Chapter 9: I Don't Get Paid Enough For This
Saturday was a complete disaster. I have been a part of murder investigations and hostage situations, and I can confidently say that Zia's birthday party was the most stressful ordeal of my entire life. Those kids have never been easy, even before they'd had their lives taken apart piece by piece, they'd been difficult. Dramatic and tiresome. But Saturday was the most uncomfortable thing I've ever experienced. Dastan was most definitely in the wrong for not mentioning Kiera to his new girlfriend and Anne was wrong for confronting him about it in front of his entire family. Emma, well she was Emma, it didn't surprise me that she was in the middle of it all stirring up trouble. She's always been the troublemaker of their little terrorist group. It's poor Kiera I feel the worst for, she didn't deserve to be thrown in the middle of that. She's had a hard enough time dealing with all the unresolved stuff with Dastan.
I know she thinks I'm an oblivious old man but I didn't get to be a police captain by not paying attention to the clues. I know she still has feelings for him, and I wish Dastan wouldn't be so hard on her. It's an impossible situation. On the one hand, Dastan's my son and I want to support him and be there for him. On the other hand, Kiera is basically like my daughter, I love her like my own and I'd do anything for her. I want to protect her, but that means I've got to protect her from Dastan too. I'm not too clear about what happened between them but he came back with vengeance on his mind, it's plain as day for anyone whose looking to see. How am I supposed to choose between them? God, I don't get paid enough for this.
What I do get paid to do is go through these cases and right now I'm so distracted I can barely make it through one line without my mind returning to the mess that is my family. I just want my kids to be happy. With Dastan back in the city that seems impossible. Until those two resolve their drama, I'm powerless to do anything. So, while they figure their stuff out, I should be productive.
I've got pile of cases to review and as Captain that should be my priority right now. I pick up the first paper folder, it's a closed case, which is a good sign. Those are usually the easiest to review and sign-off on. I trust my detectives to do good work. I've spent the last three years building up this precinct, weeding out the incompetent and corrupt and training my detectives and officers to be more efficient. I only ever put in my best and I expect the best from them. When I took over this position, the precinct was a mess, and now it's one of the best in the city. It's a great source of pride for me, even though the circumstances under which I got the post are pretty devastating.
It's pretty easy to lose track of time when you're eyeballs deep in paperwork and bureaucracy. I barely notices the hours falling off the face of the clock, the steady upward marching of the sun across the cloud-covered sky. Even the people bustling around outside the glass windows of my office have faded into obscurity. Mostly, I'm using all my focus to not hurl this desk through the window on the opposite wall.
Case 1742- The Hell's Kitchen Hacker case. It's been fifty-two months since the first murder was committed and yet my detectives are no closer to cracking it. I'm staring down at the notes from the most recent murder, there have been fourteen in total, and it's very clear why there's been no progress. They haven't found a shred of DNA evidence, the crime scenes are being cleaned up with Sodium Hypochlorite. There has been no evidence left at any scene, no witnesses, and there hasn't been any leads. Nothing. My detectives are chasing their own tails. The sound of my office phone ringing breaks my concentration. I hit answer, and my assistant Tracy's voice fills the space. "Captain, you've had a call from Ms. Landry." My heart jolts up into my throat. Why would she call the precinct rather than my personal cell. "She says she has to cancel lunch."
"Did she say why?"
"No sir," Tracy responds, disinterested. "Just that something came up and she's sorry to cancel.
I nod and then realize she can't see me, "Thank you, Tracy." Then I hit the disconnect button. Flinging my head back against the leather chair, I stare at the framed picture of me on the wall. It was taken three years ago, I'm in full uniform with all my medals and badges, I always thought I looked a lot like Dastan in that picture. I'd hoped for a long while he might want to follow in his old man's footsteps but he chose law instead. I was so proud when he got into his first pick college to study law. But then less than a year in he and Kiera broke up and he ran away to London, under the guise of studying abroad. Now, he's back and Kiera seems to be taking a page out of his book and running. I scrub a hand over my face, pulling at the slightly longer hair covering my chin and jaw.
She's obviously upset about Saturday, probably embarrassed, and she doesn't want to talk about it. So, now she's avoiding me. Taking out my phone, I shoot off a quick text telling her that we should reschedule when she's free. She doesn't respond, which I know means she's definitely ignoring me because she always has her phone on her at all times. It's a rule we have, she doesn't ever go anywhere without her phone on her immediate person, it's a safety precaution. Well, there's nothing I can do about that situation right now.
Instead I turn my attention to an issue I can resolve. I call Tracy and ask her to send in the lead detectives on the Hell's Kitchen Hacker case. It's time we take a new approach to this case.
Twenty-three minutes later I'm sitting across from detectives Jensen and Morgan. Two of my best detectives. I've had them working so many cases together that I've started to see them as one entity, they're even dressed similarly. Both wearing a similar shade of blue button-downs and jeans, with leather jackets. Maybe, they've spent so much time together their morphing into one consciousness. I dismiss the unhelpful thought and clear my throat. "Case 1742," I say and watch their shoulders bunch defensively. "I want a briefing." I'm looking between them waiting for some kind of acknowledgement, they stare back dumbfounded. Then briefly glance at each other and I clock the look that passes between them, partners. Whatever I'm about to throw at them, they'll handle together. It reminds me of Peter and I back in our days as partners. This is why they work so well together.
Morgan gathers his wits first, "Yes, Captain." He says, sitting up straighter. "There haven't been any new leads. We've canvassed the area of each murder scene multiple times and in the last four we've even extended our search parameters. Still nothing. There isn't any substantial DNA evidence, either." He says, his back bowing slightly under weight of his supposed failings. It's strange to see a man of his stature, so physically imposing and menacing, look so defeated. I'm sure that if his skin wasn't a dark shade of elm wood he'd be flushed too.
"Lab tech and coroner all say the same thing," Jensen cuts in, frustration blazing in his hazel eyes, he roughly shoves his hair off his forehead. "Sodium hypochlorite is destroying all substantial DNA evidence. It's basically some form of extreme bleach or something." He tells me, and he's frowning, his eyes fixed on some point in front of him.
"What about the killer, any possible insight into his behavioral profile?" I lean forward to rest my elbows against the oak desk. The wood is cool against the skin of my forearms where I've rolled up the sleeves of my dress shirt. I lace my fingers together and look at them, I have a sinking feeling I'm not going to like the answer to this question either.
"As far as we can tell, he doesn't have any particular method of choosing his victims. They seem almost random, but it's clear that they aren't victims of opportunity. Some of them were attacked in their homes, others while out in the city, and there was even one we found in the parking garage at his job. None of it makes sense." Morgan informs, he leans forward in his seat, eyebrows pinched in irritation.
"He knocks his victims out first, blunt-force trauma to the head," Jensen adds, "He ties them up too, but we've never found rope at any of the crime scenes. There's nothing to trace because the sodium hypochlorite apparently makes it impossible to test the fibers found in the cuts left on their wrists also."
"Convenient," I respond, and I'm starting to see why they've struggled to close this one. "What about the actual murders? "
"Multiple stab wounds" Morgan tells me, "Nine inch blade, serrated. From what we can tell he's around five feet and seven inches or taller, since the victims are always seated at the time of the murder the results on that aren't as precise as we'd like."
"We do know that he doesn't seem to be physically strong," Jensen pipes in, "Makes sense that he has to knock the vics out beforehand and tie them down." I nod, the picture their painting is pretty bleak. It's a lot worse than I anticipated too; I think there might only be one viable solution here.
I look back at my detectives, "I'm going to be taking point on this one. I want you both to say on to advise and assist, since I won't be able to do a lot of the field work." They both stare wide-eyed. It's not unheard of for a Captain to get involved in an ongoing investigation, but it does bring down a lot of scrutiny from the higher-ups. At this point we don't have much choice, they're still staring. I raise a brow at them and cross my arms on the desk.
"Yes, Sir." They both chorus.
"Good," I nod absently; I'm mentally calculating all the appointments and meetings I'll have to shuffle around to make this work. "I'll get briefed by the lab techs within the week and I'll start running point by no later than next Monday." They just nod, I understand their hesitancy, I do. But right now we've got a serial killer loose on the street and at this moment that needs to be the priority. All the red tape, bureaucracy and bullshit is secondary. "You're dismissed."
As they leave I feel a sense of accomplishment settle on my shoulders, like the comforting weight of the arms of a friend. If I can't fix this mess with my family, at least I can fix this retched city. I've resolved myself to figuring out this case. I'll get this guy off the streets and behind bars, no matter what it takes.
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