“Shut the…fuck up…bitch! Shut the fuck up or I’ll…kill you”.
She saw stars forming in front of her eyes as the slaps shook her head from side to side and she bit her lips hard, the nauseating, metallic taste of her blood full in her mouth. Then the man was inside the car, his animal smell threatening to engulf her, her nostrils full of the stale sweat and his bad breath washing over her face, pinning her to the seat with his weight. Her world turned into a horrible nightmare of grunts and obscene words as the man slobbered all over her face and chest, muffled sounds of pleasure escaping from his lips as he grinded his hips on her. Then something incredibly huge parted her legs, engulfing her into a maelstrom of pain that came rushing at her like molten lava. She closed her eyes to escape from the leering face atop of her, terror engulfing her, making her mind escape from the moment, until the beast on top of her collapsed with a grunt and something warm trickled down the inside of her legs. A moment later the man’s weight lifted from her and she opened her eyes, full of tears and indescribable horror at what had transpired. She saw the man leering at her again, tucking his shirt in, putting the gun belt back on and she moved, hoping that she would be able to escape the nightmare; that it was all over now. She stopped her crying, wiping the swollen face with her hand, the pain coursing through her, coming from her most private parts in waves that left her weak and trembling like a small reed in the wind. She was about to get out of the car when another figure loomed in front of her. With a sinking heart she realized that the nightmare was not over.
The man named Pete had come in and she was forced to relive the whole horrible experience, this time more forceful. The pig on top of her was slapping her, and then laughing at her pain. Eventually, her mind closed itself against the pain and the rage and they couldn’t touch her anymore. When it was finally over, the big man came into the back of the car, pulling at her, pushing her roughly out, and dropped her on the hard pavement like a discarded piece of meat. Small, beady eyes centered on her and the man squatted down, his hand cupping her jaw roughly, painfully, making her look at him. The right hand moved and suddenly a dark hole was looking at her, centered on her forehead, the cold glint of the pistol like a dream in front of her face.
Her befuddled brain reeled, and her eyes watched the man closely, not fully comprehending what was happening to her now.
“Look at me…bitch…listen”, the man said, his voice gruff and hard, the fingers digging her flesh painfully, until her blue eyes focused on him and the man was sure she was listening.
The blue eyes centered on the pistol and she shook her head, tears falling down her cheeks, comprehension finally dawning on her.
The man was going to…kill her. Her mouth was incredibly dry and she swallowed hard, painfully, trying to work some saliva into her dry mouth. ‘Oh God…no…no’, her mind screamed at her and her body recoiled from him, eyes closing. She tried to talk, tried to make sounds come out of her mouth, but she could not. The terror held her fast, as she waited for the sound of the pistol going off…waited for the end of her life, laying on the filthy streets of Chicago. She was going to die, she knew that now, her body left on the rough pavement, alone and discarded like so much trash, killed by men that were suppose to be protecting her from the same thing they were doing to her.
But the gun didn’t go off and suddenly, she heard the man’s voice again.
“If you talk to anybody about us…about this…I’ll kill you.” He stopped talking, the barrel of the pistol coming closer, stopping on her forehead. She felt the cold touch of the metal and she winced, whimpering, pushing back, and dragged herself away from the obscene object. Dunbar laughed, shaking his head, grabbing at her again.
“You do…understand…don’t you?” he asked roughly, jerking her shoulder, the small beady eyes never leaving her face. He was willing to kill her if he couldn’t get it through her head that the best thing for her would be to keep her mouth shut. He saw the fear reflected in the depths of her eyes and he shook his head, pleased at what he had seen in them. He knew that she would keep her mouth shut now. She was the type; he had seen it before with girls her age.
“Yes…yes”, she finally said, her voice small, almost a whisper, just on the sharp edge of becoming hysterical. She swallowed hard, feeling the constriction in her throat and she tried her best to control the fear raging in her. She felt her bladder go and seconds later she could smell the sharp smell of ammonia in the air. Terror and disgust were etched on the tear streaked face as she heard herself whimpering, unintelligible words coming form her mouth. She looked at the pistol in front of her and closed her eyes, pushing herself away from the man.
“If you don’t keep your pretty little mouth shut bitch…I’ll come back and hunt you down.” He laughed then, a cold hard laugh. “Yeah…And then, it will be worse. I’ll fuck you again and then, I’ll kill you”.
She heard footsteps retreating and the sound of a car engaging the gears. She opened her eyes to find herself alone, nothing but the sound of her car engine filling the night. She dragged herself painfully up, her brain refusing to work, and got into her car to drive away. Her mind relived the memory of the attack until she thought she would go crazy, feeling the blood and something sticky on her legs. When she had finally made it home, her grandmother had been asleep and she had gone quickly into her bedroom, feeling lost and dirty. She had stripped her dirty clothes off, throwing them in the trash can before getting into the shower, bathing over and over, the hot water washing the grime and the blood away from her, the water merging with the tears running down her face. She washed her body, feeling the pulsing pain emanating from her vaginal area, until the flesh was red from scrubbing and she sat down in a corner of the stall, the hot water running, her sobs muffled in the confines of the small shower room. After what seemed like hours to her, she stood up, looking into a mirror. Her beautiful face was swollen, bruises forming under her eyes from the slapping. She had a headache and her eyes were red rimmed and dark underneath, her lips also swollen and split.
In the morning, after a sleepless night, when her grandmother had seen her face, she had made up a story of getting into a fight with some girls, refusing to go to the hospital for a check up. Her grandmother had been old and feeble then, so it was not hard for her to keep everything under wraps. She wasn’t about to talk to anybody about the two cops raping her. The big bastard would kill her and besides, nobody would believe her. She skipped school for a whole week, finally returning with a false excuse, but things were never the same for her after that night.
She had lived with the memories of that night for fifteen long years, holding the pain and the rage until she lived for one thing only. To get even somehow…someday…feeling the rage and pain consuming her every waking moment, the nightmares getting worse, haunting her sleep. One day, she had told herself, the pigs that had ruined her childhood and her life would pay, pay with their lives. She had dropped out from every extra curricular activity at school, turning her friends away, turning away from the young basketball player that was her first love, becoming a loner, hiding her pain and frustration from everyone. She distanced herself from everyone, dealing with the incredible pain, the bouts of depression and the rage by herself. The happy, go lucky child was gone, replaced eventually by a sociopath. In her heart beat revenge and a desire to rid society of certain people…the police, who in her distorted view were evil. In the dark recesses of her mind she was transformed into a cold, avenging soul, and living only for the time that she would rid the world of the ‘bad’ people, the ones responsible for the empty, shallow body that was hers now.
Tonight, she had taken the first step by killing Dunbar. It had not been hard for her to obtain the information she needed, finding the man and following him around. She had even talked to him one time, the man never suspecting the identity of the beautiful woman asking him for directions in downtown Chicago. She had looked into a face that was seared into her memory. An older face now, an older body, but still the same, with the hard look in the eyes, the same cruel, thin lips and she had felt the same terror about to overwhelm her when she heard the sound of his voice. After that, it had only been a matter of following him home, finding out about his habits, his work schedule, until a pattern had been established and she knew she could kill him whenever she wanted to. And she had done it, not caring at all about the killing of a human being. He, as a man, as a human being, was not important to her. The only way he meant something to her was for revenge, as a way to alleviate the feelings that were her constant companions through the years.
She opened her eyes, her hands reaching for the axe, fingers caressing the three and a half foot long shaft.
“Soon…very soon”, she said softly as she put it away in the black leather bag among other personal items. Still naked, she padded around the room, gathering clothing items, shoes and a handbag, and laying the items on the king size bed. That done, she stopped, glancing around, and finally going into the bathroom to turn the hot water on. It was time to go to work.
January 14, 1995 3151 West Harrison St., 2
nd
floor
Chicago Police Dept. 1600 hours
Lt. Turner reached across his desk for the preliminary report from Forensics, sighing deeply. He already knew the contents of the slim file, having talked with Holt just a few hours ago.
Dr. Lambert had been in a foul mood, and the news was just as bad as he thought it would be.
“We don’t have much of anything, Turner”, Dr. Lambert had said, throwing the report on the desk, pulling a chair and falling down in it. He was tired and irritated something that of late was his daily state of affairs. He massaged the side of his temples, closing his eyes, sighing deeply. He opened his eyes, glancing at Turner who was looking at him with a bemused expression on his face and he shook his head. He stood up, running fingers through his balding head, unable to sit still for more than a few seconds at a time, pushing his glasses up on his nose. He turned around, facing Turner, saying; “I’m almost sure the murder weapon is an axe, heavy on the axe head, about ten to twelve inches wide at the bottom. I did a few tests, but I could not come up with an axe that would give me the same type of cut…although I was close.” He was silent for a moment, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply before he continued.
“The blow came from right to left, at the base of the neck, never stopping, slicing all the way through. The cut started small, and then expanding as the blade made its way deeper into the neck, cutting through muscle, bone and sinew. It was…a tremendously powerful blow, just one. Dunbar was a big man and his neck was thick, full of muscles and sinew. To cut through it…with just one blow, we must be talking about a man with incredibly powerful hands, tall, well muscled. There are no defensive wounds anywhere and no other cuts, so I would hazard a guess that he was caught almost completely by surprise.” He stopped then, taking a deep drag of the cigarette, forehead creased in concentration.
“We have a footprint…that may or may not be from the killer…and not much of anything else.” He ruffled the papers one more time, pulling another sheet to the top, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I ran several tests on the blood from the neck and the skin around the wound. I found traces of oil and a few carpet fibers, which I believe come from the murder weapon. Tests revealed the oil is common household oil, used to lubricate just about anything in a house. We are still working on the carpet fibers, but…I’m willing to bet they are common household carpet fibers also and the dye use is probably found in thousands of homes.” They had rehashed the information for a few more minutes and then Holt had left, still irritated at the way things were going with the investigation. He was a competent, methodical man who didn’t like loose ends in anything and an almost sterile crime scene was something he was not particular fond of or used to. Human beings are animals of habit and usually very sloppy in the way they kill other human beings, leaving all kinds of clues to the way they do things. But this one…this one was different, like someone had taken a tremendous amount of time in doing everything just about perfect…or had been extremely lucky.
Turner stood up, report in hand, making his way to the coffee pot at one corner of the cramped office. He filled the cup with the strong, old coffee, sipping the brew. It was hot and bitter and he grimaced at the taste, shaking his head. He made his way back to the desk and sat down to read the report again, scanning rapidly through he pages, shaking his head slowly. He threw the papers back on the desk, disgusted at the lack of critical information. The first twenty-four hours of a murder were critical and this one, so far, was beginning to look like nothing was going to turn up. He had just finished a meeting with Miller and Thompson, comparing notes. Nothing had come out of the neighborhood canvassing; no one had seen or heard anything. From Holt, the news had not been much better. No clothing fibers, no blood except from the victim, no clear idea of a weapon, even if he now was almost sure it had been an axe. No fingerprints on the wallet either, which left them with just about empty hands. The one good thing was that they had been able to obtain a cast of the footprints and now had a make on the shoe, a New Balance running shoe, according to Holt, a brand made in the U. S. ‘So all I have to do is find someone with NB running shoes that is into killing cops and I’ve got my murderer’, Turner told himself, his face etched into a scowl. There were probably a million runners in Chicago and, more than likely, half of them would wear NB shoes. Hell, he wore New Balance shoes himself when he worked out, he told himself.
He lit a cigarette, closing his eyes, feeling the harsh smoke in his throat and running his fingers through his short hair. He needed to find the motive behind the killing and that, maybe, would help to point them in the right direction. Right now, Thompson and Miller were searching old records, arrests that Dunbar had made, trying their best to make a connection with some asshole that had it in for the cop. It was a long shot, but it was the best thing they had so far. The sound of footsteps approaching brought him out of his reverie and he glanced up, the red-rimmed eyes taking in the figure of Miller coming in, a handful of files in his hands.