his chest. He presses his palm to it, pain be damned, and manages to get to his knees.

The light goes on in the hallway.

“Herb!”

Bernice’s voice, panicked. There’s a grunting sound. Something breaks, sounds like glass.

Not Bernice please God please not my wife…

Herb crawls across the tile, desperate. Another light goes on, in the living room. He sees what the intruder dropped. A hunting knife, the blade over ten inches long.

Footsteps, getting closer. Herb raises the paring knife, ready to fight.

Bernice walks into the kitchen. She’s holding Herb’s gun.

“Oh my God, Herbert!”

Herb tries to speak. Can’t. Bernice reads the question on his face.

“He’s gone. He saw the gun and broke through the living room window.”

Herb coughs, blood bubbling from his lips. He collapses onto the floor and is conscious long enough to notice the note on the floor, next to the hunting knife.

FOR THE SECOND time in twelve hours, the phone woke me up. I squinted at the clock in the darkness. One a.m. I’d been asleep for almost an hour.

The phone rang again. I slapped it to my cheek.

“Daniels.”

“Jack? It’s Bernice Benedict. Someone just broke into our house.”

I went from groggy to alert in record time.

“Are you okay? Where’s Herb?”

“He’s been stabbed in the chest.”

She sounded scared, but in control. Cops’ wives were tough.

“Have you called 911?”

“An ambulance is on the way. The man who broke in, he left a handwritten note. It says ‘All shall be punished.’ ”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. If you’re already on your way to the hospital, leave the back door open.”

I threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt and made it to Herb’s place in nine minutes. Scores of squad cars jammed the side streets; cops took care of their own.

I parked on his lawn and caught Benedict being shoved into the rear of an ambulance. His pajama top was open, and an EMT pressed a large piece of gauze to his bloody chest. Herb’s face was literally gray, but he was awake.

“How you doing, partner?”

He rolled his eyes, which buoyed me with relief. The dying don’t bother with sarcasm. He whispered something, more a gargle than a whisper. I leaned over, my ear to his lips.

“… stabbed the guy… leg…”

“Description?”

“… dark… Bernice…”

“She saw him?

His eyes said yes.

“I’m going to check out the scene. I’ll visit you later.”

I patted his cheek, and he whispered something again.

“… crow wave.”

“What?”

“… microwave… don’t touch my rib roast.”

Bernice stood in the doorway, talking to three cops. She was in her midfifties, short and a shade too plump for this era. Her gray hair was in a bun, and she hugged her robe around her, cold or scared or both. I approached, and when Bernice noticed me she grasped my hands.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Though I didn’t see how she could be.

“Did you see his face?”

“Yes. Short red hair. Acne scars. Chubby. I don’t know about height – he was limping and hunched over. In his late twenties or early thirties.”

“What was he wearing?”

“A black sweatshirt, black jeans, gloves.”

“Black leather?”

“White rubber. Like a doctor wears.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Bernice laid it out for me: waking up when she heard a noise, calling for her husband, hearing a man scream, grabbing the gun and coming downstairs, finding the suspect in the living room. When he saw the gun, he busted out through the window.

“Did you see which way he went?”

“No. I was in a hurry to find Herb.”

Something in her tone made me wonder if there was more. “Anything else, Bernice?”

“Yes. He spoke to me, before he ran off.”

“What did he say?”

Bernice didn’t flinch. “He said, I’ll be back, bitch .”

I left Bernice in the capable hands of Chicago’s finest and entered her house. The Crime Scene Unit hadn’t arrived yet, and the first-on-the-scene officer was reluctant to let me in, even though I pulled rank. He was worried about contaminating evidence, which wasn’t an unfounded concern. A few recent high-profile court losses due to compromised scenes had made many of the higher-ups unhappy.

I assured him I’d be careful, and wandered through the living room, mindful where I stepped, taking everything in.

The entry point was through a living room window. A hole had been cut in the glass, wide enough to accommodate an arm. Then the latch had been turned and the window raised. Silent and effective. It was an MO I’d seen before – the Gingerbread Man had used it.

The perp had exited through another window, smashing the glass. There was blood on the window frame, on the wood floor trailing up to it. I followed the blood into the kitchen, found the note and the hunting knife. The note seemed to match the first note left for us, and the hunting knife appeared to be the same one used in the Diane Kork video.

There was more blood here, Herb’s and the intruder’s, smeared around in a pattern that suggested a struggle. Two paring knives were slathered with the stuff.

I looked in the microwave, found the Tupperware bowl full of rib roast. I didn’t see how touching it would in any way, shape, or form hurt a conviction, so I put it in the refrigerator.