J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

Holly said, “Freaky! Look at what he’s doing, Jack!”

I made the mistake of a backward glance. Bud was causing some real damage, jabbing and poking, tears streaming down his face, little rivulets of blood cascading down his ruined thighs.

I reached back to take the needle away from him, but Holly caught my arm. Her grip was iron.

“Let him do it. He’s a child killer.”

Bud was sobbing now, mumbling something about angels. Perhaps it was a prayer. I tore my eyes away and pressed the call button for the nurse.

Holly pulled a face, obviously disappointed. I twisted out of her grip and walked past.

“Let’s go.”

The cops parted for us. I kept my pace brisk enough that Holly was forced to jog to catch up.

“Are you pissed at me, Jack?”

I didn’t answer.

“Come on. The guy was scum. Besides, he was doing it to himself.”

“He’s insane, Holly.”

“So?”

I stopped, faced her.

“My job is to protect and serve. Even the ones who don’t deserve it.”

She put her hands on her hips, oozing attitude.

“Shit, Jack, why so tense? You PMS-ing?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you trolling for vampires? Riding the dry weave burrito? Red river canoeing?”

I blinked, unsure of how to respond. If Holly were a man, I would have smacked her. Is this how women talked to each other? Were all of those commercials with girls trading tampons in the locker room based on fact?

“No,” I managed.

“Is it a postmenopausal thing? Change of life came early?”

Crass. Insensitive. Obnoxious. Ignorant. It was like talking to Harry McGlade. Two peas in a pod. No wonder they found each other.

I spoke through my teeth. “I’m not postmenopausal, Holly. This has nothing to do with my ovaries. What you did in there was wrong.”

“Fine. I apologize for coming with you and getting your suspect to spill his guts.”

Now she stormed off, and I had to run to catch up. Classic McGlade tactic. Start out abusive, and when resistance is met, act petulant.

I grabbed her arm, which was like grabbing a steel cable.

“Look, Holly, I’m the cop. Got it?”

Something flashed across her face, the same hostility I’d glimpsed on the firing range. The scowl disappeared fast, so fast I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it. She smiled, broad enough to show her dental work.

“You’re right, Jack. I’m sorry. I was out of bounds back there. I thought we were doing that good cop/bad cop thing.”

In a way, she was right. Though Herb wouldn’t have been so ruthless, he and I would have played the situation very much the same way. I didn’t like her approach, but she did get results.

“Come on, Jack. Forgive me?”

I didn’t see much of a choice. I could stay angry, and the drive home would be uncomfortable, the wedding even more so.

“Fine. But next time, listen to me.”

I endured another hug. Who knew friendship was so much damn work?

Back in the car, Holly asked the obvious.

“Who’s Caleb?”

“It’s a current case I’m working on.”

“Want to share details?”

“Can’t. Sorry.”

“No problem. I understand.”

The silence lasted almost ten whole seconds.

“Who’s Steve Jensen?”

“Holly…”

“Come on, Jack. It’s not like I’m going to go flapping my mouth off on CNN.”

Ouch.

“Holly, don’t take this the wrong way, but you and I aren’t partners.”

“Where is your partner?”

I hesitated. “He’s unavailable at the moment.”

“Do you two discuss cases?”

“Of course.”

“Two heads are better than one, right? And didn’t I do good with Bud?”

“This isn’t about that.”

Holly furrowed her eyebrows. “Why don’t you like me, Jack?”

“I like you, Holly.”

“Why don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not in my nature to trust anyone.”

“You trust Harry.”

“Not really.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes.

“When I got out of the Corps, I was pretty reckless for a few years. Ran with a tough crowd. Got involved in a car theft ring. I did it for the excitement, at first. Then I got in over my head. Cops picked me up and offered me a deal. Do time or rat on my friends.”

I was uncomfortable with her opening up like this.

“I squealed, Jack. I squealed long and loud. I don’t blame you for not trusting me.”

She didn’t get all teary-eyed again, but she looked like a kicked puppy.

I knew I was being manipulated. But friendship was a two-way street, right?

“Four days ago a man named Steve Jensen died in a transient hotel in my district. I was busy with this case, so I transferred the call to Mason and Check.”

“How does Jensen fit in with this?”

I pressed the gas down, easing the car up past eighty.

“I’m about to find out.”

ON THE WAY back to Chicago, Detective Maggie Mason filled me in on the Jensen homicide.

“Stabbed over thirty times. Found in the Benson Hotel for Men on Congress, in a room rented to his name.”

“How long had he been living there?”

“Nineteen days. It’s a pay-per-week hotel, more rats than tenants. Landlord came by to collect rent, found the corpse.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing. Door-to-doored the whole building, wasted three days interviewing Sterno bums and crackheads. No leads.”

“Autopsy?”

“Still waiting.”

The cell phone got crackly, and Mason asked if I was still there.

“You view the body?” I asked.

“Yeah. Nasty.”

“Impressions?”

“Went beyond a crime of opportunity or anger. This was a deliberate attempt to inflict pain.”

“Defense wounds?”

“Ligature marks on the wrists. He was tied to a chair.”

I thought of Mike Mayer in Indianapolis.

“Did he still have his fingers?”

“I think so. I didn’t notice them missing.”

“How are the walls at the Benson?”

“Tissue paper. You can read a book through them.”

“Why didn’t his screaming attract attention?”

“Sorry, Lieut. I forgot to mention the hooks.”

“Hooks?”

“The victim had a mouth full of fishhooks. Lips, tongue, throat, all torn to hell and stuck together. Must have been a hundred of them in there. He couldn’t have opened his mouth with a car jack.”

Nice. And an obvious nod to the Gingerbread Man case. I’ll never forget what Charles Kork did with fishhooks. “Trace?”

“Nothing leading. Scraped his fingernails. Found a black hair. There was some kind of white crust on the wounds, got a sample of that. Rogers at the lab is getting back to me.”

“Prints?”

“Ran them locally. Nothing. Going through the National Fingerprint Database, but you know how long that takes.”

“Check Jensen in the NCIC?”

“Lots of arrests. Drugs. Banging. Battery. Classic repeat offender – until a few years ago.”

“What happened then?”

“Don’t know. Guy seemed to just drop off the face of the earth.”

That sounded a lot like Caleb Ellison.

I thanked Mason, then got on the horn to county. Max Hughes wasn’t in, but the M.E., Phil Blasky, was.

“Good evening, Jack. I heard about Herb. How’s he doing?”

“Stable, last I heard. You burning the midnight oil?”

“Paperwork. Just got a memo, telling me that efforts are being made by the county to reduce the amount of paperwork. The memo came with a twenty-six-page report I have to fill out, in triplicate. I’m not a fan of irony.”

“Have you taken a look at Steve Jensen, transient hotel death from five days ago?”

“Mackerel man? He’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”