Hush (2 page)

She would have to make something up, say she
was going away for a while, maybe to care for a sick relative. Yes,
that should work. The Gafneys could have her strawberries and
asparagus, and later, if she was gone that long, her Concord
grapes. She was scheduled to teach two summer classes in criminal
psychology at the University of Guelph. Those would have to be
canceled.

And Jinx. What would she do about Jinx? Mrs.
Gafney would be willing to come and feed him, but he'd get so
lonely.

She pushed herself to her feet. She
straightened. Lately she'd been feeling older than her thirty-nine
years. But now, like a soldier preparing for battle, she mentally
shook off all things physical. "I'll come."

Chief Homicide Detective Max Irving took a
drink of cold coffee, grimaced, and put the stained cup back down
on his desk. He glanced at the clock on the wall, realized he'd
missed lunch, then opened up the coroner's report. It was the third
time he'd read it in two hours.

Tia Sheppard and infant boy, Timothy
Sheppard. The mother's body had ligature marks around the throat,
along with twenty-two stab wounds concentrated in the breast and
womb—the areas most symbolic of motherhood.

The infant, Timothy Sheppard, died of
suffocation. There were no marks of any kind on the body.

Except for the number of stab wounds, the
report was almost identical to that of the Madonna Murders of years
ago. Max couldn't allow himself to take the obvious path, yet at
the same time he had to leave his mind open to all possibilities,
no matter how implausible.

The Madonna Murders. It was the name a
reporter from the Chicago Herald had come up with, and it had stuck
even though it wasn't entirely appropriate— the victims being unwed
mothers and their infant sons.

Such tag lines were no longer allowed, but
that didn't seem to keep them from showing up.

Sixteen years ago the crimes stopped, and the
investigation was eventually turned over to CHESS, Chicago's
Central Homicide Evaluation Support Squad, a squad that dealt
exclusively with cold cases. That was until last week's murder of a
mother and son had people whispering in fear.

His gut feeling was that the murders were the
work of a copycat. He felt it was highly unlikely that a serial
killer would reemerge again after close to two decades. If the
killer had been, say, twenty-four at the time of the original
murders, that would make him forty-one now, an age much older than
the CPD's profiler had come up with. But then profiles weren't
foolproof.

He put in a call to the forensic lab even
though he knew they wouldn't have any information yet. It never
hurt to remind them of the importance of their report.

"Do you know how backed up we are?" the
frazzled lab tech asked.

"Prioritize."

"We are."

"Do I need to mention that this could be a
serial killer case?" Max couldn't believe he was lending voice to
the very kind of media blitz he'd ranted against.

"Join the club. The serial-killer club."

Black humor. They all did it. It was the only
way to get through. But the lab technician's next words were
serious.

"We have detectives heading two different
Chicago serial-killer investigations. One in Area One, one in Area
Three, and now this mother-infant business in Area Five. How do I
prioritize that?"

Ten years ago it was speculated that there
were fifty serial killers working in the United States at any given
time. Now, even though violent crime was down nationwide, serial
killings, spree killings, senseless, random acts of cruelty and
violence increased on a daily basis. "How much longer?" Max asked,
trying to keep his impatience from reflecting in his voice.

"Three, maybe four days."

As soon as Max hung up, the phone rang. It
was Superintendent Abraham Sinclair summoning him to his office at
Chicago Police Department Headquarters in Area One.

Max pulled his blue Chevrolet Caprice up to
the guardhouse window, flashing his ID and badge. The guard nodded.
The wooden arm lifted and Max shot through, parking in a lot that
was as flat and spread out as a discount store's—the CPD's
contribution to urban sprawl.

The soles of Max's black leather shoes rang
out against the marble floor as he moved through the revolving
doors and passed the wall of stars, a memorial to Chicago police
officers killed in the line of duty dating back to 1872. Max
checked in with the officer at the desk, then moved down the hall,
taking a silent elevator to the fourth floor and Superintendent
Sinclair's office.

It was rare for Abraham Sinclair to summon
Max to Headquarters. Their meetings sometimes took place over the
phone, but more likely over a hasty lunch or dinner.

Preoccupied, Max moved down the hall,
mumbling an apology when he brushed shoulders with a female
officer. She gave him a smile of reassurance, but he was already
past her, his gaze narrowing on the Superintendent's closed
door.

Max didn't waste smiles on strangers. He
didn't even waste them on coworkers. Occasionally he wasted them on
friends, but only occasionally.

Max knocked. Without waiting for an answer,
he opened the door and walked in.

Even though the room hadn't been occupied all
that long when you consider a policeman's entire career, and even
though the flavor of the newly constructed Headquarters was
supposed to be that of open airiness, the Superintendent had
somehow managed to bring with him the cramped dark feel of his old
digs on South State Street. There was a weariness to it, an aura of
the taint that eventually became part of the people who dealt with
crime and perversion on a daily basis.

The walls were filled with many years' worth
of awards. Abraham's navy-blue jacket, which hung over the back of
his chair, was adorned with medals, his desk with family photos. He
had a lot to be proud of. Superintendent Sinclair was a black man
who had worked hard to tear down racial barriers. He'd established
the domestic violence program and was the single driving force
behind Chicago's drastic drop in homicides. He'd worked hard to
open up lines of communication between officers and citizens,
blacks and whites, rich and poor. He was a role model for everyone,
and other cities looked to him as a shining example.

Sinclair glanced up from his phone
conversation, waving Max into a chair, which Max ignored. Not a
command, only a suggestion. Max would rather stand. He'd rather
pace.

Sinclair swiveled in his chair, turning his
back on Max. "I'm going to have to call you later," he said,
quickly ending the conversation. He hung up, then swung around and
looked Max in the eye, interlacing his fingers together over a
thick file folder that Max noted was labeled "Madonna Murders."

"It's my granddaughter's birthday," Abraham
announced.

Abraham had always had a way of mixing his
two worlds—something Max didn't do. Max didn't chat about his son
when he was at work, and he didn't talk about work to his son. In
that way he hoped—foolishly, perhaps—to keep Ethan from being
touched by bad things.

Max got to the point. "You wanted to talk to
me about the mother and son homicide?"

"I wanted to let you know that I'm bringing
in somebody else to help on the case."

"FBI?" It was unusual for someone to come in
from the outside unless he was FBI.

"No. Her name's Ivy Dunlap."

"Dunlap? What are her qualifications?"

"She has a degree in criminal psychology.
Teaches at the University of Guelph—"

"Guelph?"

"Ontario."

When Max thought deeply he didn't make eye
contact until the idea formulated somewhere in the room. Then,
bang, his eyes locked with Abraham's—the equivalence of snapping
his fingers.

"Isn't she the one who came up with some
in-depth theory about something she called symbolic murder? Some
bullshit about serial killings representing metaphors of the
unconscious mind?"

"I wouldn't call it bullshit." Abraham seemed
disappointed that Max had remembered.

Max suspected this was someone working on a
story, wanting to get the "real, inside picture." But what that
kind of person really wanted was a sanitized version of some of the
most horrific crimes being committed in the world today. Max didn't
want to be a part of it. "I don't want some damn novice screwing up
evidence, passing out at crime scenes," Max said. You could be
straightforward with Abraham. That's what made him such a good
Superintendent. And they'd been friends for years.

"Give her a chance. She's a professional. I
think she'll be an asset."

"Why somebody from Canada?" Canada had its
share of psychotic homicidal maniacs like the Scarborough killer,
who hung his victims on fences, but the country's entire count
didn't add up to Chicago's tally. "It doesn't make sense."

Years ago, Max probably would have been given
some speech about the world not making sense, and how he just had
to obey when given orders. Now Abraham Sinclair, man of the new
millennium, pushed himself to his feet and said, "I have to get
going. Got to get a birthday present."

The closer Abraham got to retirement, the
less interested in work he became. Burnt-out, Max figured, but also
mentally moving on, moving away, moving forward to time spent with
his granddaughter, winter vacations in Florida.

Max stared at him, suddenly wondering if
Abraham and this Dunlap person had something going. If that were
the case, why hadn't he mentioned her before? Max had known Abraham
a long time. Through his divorce, his battle against the alcoholism
that was so much a part of Homicide. As were broken relationships.
It was hard to work with the horrors they saw on a daily basis,
then go home and watch sitcoms with your wife, or talk about what
kind of wallpaper would look best in the bathroom. Even a child's
fever seemed trivial in comparison to what they dealt with every
day.

"She's flying in tomorrow. I'm picking her up
and bringing her to Grand Central," Abraham said. "I want you to
let her in on everything pertaining to the case." He picked up the
folder and handed it to Max. "See that she gets this."

"Over half the information in this folder is
classified."

"She's to have access to it."

"We can't risk having her leak any of it to
the press."

"That isn't going to happen. And you know
damn well this is no reflection on you. I assigned you to the case
because you're the best and I knew you wouldn't need any
hand-holding."

Bringing Dunlap in was obviously important to
Abraham. He wouldn't stick his neck out if it wasn't. But sometimes
when women were involved guys did stupid things. He'd seen it
happen over and over. He wouldn't have expected a tough guy like
Abraham to fall so hard, but Max knew nobody was immune, especially
if mind-blowing sex was involved.

So he came right out and asked. "Are you
sleeping with her?"

Abraham sighed, his reaction answer enough.
"Let it go, Max. If I could tell you more, I would, but I've told
you too much already."

That was enough for Max. He let it go. If
Abraham thought Dunlap should be involved in the case, then she
should be involved in the case. Max couldn't help that he didn't
have the time or patience to deal with her.

Abraham shut off the fan, grabbed his jacket,
and headed for the door. "What should I get her?" he asked.

"Get her?" Was he getting the woman a welcome
gift?

"My granddaughter. She's six. What do
six-year- olds like?"

"Hell if I know. I have a sixteen-year-old,
and I don't know what he likes."

"Better get it figured out. You're running
out of time."

Max was trying to face that ugly reminder
when Abraham threw him a new, more harmless one.

"Got your Web page done?"

Not that again. "I don't need a Web
page."

"Gotta have a Web page. It's one of the
simplest ways to keep the lines of communication open. My page has
a smoking gun."

Side by side, they left the building,
small-talking to the parking lot, where Max told the older man
goodbye before ducking inside his car, dropping the murder file on
the passenger seat. He checked his voice mail on his mobile phone,
disappointed but not surprised to find that Ethan had failed to
leave a check-in message the way he was supposed to. They'd had
another blowup last night, and Ethan was never cooperative after a
battle.

Instead of heading to Grand Central and his
office as he'd originally planned, Max turned in the direction of
home.

Ethan was on probation after being caught
with beer. The last year hadn't been easy, and Max was afraid this
was just the beginning.

Max had hoped Ethan's summer job would have
been the answer to their problems. Working twenty hours a week
combined with hockey practice and summer-league tournaments should
have kept any kid out of trouble. But lately Ethan seemed to be
able to find trouble in the most harmless of places.

Max's parents in Florida had offered to take
Ethan for the summer, as had his brother in Virginia, but Max was
afraid three months away would only make things worse. They needed
to spend more time together, not less.

When he was little, Ethan used to love the
idea that his dad was a policeman. For Halloween, he always had to
wear a blue uniform and badge. And even when it wasn't Halloween,
he'd cruise through the house in his little policeman outfit,
making siren sounds, pulling over imaginary people and writing out
tickets.

But recently everything had changed, and
suddenly being a cop was about the uncoolest thing a guy could be.
For Ethan, it seemed to represent everything he hated and resented
about Max. Max told himself it was just Ethan's age, that in a
couple of years everything would be okay, that their relationship
would be back to normal. But what if that didn't happen?