Death Smell Read online

  Death Smell

  A Novel Byte

  By

  J.D. Webb

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-223-0

  Death Smell

  Copyright © 2017 by J.D. Webb

  Cover design

  Copyright © 2017 by Judith B. Glad

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  One

  Death has a distinctive odor. She always dreaded the first visit to a crime scene. That odor lingered in her head for days. Every time someone mentioned a vic's name, or a newspaper article about the crime popped up, the smell returned. And it was stifling.

  Teresa Macklin stared at the dark waters of the Illinois River over the steering wheel of her new Avalon. She breathed deeply, trying to fill her nostrils with the sweet, new-car scent, hoping against hope it would negate what she would soon experience.

  Three police units--the coroner's fifteen-year-old Chrysler, and a Peoria Rescue squad--were parked in a line to her right. Flashing lights played tricks with the waves, flickering across the water.

  Mack straightened her shoulders, steeling herself once more. She sighed and got out of the car. The trunk popped open as she thumbed the release button on her key chain and rubbed the rabbit's foot dangling from the chain. She rummaged through the trunk to find her crime scene boots and police coat. She unzipped her new denim jacket--well, it did go with her jeans--and changed.

  Why do I always get these calls when I'm wearing heels? God, I hope I don't ruin my pants. She rarely indulged in impulse buying, but these new jeans couldn't be guilted away by the $145 price tag. They made her look…well, sexy.

  "Hey, Mack. Wow, love your outfit." Beefy police sergeant Mike Riley couldn't seem to suppress a smile.

  Accepting the nickname, Mack, had been one concession she allowed in the spirit of being part of the team. They'd stressed team membership at the Police Academy, so she became "one of the guys." But it still made her grit her teeth.

  "Cool it, Sarge. What've we got?" She liked Riley. A good cop. He'd been one of the few who'd willingly accepted her rise to detective.

  "Male, 'bout 30, found over by the big barge. Got the scene taped and the hands have been bagged. One bullet 'tween the eyes. Nobody 'cept the coroner's touched anything. You're the first of the investigating team to show up. Murphy's on his way to be the second detective and the Lieutenant, Captain and Chief are scrambling to get here."

  "Thanks, Riley. Go get some coffee, and--" Mack patted his stomach. "--stay away from those donuts." It was a ritual performed many times.

  So Mack would spend the rest of the night, marking her ninth year as a homicide detective, at the computer filling out reports and dealing with the Brass. Nine years. Where have they gone? And the six years on patrol? Seemed like only yesterday she'd stood at attention as the Chief welcomed her to the force. A proud moment.

  Now she was just tired.

  The breeze from the river brought with it the odor of fish and an October chill. A coal barge moored at the loading dock loomed in the dark. Mack skirted debris lining the shore, avoided a small pack of onlookers, and was reaching down to grab the caution tape to duck under when it hit her. That odor. Death. Unmistakable and visceral. How could it be so strong in the open with a wind blowing? She maneuvered under the tape and surveyed the scene.

  Three tags indicating possible clues had been placed above the body's forehead, which had a small hole. The man was fully clothed, and his plastic-encased hands were positioned across his chest as if he were in a coffin. Looked to be in his thirties. Mack shivered, not because of the wind or the corpse, but because of the case she'd been assigned to for the last two months. Both previous victims had their hands placed in exactly the same way. A possible serial killer at work in the Peoria area. If they found the calling card, it would confirm their fears. Department policy required three victims to qualify as a serial killing and here was the third. Maybe. Yes.

  Only five people remained within the taped perimeter. The coroner, three cops and a civilian, presumably the 911 caller. Probably no need to keep everyone out just to preserve the evidence. The man who found the body, and then the EMTs and coroner, would have trampled some of the immediate area around the body. But the tape would keep gapers and reporters at bay for a while.

  Coroner Tom Doolin looked up. "Got all I need, Mack. I'll take the body whenever it's released."

  "Can you give me preliminaries, Tom?"

  "Not much." He rose and pointed to the corpse. "Obvious gunshot to the head as cause of death. No other trauma I can see. Very little blood on the ground from the wound, so I'd guess the body's been moved after death. I'll be able to tell more once we get him to the morgue. Driver's license IDs him as Charles Williams, 31, from Morton. Ambulance is on the way."

  "Figured as much. Thanks, Tom. How's Sandy?"

  "Recovering nicely. Don't much need a gall bladder anyway. Doc says she'll be good as new in a couple of weeks." Tom shrugged. "I hope it's that soon. I'm a lousy cook."

  "Good to hear. Tell her she's in my prayers."

  "Will do. Oh, and this isn't going to make you happy." Tom dangled a plastic bag in front of Mack, containing a small business card. "Looks like we got another one."

  Before Mack looked at the card she knew what it would say. There'd be a fleur-de-lis embossed on the front and a number printed on the back. Number three.

  She put on her vinyl gloves, which were referred to as butt inspection gloves, and took the bag. The fleur was embossed in silver on the front. But when she turned the card over she gasped. Suddenly the odor, the death smell, intensified.

  Printed with what looked like a felt-tipped pen was the number four. Where the hell was three?

  Two

  The night dragged into morning. Everyone except Mack and Detective Murphy had gone home to get some sleep. Mack wiped her eyes for the third time in the last twenty minutes. She looked up at the fluorescent lights over her desk and wondered if she needed glasses or lack of sleep, was causing her vision to blur. Hope it's just tired eyes, because I don't need any more reminders that I'm thirty-seven. Pushing forty as they say. Then over the hill. Well let's not get morbid and put ourselves in a nursing home just yet. Still a few minutes left on the biological clock.

  The screen displayed photographs of each of the victims and some general information. One female and two males. No obvious links among them.

  John Wilbur, 58, owned a camera shop, married, two children, lived on the west side of Peoria. Single gunshot to the head.

  Sharon Hickam, 22, Bradley student, single, no steady boyfriend, lived on campus. Single gunshot to the head.

  Charles Williams, 31, most recent victim, married, worked as a manager at a major corporation, lived in Morton. Single gunshot to the head.

  She'd been over these facts so many times they were etch
ed in her brain. And where was the third victim. Unless the guy couldn't count and only three had been killed? Listen to me. Only three.

  She clicked the mouse and studied the calling cards left by the killer, the Fleur-de-lis Killer, according to the wordsmiths in the media. Identical except for the printing on the backs. Standard business card stock bought at any office supply store. Embossing possibly done on a computer. No way to tell. Nothing weird about the printing of the numerals. Marking pen of some sort.

  She picked up her can of Dr. Pepper and chugged the rest. She loathed the fact that the latest commercials said it wasn't a drink for a woman. She'd show them. But then again maybe that was an advertising ploy just to get women to drink the stuff. Damn ad men.

  The next screen cataloged clues at the last crime scene. A gum wrapper. Could have been there for a couple of days and not dropped by the perp. A rubber band. Again, might have been there before. And a spent match, torn from a fold-over matchbook. A match was also found at the other two murder sites. Shouldn't say murder sites. The victims hadn't been killed where they were discovered.

  The computer clock registered 2:48 am, and Mack hadn't had dinner. Too late for that now. Time for some shuteye. She clicked Start and was poised to hit shut-down when her email dinged.

  Her inbox contained a message from FDL9. She didn't recognize the handle. The message title said, "Pertinent to your case." She clicked the message and read: "You haven't found number three yet. I'm disappointed, Mack. FDL"

  FDL? Fleur-de-lis. God, it's him! Is he taunting us? Me? Shit, this is not what I need. How'd he get my email? What else does he know? She stared at the screen, willing it to dissolve. Got to be a mistake. The screen blinked a message from the Tech Department reminding everyone that the system would go down for maintenance at 3:00 a. m. She forwarded the message to the department computer and printed off a copy to prevent it from being lost in the shut-down. Nothing else to do but log off and hand it over to Stanley tomorrow.

  She dreaded a meeting with Stanley, the Peoria Police computer guru. He never said anything weird, but his eyes gave her the willies. They seemed to be undressing her little by little. Nothing overt, just eerie. Yet she couldn't report him or tell him to knock it off, because he hadn't done anything even remotely awkward. Just real quiet, and in fact, not bad looking. But those amber eyes. Disturbing.

  Normally, Mack was able to read people, and what she read from Stanley was depraved. Once--though this was frowned upon by the department--she'd chanced a look at his personnel file to see if there had been any complaints. Not a one.

  But she dreaded even more a confrontation with the killer. Why was he or she taunting her? Was it a former arrest or merely a nut case running around with nothing else to do but murder folks? Tomorrow she'd start going through past cases to see if anything jumped out. It would likely be a wild goose chase. Looking for a gander or a-- What the hell did you call a female goose? Okay, getting flaky now. Time to get home.

  Only one thing kept banging in her head. Well, besides the fact that a serial killer was emailing her. Where is victim three?

  Three

  After a three and a half hours of sleep, Mack settled into her office chair--the damned, broken-down, back-breaking thing--and punched the computer's on button. She dreaded clicking the email file, so instead she checked the early morning activity log. Nothing about any other bodies being discovered. Was this just another game the killer was playing? She sighed and clicked on the email file anyway. Thank God. No new messages from the FDL man. She pushed back her chair and grabbed her coffee mug. Guess I'd better not delay a visit any longer. Suck it up and go see Stanley.

  The bullpen brimmed with activity. Weekends always increased the workload. Saturday mornings required a full staff.

  Mack sidestepped a chair overflowing with a huge woman dressed in brown work boots and a purple shift with pink tassels. The woman was pounding on Detective Nelson Conner's desk.

  "I told that SOB I wasn't gonna work today. He shook his finger at me and told me I had to." She sat back as best as she could and grunted. The plastic insets in her corn rows clicked together when she nodded. "That's when I stabbed him. Good for nothing, two-bit drug pusher. Not sorry he's dead."

  Trying to suppress a giggle, Mack hurried past. Glad I didn't get that one.

  Stanley wasn't there when Mack arrived. His cubbyhole was in the far corner of the department's second floor. The office was wall-to-wall clutter. A desk with a chair in front were both piled high with reference books and papers. The only empty spot was a to-die-for computer chair. She stared at the shiny black leather, ergonomic beauty with blatant envy. Something she'd been trying to get ever since she'd made detective. Budget restraints seemed to be the universal answer to problems. But God, it was gorgeous. Bet her butt would fit for hours without pain.

  The ever-present peppermint scent announced Stanley's arrival. "Hey, Mack. How's it going?"

  "Fine, Stanley. How 'bout you?" She turned and tried to ignore the glassy amber eyes. Impossible.

  "Great, now that you're here," He slid into the chair and added a handful of papers to the shortest stack. "What can I do for you?"

  "Got a problem. I think the guy who's doing the recent murders is emailing me. I need to see if you can find out where the messages are coming from. Frankly, he's creeping me out."

  Stanley steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his thumbs. "Won't be easy and I may come up with a blank. But I'll give it a try. Is your email address common knowledge?"

  "Not the one for the department. I only use it here. I have a personal addy I use at home."

  "Okay, since we have an intranet system, it has to come from within the Department. One of us or someone who's been here and somehow gained access to it."

  He stared at her. Those eyes reminded her of her neighbor's cat, Truman. A truly sadistic human hater. In spite of Mack's efforts to shun the stupid thing, it had latched onto her as an object to protect. No other cat dared come around when Truman was on duty. That was fine, but Mack was allergic to cats and wanted nothing to do with her cat-in-shining-armor. She shivered and blinked to rid herself of Truman's image. "How long do you think it'll take to find out?"

  Stanley leaned forward. "Could take a few seconds, or days. Got other stuff, you know."

  "Please put a high priority on it. The Chief is really on this one."

  He smiled and showed his dimples. "Do my best, Mack."

  Dimples and cat eyes. Mack shuddered, and returned to her desk. Something Stanley said niggled at her brain. One of us. Could the killer be a rogue cop? Well, she couldn't really rule it out, but it didn't seem probable. They'd all passed a psych test. But who could really say for sure one of them hadn't flipped out and started playing games? Deadly games.

  Four

  The latest victim's home was in an upper middle class area of Morton, isolated within a series of cul-de-sacs surrounding a pocket park. The midday sun glared into Mack's windshield, threatening to blind her. She pulled into the driveway and anchored her Dr. Pepper in the cup holder. Six kids were playing an aggressive game of basketball at the edge of the park, and several dogs and their owners occupied the pet corral. Normal Saturday in the neighborhood, except at the second house south of the park.

  Mack climbed the three steps to the small porch and rang the bell. A few seconds later a woman in a blue bathrobe opened the door. Her mousy brown hair hadn't seen a brush lately. She carried several tissues and her red, watery eyes reflected deep sadness.

  "Yes?"

  Mack put on her professional face. "Sorry to bother you, Ma'am. I'm Detective Teresa Macklin, Peoria Police. Are you Mrs. Charles Williams? We spoke a while ago on the phone."

  "Yes. Come in, Detective." She motioned with her empty hand down a hallway. "Let's go…this way…where we can talk." Mrs. Williams kept her head down as she passed framed family pictures.

  They entered a spacious living area all done in pristine white: carpeting, sofa, love seat a
nd even the walls. Mack gingerly sat on the love seat and dug out her notebook. She hoped her heels weren't dirty.

  Mrs. Williams took the couch. "I have water on for tea. Would you care for some?"

  "No thanks. I just finished lunch. I don't intend to take very long. I'm so sorry for your loss."

  Mrs. Williams sniffled and nodded.

  "Do you remember what your husband was doing the night he disappeared?"

  "He went to pick up our daughter from the movie at Willow Knoll. Thank God she wasn't…" She inhaled deeply and turned her head. She brought the Kleenex up to her nose. "He never made it."

  "I know this is difficult for you. Please go on."

  Mrs. Williams shrugged and placed both hands in her lap. She shredded tissues as she talked. "My daughter called to tell me Charles hadn't shown up and she couldn't reach him on his cell. I picked her up and we both kept trying to reach him. When he didn't answer, I called 911. It just was not like him to not take one of our calls."

  "Anything else?"

  "No, I can't think of… Wait a minute. He went to pick up a package. The delivery store is not far from the theaters. The delivery man left a message since no one was home. Just some new sheets we'd ordered off the Internet. I don't know if he got them or not."

  "Just few more questions and I'll go. Had either of you received any threats, phone calls, notes?"

  "No. My husband was a kind man. Always willing to help. I've racked my brain trying to understand why this happened to him. I imagine he would have tried to help whoever did this."

  "No possibility of someone wanting to cause trouble?"

  Mrs. Williams shook her head, along with the Kleenex hand, dabbing at her nose.

  "Do you mind if I take a look at his office or den? Where he worked when he was home."

  "He had an office upstairs. Go ahead. Third door on the left. I… I don't think I'm ready to go in there yet."