J. Konrath: Rusty Nail

“Why a jar of peanuts?” I asked Herb.

Benedict squinted at the jar. “Those aren’t peanuts, Jack.”

My breath caught in my throat when I realized what the mason jar contained.

It was filled, to the brim, with dozens of severed human toes.

TECHNICALLY, NO CRIME has been committed in our district.”

Herb and I exchanged a glance.

“We realize that, Captain.”

Captain Bains sat behind his desk, rubbing his thumb and index finger over his gray mustache – a mustache that didn’t match the deep black of his hairpiece.

“There’s not even a body.”

“The Kork case is ours,” I said.

“This isn’t the Kork case. Charles Kork isn’t going to commit any more crimes. This could all be a prank or a hoax.”

I folded my arms, then unfolded them so I didn’t look defensive. “The jar of toes isn’t a hoax.”

Bains leaned forward. “That’s for the Evanston PD to pursue, not us.”

“They asked us to come in on this. And we’ve got nothing else going on.”

The captain indicated some paper on his desk. “There was a body discovered in a transient motel an hour ago, on Webster. Stabbing death of a homeless guy named Steve Jensen.”

“I’ll put Check and Mason on it. I want this one, Captain.”

Herb’s stomach made an unpleasant noise. Bains stood up and gave us his back. He stared out of his window, which offered a lovely view of the garbage in the alley.

“You’ve got forty-eight hours. If you can’t turn up any evidence by then, I’m pulling you.”

More strange sounds from Herb’s stomach. Bains glanced over his shoulder and eyed him.

“Hungry, Sergeant?”

“That’s not my stomach. I think the GoLYTELY is kicking in.”

“Go attend to that.”

Benedict about-faced and waddled to the door, knees pressed together.

After Herb left, I locked eyes with my boss.

“What’s going on, Captain? I usually enjoy some leeway when it comes to picking cases.”

Chicago had five Detective Areas, and I worked as a floater. My reputation allowed it.

Bains didn’t seem swayed by my reputation. He pursed his lips. Not a good sign.

“What aren’t you telling me, Captain?”

“The superintendent has been getting some flack lately about that TV show.”

“TV show?”

“That series with the PI and that fat woman who plays you.”

I mentally groaned. The show, called Fatal Autonomy , featured a supporting character based on me. I never watched it, but from what I heard, the series didn’t display the CPD in a good light. Or me either.

“I explained this before, I let them use my name because one of the show’s producers helped out with the Kork case.”

Which had been a mistake. Anything to do with Harry McGlade wound up being a mistake.

“The super doesn’t care. Chicago is buried in crime, and that show makes us look like a bunch of idiots.”

“So what are you saying? The super is pissed at me, so he’s gunning for my job?”

“I’m saying I don’t want you on anything that might make you look foolish, or anything high-profile. This will all go away, but laying low won’t hurt.”

I leaned closer to Bains and dropped my voice an octave.

“How angry is he?”

“If you see him on the street, turn around and run.”

Ouch.

“You have two days to come up with something solid, Jack. And keep the media out of it.”

Bains dismissed me, dispersing the wind I’d had in my sails. Having to worry about job security at my age was a stressor I just didn’t need.

I looked for Herb, heard scary sounds coming from the bathroom, and chose to leave him alone for a while.

Evidence was located on the first floor. I took the elevator. The day guy, Bill, greeted me with a grin. He was old enough to have milked Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. Bill rescued a previous mayor’s family member decades ago, and was allowed to stay on without being forced into retirement. It was a good thing too, because he was the only person who could find anything in the cluttered, unorganized Evidence Room.

“You’re like a shot of Viagra, Miss Jack Daniels. I love the boots. Can I lick your heel?”

“No. I thought men lost interest in sex after turning a hundred.”

Bill winked. “I’m only ninety-eight. But I make love like a man of seventy-five. What are your plans for later?”

“I’m visiting my mother.”

“How is she doing?”

I thought of Mom, the tube in her throat.

“No change.”

“How about afterward? Maybe a little midnight rendezvous? You look like you could use a little TLC.”

Bill hit the nail on the head with that one. It had been months since I’d been with a man. But even though I’d passed my prime, I wasn’t desperate enough to date someone so old he farted dust. Not yet, anyway. Give me another few months and I might consider it.

“I appreciate the offer, Bill, but right now I’m interested in a closed case – 333871- 5.”

Bill nodded, tapping his pointy chin. “The Gingerbread Man. Eleven boxes. Anything in particular?”

“I need everything. Sorry. You want some help?”

“Nope. I keep in shape.”

Bill held up his right arm and pulled back the short sleeve, flexing his biceps. There was enough extra skin hanging from that arm to upholster a couch. In a liver spot pattern. I kept that to myself.

Bill scuttled off and lugged the boxes out of storage one at a time. I signed the tags and dug in.

The first two boxes were mostly paperwork, much of it mine. I glanced at a few reports, the memories of the case returning full force. Charles Kork had been a very bad man, torturing women in his basement in Evanston, prolonging their deaths for hours and lovingly capturing it all on videotape.

The third, fourth, and fifth boxes contained personal belongings from his last three victims.

In the sixth box, wrapped in tin foil and sealed in a plastic evidence bag, was the first gingerbread man cookie we’d found. Parts of it were stained black with blood. It had candy hearts for eyes and mouth, three gum drop buttons on the front, and had been lacquered. The one we’d recently found was almost an inch larger, had peppermint swirl buttons and raisin eyes, no mouth. Not the same source.

There were other cookies in other bags, but I didn’t bother opening them. In the seventh box I found what I’d been looking for.

Twelve videotapes.

The chain of evidence tags noted how often they’d been viewed and duplicated, which was often. Each tape had a label, done in Kork’s distinctive handwriting.

Tape #1, “Jerry Dies Slowly.” Tape #6, “Kids Say the Funniest Things When They’re Bleeding.” Tape #11, “T. Metcalf Gets a Surprise.” Tape #12, “Slipping the Knife to the Wife.”

The videos contained graphic footage of Kork murdering his victims. There had been ten of them in all, six women and four children. The task force had identified all but one of the kids.

Seeing the tapes filled me with a dread I normally felt in life or death situations. Herb and I had watched part of #4, “Making Little Belinda Cry.” We could only stand it for two minutes, even with the sound turned off.

I hadn’t been able to forget it, much as I had tried.

After only a small hesitation, I sucked up my courage and pulled out the tapes.

“Would you like a bag?”

I nodded, and Bill produced a plastic Jewel Foods bag from under the counter. I poked through the remaining boxes, taking a handwriting analysis report and some autopsy reports.

In the last box, all by itself, was the murder weapon. A large hunting knife with a jagged edge on the back of the blade. Through the plastic evidence bag, I could see some of Diane Kork’s blood dried on the edge.