Marcus called in the incident, although he was sure that people in the neighborhood had already reported the shots. Two black-and-whites arrived from the local PD within a few minutes. Andrew flashed his credentials and respectfully directed the cops to cover the body and secure the perimeter. They had only a short time before word of the incident leaked out to the detectives and Belacourt and his crew from the Major Crimes Task Force showed their faces. Marcus wanted to get a look at Kolenda’s basement, and he wasn’t in the mood to fight his way past Belacourt and his cronies in order to do so.
Returning to Kolenda’s filth-ridden home, Marcus descended the stairs. The bare boards creaked beneath his weight. The air was cool and moist, but he also detected the smell of mold and a strange chemical musk. The basement had a concrete floor, but it was covered with a layer of dirt, probably the legacy of a previous flooding. Red metal jacks supported the floor above. A furnace and a large blue and white water heater sat in one corner, but most of the space was open and unused. The only partition was a makeshift wall of old mismatched wood paneling. The door was just another section of paneling with hinges mounted on one edge. But a padlock secured the opening.
Marcus gripped the padlock and yanked. The wood was thin and brittle, and the screws of the lock plate pulled away easily from the wall. The home-made door swung open with a moan. Its lower half grated over the concrete floor and caught at the halfway point. But the opening was more than big enough for Marcus to slip through.
Inside, he found an old wooden table. A screwdriver and two butcher knives sat atop it. Dried blood was caked on all three. If he had to guess, he would have said it was chicken blood or that of a stray cat that Kolenda had used as a sacrifice. But it could just as easily have been human. The far wall contained a mixture of strange satanic-looking symbols and jumbled, incoherent writings, but none seemed to match those from the previous crime scenes. The strangest aspect of the room was the countless sheets of thin book pages hanging from the rafters above on lengths of fishing line. Marcus looked closely at one of the pages. It had been torn from the Book of Revelation. Several passages had been furiously underlined in red ink.
He recalled Kolenda’s medical records that they had borrowed from the dead man’s former psychiatrist’s office. The files stated that Kolenda was paranoid and delusional. Add crystal meth to that equation, and you got a deadly combination. But something still wasn’t right.
Judging by the look on his partner’s face, Marcus guessed that Andrew had come to the same conclusion. Andrew said, “It’s not him, is it?”
“I don’t think so. Our guy is a highly organized offender. This place is a mess. And Kolenda lives alone. I still think the Anarchist has a family. Kolenda was definitely a nutjob. He’s just not our nutjob.”
They searched through the basement for a few more moments but then heard the sound of someone heavy and out of breath descending the stairs. “You down here, Williams?”
Marcus rolled his eyes. He had hoped to avoid Detective Sergeant Belacourt, but that would have been too easy. “Over here.”
Belacourt slipped through the makeshift door and took in the scene. Stupak was close behind him. The thin black man was perfectly groomed and wearing a suit more suitable for a high-priced attorney. Belacourt was sweating like a pig, streams of perspiration running down his forehead and collecting in his hair. Marcus wondered how anyone could break a sweat in such cold weather. Maybe the detective had the flu or a penchant for certain substances, legal or illegal, himself?
The detective shook his head and rubbed at his mustache. “Second time today that you’ve discharged your weapon in public. Congratulations. You know, I’ve got cops that have been on the force for over twenty years and the only times that they’ve fired a weapon on duty is when they’ve had to put down an injured animal hit by a car.”
“Good for them.”
“Maybe you can help me out. I’ve been trying to decide whether trouble follows you around or if you go looking for it.”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“You’re a real smart-ass, you know that?” Belacourt stepped close, within a foot of Marcus. The cop’s eyes were full of an abnormal amount of hatred. His breath smelled of cigar smoke and meatballs.
Marcus didn’t shy away. Instead, he smiled. “I’d rather be a smart-ass than a dumb-ass like you.”
“Stay the hell out of my investigation! I won’t say it again.”
“That’s good. I’d hate to have to keep ignoring you. You might develop a complex.”
Belacourt shoved him.
It wasn’t really a violent or powerful shove. It was the act of someone who couldn’t come up with anything intelligent to say and was not really meant to start a fight. Marcus knew that. He could have ignored it. He could have turned the other cheek and walked away. He had nothing to prove, nothing to gain.
But he also was sick of the cop’s crap, dead tired, and sore all over. Plus he had a thousand thorns piercing into his brain that needed his attention more than some suburban detective staking out his territory. The thorns needed to be pulled before he could rest. Maggie. Ackerman. Missing tapes. The Anarchist. The abducted women, maybe still alive out there somewhere, scared and alone. The night his parents died.
He didn’t need anything more to worry about, but at every turn, there was Belacourt, complicating things, aching to butt heads with him.
Marcus moved before he realized what he was doing. It was as if he had momentarily stepped outside himself and had taken on the role of spectator rather than active participant. His right hand clamped over Belacourt’s left fist, and he squeezed hard. Belacourt’s face contorted into a mask of agony, but Marcus didn’t stop there. Before anyone else in the room could react, he twisted Belacourt’s arm behind his back and slammed him against the concrete wall.
Marcus screamed at the cop, but it didn’t sound like his own voice. It was deep and frightening. It frightened even him. “Who do you think you’re playing with!”
Then he felt other arms wrapping around his back and more screaming. They pulled him away from the detective. He didn’t resist. He let them drag him to the dirty ground. Someone shoved his cheek down against the concrete, the grit there grinding against his face like sandpaper. The sound of shuffling feet, more people coming down the stairs.
He heard Belacourt yelling. “Cuff him! I’m pressing charges!” Then someone slapped on the restraints. Marcus closed his eyes. He really didn’t need this right now.