Marcus had hoped to never speak of that night again. He had hoped to begin anew with a clean slate. But he supposed that no matter how far he ran, he would never truly escape his past.
“I wasn’t just a cop. I was a detective. Homicide. One of the youngest on the force. I was doing well for myself, making a name and all. A real up-and-comer. Cracked a few big cases. Got my name in the papers. Working hard enough to get noticed and earn some respect. But that all changed when I stumbled into this one case.”
He told her about the pattern that he had seen emerging. How he had formulated a theory about the killings, and how no one else in the department would listen to him. He told her how he came to be on that street on that night.
“What happened there?”
“According to the pattern, it was the area where this possible serial killer would strike next. I wasn’t completely sure of that, but I didn’t have any other leads and couldn’t stop thinking about the case. So, I just went on patrol. It seemed to be as good of an idea as any.” He hesitated. “That’s actually not true. It was more than just a hunch. Somehow, I knew that was where he would strike. I just … felt it.”
He rubbed the cross that hung on a chain around his neck. “I was walking down that street when I heard a scream that I’ll never forget …”
*
Marcus glanced up and down the deserted street. The emptiness echoed what he felt inside. He wondered how he could live in a city of over eight million people and still feel so alone. But when he delved deeper, he knew that it wasn’t loneliness. It was more than that. He felt hollow, and the only time that he felt whole was when he cracked a case.
The shrinks would have a field day with that one.
He sipped his coffee and continued down the dark street. His eyes attempted to penetrate the shadows. “You’re here somewhere. Aren’t you?” he said under his breath.
Then, he heard the scream.
The sound defied reason. He had never heard such suffering, such anguish. It resonated in his soul.
The scream brought to memory the faces of the dead. He thought back on the victims of homicides he had investigated. But he had never been there at the time of death. Unlike the cops of books and television, his job didn’t consist of gunfights and car chases. He had only drawn his gun a handful of times, and he had never had to use it. But if the moment came, he knew that he could wield the weapon with deadly and frightening precision.
The coffee cup fell from his hand, the liquid splashing across the pavement. He pulled the Sig Sauer P226 from his holster and sprinted down a nearby alleyway, following the scream to its origin.
The alley ended in a secluded parking lot. A dilapidated building sat on one side. Boards covered the windows, and graffiti covered most of the walls. The faded letters of a beat-up and spray-painted sign read, The Blue Oyster Bar.
As he scanned the area, he took in all the details. The most shocking of which was the white, stretch limousine in the center of the parking lot. In that neighborhood, he would have been less surprised to see a flying saucer.
From the opposite side of the limo, he heard a man’s voice. “Where do you think you’re going? We’re not finished yet.”
A woman’s voice said, “No! Please!”
He sprinted around the limo. A chain-link fence cordoned off the back of the parking lot, and the woman had her back pressed hard to the metal of the barrier. She was naked with numerous cuts running along her body.
He recognized the wounds. The killer liked to cut his victims while he raped them.
The man stood naked from the waist down a few feet from the woman, a bloody scalpel in his left hand.
A righteous rage overtook Marcus. A veil of red fell over his eyes. He didn’t tell the man not to move. He didn’t proceed like he had been taught at the academy. Instead, he rushed forward, kicked the scalpel from the killer’s hand, and slammed the pistol into the back of the assailant’s head.
Dazed, the killer stumbled forward. Before the man could react in any way, Marcus slammed him against the fence and twisted his right arm behind his back. With a flash of movement, the first cuff fell over the killer’s wrist. He twisted the man’s other arm back and did the same.
The killer said, “What the hell are you doing? Who do you think you are?”
He stepped away and trained his pistol on the back of the man’s head. He then turned his eyes to the woman. “Are you okay?” he said and then chastised himself. Stupid question. “I mean, can you walk?”
Her voice cracked as she sobbed out the words. “Yes. Thank you. Thank God you were here.”
“Everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe now. Get your clothes on and find a place to sit down. We’ll get an ambulance. You’re going to be fine.”
“You’re going to pay for this. Do you have any idea who I am?”
He turned his attention back to the killer. His heart pounded like a freight train inside his chest. Things were getting complicated.
The murderer didn’t think that he had been recognized, but he had. His name was John Mavros—Senator John Mavros.
Marcus fully realized that he had just slapped the cuffs on a powerful senator from an even more powerful family. The Mavros name conjured allusions to the Kennedy and Rockefeller dynasties.
What have I gotten myself into this time?
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“I’m a senator. Call your chief or the Commissioner. Better yet, let’s call the Mayor. I’ll give you the number.”
“You have the right to an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
“You’re going to burn for this. You think that you’re the big hero now, but when I’m done with you, you’re going to be homeless, jobless, and penniless.”
“Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you? Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to me now?”
“Or even better, maybe we’ll pin the murders on you, and you can rot in a jail cell for the rest of your miserable little life.” Mavros slowly turned to face him.
“Don’t you move,” Marcus said. His finger twitched against the trigger.
“Listen, kid, you’re in way over your pay grade here. I won’t see the inside of a jail cell. I can guarantee you that. Call your chief. 555-2368. Save us all a lot of time and trouble.”
The thoughts flew through his mind at gale-force speeds. He started second-guessing himself. He questioned every action. Will slamming Mavros against the fence or twisting his arm be considered brutality? He thought about horror stories where a person pulled someone out of their car just before it exploded and got sued because the rescued person fractured his or her collarbone in the process.
No good deed goes unpunished.
“Fine. Let’s call the chief.” He removed the cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number that Mavros had provided. The Chief of Police answered. Mavros had known the number by heart. He told the chief who he was and informed him of the situation.
After a moment of silence, the chief said, “So you haven’t called this in yet?”
“No, sir … not yet.”
“That’s excellent. We’ve really dodged a bullet here. You did the right thing by calling me. You stay put. I’m going to come down there and straighten this out. You can keep your gun on him, if you want, but take the cuffs off. And be gentle.”
“Be gentle? Sir, what are you saying? I don’t care who this guy is. I only care about what he is. He’s a serial rapist and murderer.”
“I know damn well what he is … me and a lot of other people. And you’re going to do exactly what all of us have done. If you don’t, it’s your funeral. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re going to take the money and look the other way. All the women he’s killed were prostitutes. You going to throw your life away over some whore? If you pursue this, he’ll walk away squeaky clean, and you’ll wind up either disgraced or dead. Be smart, kid. It’s all in how you look at it. This is a good thing for you. You just hit the lottery. You and me both.”
“I don’t want his money.”
“Then don’t take the money, but don’t throw your life away either. He’s above the law. If you—”
He closed the phone and killed the connection. He looked toward the limo. The victim sat on the ground next to one of the tires. With her legs curled to her chest, she rocked back and forth while whimpering like a frightened animal. Their eyes met. The look of terror was still present. Her eyes pleaded with him, begged him to make the world safe again. Visions of dead bodies and the eyes of other victims flooded his consciousness.
“Don’t feel too bad, kid,” Mavros said. “There’s nothing you can do. I’m untouchable.”
The killer’s voice sounded surreal, like something from a dream. Marcus turned to face the monster. “Not tonight.”
He raised the gun and shot Mavros between the eyes.