BAD BLOOD
Part One
By Daniel
Skye
History
is comprised of victims and villains.
Lincoln
and Booth. Oswald and Kennedy. King and Ray.
Wes
and Aaron Archer.
* * *
Wednesday,
January 1st, 2014.
The New
Year was no celebration for Weston Archer or Dale Craven.
Their
first call of the night was a young woman named Terri Hart. She was pronounced
DOA.
Wes was regrettably
forced to postpone his second date with Valerie Reed for this case. They had
talked briefly over the phone, her and Wes, and Val seemed to understand the
situation this time around. But Wes wondered how patient and understanding Val
could truly be.
Archer’s
career was the kind that makes or breaks relationships. With the kind of strain
these assignments put on marriages and relationships, Wes was doubtful that Val
would stick around forever.
Their
first date had gone off without a hitch…until they ended up in bed and Val saw
the faded track marks on the crook of his arm.
He came
clean to Val about his past and she had just one simple request: Not while
you’re dating me.
And Wes
had agreed to the deal.
Terri
Hart was declared missing three days before the CCPD were able to locate her
body, buried in an unmarked grave in a small field on the outskirts of downtown
Carter City. They found her three days too late.
The
poor girl had been buried alive in a custom coffin that was built to her exact
size and specifications. The inside of the lid was riddled with deep scratch
marks. She had clawed until her fingertips were raw and bloody, probably
screamed bloody murder before she realized how fast it’d make her run out of
oxygen.
“The
Gravedigger strikes again,” Wes Archer said. “He went from New York to Florida,
and now he’s making his mark here in Carter City. He was last using the alias
Sid Hodder. His real name is Charles Gein. Who knows what name he goes by at
the moment.”
“Do
we have a full description on this guy?” Dale Craven asked.
“Yes.
Back when he was using the alias Patrick Downey and passing himself off as a
Long Island police officer, he was identified be a would-be victim who just
happened to be discovered by a group of kids playing truth or dare. The man
gave a description, but nobody’s claimed to have seen him since. We know he was
using the alias Sid Hodder because the real Sid Hodder was found dead in a restroom
with Gein’s prints all over it. Hodder had a place in Florida; the same area
where a few of the Gravedigger’s latest victims were discovered. The FBI is
under the impression he changes up his appearance.”
“So
finding him is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack,” Dale sighed.
“The
quickest way to find a needle in a haystack: Burn the haystack.”
“What
are you suggesting?”
“Well,
we can rule out populated areas. The Gravedigger’s craft requires an isolated
location. And he’d need a fair amount of space to complete his work. So we can
rule out business and residential locations. He’d be operating out of an
abandoned factory, a warehouse, a workshop of some kind.”
“I’ll
have some of the boys search for factories and warehouses in the area,” Dale
said. “In the meantime, how do we break the news to this girl’s parents?”
“Terri
didn’t have any family,” Wes informed him. “She was an orphan who grew up in
foster homes, ran away when she was eighteen. She lived with friends for a
while, then moved out on her own.”
“Shame,”
Dale said, shaking his head. “Such a pretty girl. Well, she was. How does this sick bastard choose
his victims?”
“He
picks them at random, takes his time. He studies them, stalks them for days or
weeks, and plans his moves carefully.”
“You
think we’ll catch him before he bolts and moves on to the next state?”
“If
there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s burning a haystack.”
* * *
“You
look cranky,” Ray Frye told Wes when he showed up at the morgue with one of
those disposable coffee carriers. He had four coffees; one for Ray, one for
Pete Drayton, and two for himself.
“That’s
because I haven’t slept since 2013.”
Ray
works as an assistant at the county morgue. He and Wes are good friends and he’s
aided Wes on a number of occasions.
“What
have you got for us, Pete?” Wes asked the county coroner that morning over
coffee. He was really craving a shot and a beer, but he figured it could wait
until his shift was over.
“Toxicology
reports won’t be back for another day, but I found a small puncture wound on
her neck,” Pete Drayton said. “Looks like she was drugged, knocked unconscious.
She probably woke up already buried inside that coffin. And your boys in
forensics didn’t find any prints on the coffin that matched the ones we have on
file. In fact, they didn’t find any prints at all.”
“We
don’t need prints to know who we’re dealing with,” Wes said. “Though they would
be useful in a court of law. But we’ll have plenty of fingerprints on file when
we catch this fucker.”
“The
whole department is rooting for you,” Pete encouraged Archer as Dale Craven burst
into the coroner’s office, sweaty and shaking.
Then
he broke the news. “Wes…Val Reed is missing.”
* * *
Once
Dale was able to calm Wes down, they returned to the department and Dale went
over the information he had.
“The
boys didn’t find much. Shockingly there’s not nearly as much abandoned or
condemned property as you would think. The best we could find is an industrial
factory on the outskirts of the city that’s no longer operational. The owner’s
name is Orson Miller. You want me to talk to Lieutenant Morris about getting a
search warrant?”
“We
don’t need a search warrant.”
“What
do you mean we don’t need one? This might not even be the right place.”
“A
good cop always knows.”
“No,
a good cop goes on fact, not conjecture. A good cop waits for a search warrant.
They don’t go breaking doors in.”
“You
have your methods, I have mine.”
“There’s
no way I’m talking you out of this, I am?” Dale sighed and rolled his tired
eyes.
“Not
a chance in hell. Not so long as that maniac has Val.”
“We
don’t even know if he has her. She’s just been reported missing by her job.
Last night was New Year’s Eve for crying out loud. She could be sleeping off a
hangover for all we know.”
“I
called her cell five times. She never answered or returned my calls. That’s not
like her. Even if she was drinking last night.”
“So
let’s assume this psycho does have Val and he’s holed up in this factory. How
do we approach the situation?”
“With
extreme fucking caution. I don’t want to give that fucker a chance to harm a
hair on Val’s head. I just hope we’re not too late already.”
* * *
The
factory was the lone piece of property that dwelled on Soap Street and ran for
half a block. Located out in Dorchester, the factory didn’t technically fall
under their jurisdiction.
But
Wes had his connections in the Dorchester PD and made a few calls to his
buddies. Lawrence Wallace and two of his sergeants met Wes and Dale three
blocks from the factory to discuss strategy.
It
took more than an hour, but to Dale’s satisfaction, the boys at Dorchester PD
had obtained a search warrant.
“Doesn’t
that put a smile on your face,” Wes said.
“Blow
me,” Dale said.
“If
Val is in one piece when we find her, I’ll blow all of you.”
“Let’s
not get ahead of ourselves,” Wallace chimed in. “If this psycho is in there,
it’s safe to assume he’s armed and dangerous. He may even have backup.”
“The
Gravedigger never uses backup,” Wes pointed out. He had studied the FBI’s files
inside and out.
“I
still won’t take any chances. Boys, you takes the sides. I’ll take the back.
Wes, you and your partner take the front. Have your guns out and ready to go at
a moment’s notice. And don’t hesitate to put this sicko down if you get the
chance.”
“I
can see why you guys are friends,” Dale said to Wes.
The
factory was owned by Orson Miller. Dorchester PD could find no criminal record
on the man. The DMV however was helpful on obtaining Orson’s address and
photograph.
Wes
and Dale approached the front. He tried the door handle first instead of
kicking it in. To their surprise, the door was unlocked.
“Easy,”
Wes said.
“Too
easy,” Dale added.
The
factory was what you’d expect. Empty crates, wooden pallets, row after row of
stacked boxes. A forklift towards the back.
The
boxes created walls of a maze that Wes and Dale were forced to navigate. They
could’ve knocked the boxes over, but not without giving away their position. In
the center of this maze, they found Valerie Reed. She was unconscious, but
still alive.
Standing
over her was a man of average height. He had a goatee and his hair was dyed
jet-black. The FBI had been right. The Gravedigger was changing his appearance
to match the identities he was stealing. But the eyes gave him away.
Wes
had seen his picture before and he knew exactly who he was standing across
from. “What’d you give her, Gravedigger?”
“Just
a mild sedative. She’ll be out for another hour or two.”
“Drop
your weapon,” Wes ordered.
“Would
if I could,” the Gravedigger said, lifting his coat and spinning around to show
Wes and Dale he wasn’t even armed.
By
this time, Wallace and his men had infiltrated the factory and were making
their way through to the center of this box maze.
“Where’s
Orson Miller?” Wes asked as the Gravedigger raised his hands to the air as a
sign of surrender.
“That
would be me,” Gravedigger said. “It’s the name I’ve been using for two months
now. And Terri Hart wasn’t my first. The real Orson Miller is buried in
unmarked grave about two blocks from the city park. Don’t bother searching.
You’re two months too late.”
“Dale,
cuff this sick son of a bitch.”
Dale
approached with caution and the Gravedigger complied and lowered his hands so
Dale could cuff his wrists behind his back. “Ah, I’ve waited for this moment
for so long,” he confessed as Wallace and his men reached the end of the maze.
“What
are you talking about?” Dale asked this lunatic.
“It
was always my intention to get caught eventually,” the Gravedigger said. “I’m
going to write a book in prison. Even if they execute me, my work will live on
forever. I’ll be a household name.”
“For
all the wrong reasons,” Wes said, shaking his head.
“All
right boys, get this sicko out of my sight,” Wallace told his men. “Good call,
Wes.”
“Yeah,”
Dale said. “Good call. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“It’s
ok, kiddo,” Wes said. “You’re still learning. Let’s just get Val to the
hospital and make sure she’s fine.”
* * *
Thursday,
January 2nd, 2014.
The
house was torched beyond recognition. The ceiling had collapsed, causing the
second floor to easily give way after being exposed to that tremendous heat and
pressure.
What
remained of the structure now were barren walls with nothing attached, piles of
rubble, and ash that was still smoldering.
Wes
sipped his coffee and wore a look on his face that screamed ‘it’s too early for
this shit’. Dale stood by his side, chugging an energy drink. Wes winced at the
sight and wondered how Dale could drink that awful crap.
“So
how are things with Ms. Reed?” Dale asked. “All is forgiven?”
“She’s
not returning my calls,” Wes said. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”
“You’ll
never know that for sure unless you try to patch things up with her.”
“Remind
me why we’re here again,” Wes said to Dale. “This is a case for arson, not
homicide.”
“The
boys found two bodies buried in the remains,” Dale said. “And the fire looks
intentional. We won’t know for sure until the boys do a full inspection, but
look at the remaining walls. See how the fire burned upwards, causing those
charred V shaped patterns to form along the walls? This happens usually when
the fire is started by an accelerant like gasoline.”
“How
do you know this?”
“I
read a lot. And when I was a kid, I wanted to be a firefighter. Now I’m a cop
instead. Go figure.”
“So
it was a murder,” Wes said.
“Yes,
that’s the short answer,” Dale said. His cell rang and he stepped away from the
wreckage to answer it.
After
a few seconds of conversation, Dale lowered his cell phone and passed it off to
Wes. “For you. It’s the LT.”
“Yeah,
Mitch, I’m here,” Wes said, bringing the phone to his ear.
“Wes,
we’ve got a problem. We just received an anonymous tip. The Mechanic has made
his way to Carter City.”
“Who?”
“A
heavy hitter for the mafia.”
“How
heavy?”
“The
heaviest.”
“Then
why haven’t I heard of him?”
“He’s
not on your radar,” Morris said. “He’s not really on anybody’s radar but the
FBI’s. He’s a free agent. Nobody knows his real name, where he lives, where
he’s from. The guy’s a ghost. But this motherfucker ain’t friendly like that
bitch, Casper. Look, all I’m saying is, watch your back, watch your partner’s
back, and if you see or hear anything, let us know.”
“Will
do,” Wes said, ending the call and handing the phone off to Dale.
“What
was that about?” Dale asked.
“We
need to talk,” Wes told his partner. “Got time for a drink?”
To Be Continued Soon With Part
Two!
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