Draculas (48 page)

Then the tableau was broken. Silently, a1most gracefully, the two soldiers leaned forward and fell onto their commanding officer, pinning him in his bedroll under hundreds of pounds of limp dead flesh.

As Kaempffer struggled frantically to pull himself out from under the two corpses, he heard a far-off voice begin to wail in mortal panic. An isolated part of his brain focused on the sound until he identified it.

The voice was his own.

Twenty-one years ago
1989, June 23

This guy isn't a killer,
Dalton thinks.
He's a butcher.

Dalton isn't repulsed by the spectacle, or even slightly disturbed. He stays detached and professional, even as he snaps a picture of Brotsky tearing at the prostitute's body with some kind of three-pronged garden tool.

There's a lot of blood.

Dalton wonders if he should have brought color film. But there's something classic, something pure, about shooting in black and white. It makes real life even more realistic.

Dalton opens the f-stop on the lens, adjusting for the setting sun. He's standing in the backyard of Brotsky's house, and his subject has been gracious enough to leave the blinds open. From his spot on the lawn, Dalton has a clear view into Brotsky's living room, where the carnage is taking place. Though Brotsky has a high fence and plenty of foliage on his property, he's still taking a big risk. There are neighbors on either side, and the back gate leading to the alley is unlocked. Anyone could walk by.

It's not a smart way to conduct a murder.

Dalton has watched Brotsky kill two hookers in this fashion, and surely there have been others. Yet the Chicago Police Department hasn't come knocking on Brotsky's door yet. Brotsky has been incredibly lucky so far.

But luck runs out.

At least Brotsky has the sense to put a tarp down,
Dalton thinks.

He snaps another photo. Brotsky's naked barrel chest is slick with gore, and the look on his unshaven face is somewhere between frenzy and ecstasy as he works the garden tool. He's not a tall man, but he's thick, with big muscles under a layer of hard fat. Brotsky sweats a lot, and his balding head gives off a glare which Dalton offsets by using a filter on his lens.

Brotsky sets down the garden tool and picks up a cleaver.

Yeah, this guy is nuts.

Truth told, Dalton has done worse to people, at least as far as suffering goes. If the price is right, Dalton will drag someone's death out for hours, even days. But Dalton gets no pleasure from the task. Killing is simply his business.

Brotsky is killing to meet baser needs. Sex. Power. Blood lust.
Hunger,
Dalton muses, taking a shot of Brotsky with his mouth full of something moist.

If Brotsky sticks to his MO, he'll dismember the girl, wrap up her parts in plastic bags, and then take her severed head into the shower with him. When Brotsky returns, he'll be squeaky clean, and the head will be gone. Then he'll load the bags into his car and haul them to the dump site.

Dalton guesses it will be another eleven minutes. He waits patiently, taking occasional snapshots, wondering what Brotsky does with the heads. Dalton isn't bothered by the heat or the humidity, even though it's close to ninety degrees and he's wearing a suit and tie. Unlike Brotsky, Dalton doesn't sweat. Dalton has pores. He just never feels the need to use them.

Exactly eleven minutes and nine seconds later, Brotsky walks out his back door, dressed in shorts, sandals, and a wrinkled blue Hawaiian shirt. He's lugging several black plastic garbage bags. The man is painfully unaware, and doesn't even bother looking around. He walks right past Dalton, who's hiding behind the girth of an ancient oak tree, gun in hand.

The hitman falls into step behind the butcher, his soft-soled shoes silent on the walkway. He trails Brotsky, close as a shadow, for several steps before jamming the Ruger against the fat man's back. Brotsky stops cold.

"This is a gun, Victor Brotsky. Try to run and I'll fire. The bullet will blow your heart out the front of your chest. Neither of us want that to happen. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Brotsky says. "Can I put down these bags? They're heavy."

Brotsky doesn't seem frightened, or even surprised. Dalton is impressed. Perhaps the man is more of a pro than Dalton had guessed.

"No. We're going to walk, slowly, out to the alley. My car is parked there. You're going to put the pieces of the hooker in the trunk."

Brotsky does as he's told. Dalton's black 1989 El Dorado Roadster is parked alongside Brotsky's garage. The car isn't as anonymous as Dalton would prefer, but he needs to keep up appearances. The wiseguys he works for like Caddys, and driving the latest model somewhat compensates for the fact that Dalton isn't Italian.

"Trunk's open. Put the bags inside and take out the red folder."

Brotsky hefts the bags into the trunk, and they land with a solid thump. The alley smells like garbage, and the summer heat makes the odor cling. Dalton moves the gun from the man's back to his neck.

"Take the folder," Dalton says.

The light from the trunk is sufficient. Brotsky opens the folder, begins to page through several 8x10 photos of his two previous victims. He lingers on one that shows him grinning, holding up a severed leg. It's Dalton's personal favorite. Black and white really is the only way to go.

"I'm a school teacher," Brotsky says with the barest trace of a Russian accent. "I don't have much money."

Dalton allows himself a small grin. He likes how Brotsky thinks. Maybe this will work out after all.

"I don't want to blackmail you," Dalton says. "My employer is a very important Chicago businessman."

Brotsky sighs. "Let me guess. I slaughtered one of his whores, and now you're going to teach me a lesson."

"Wrong again, Victor Brotsky. See the lunch box in the corner of the trunk? Open it up."

Brotsky follows the instructions. The box is filled with several stacks of twenty dollar bills. Three thousand in cash, total.

"What is this?" Brotsky asks.

"Consider it a retainer," Dalton says. "My employer wants to hire you."

"Hire me for what?"

"To do what you're doing for free." Dalton leans forward, whispers in Brotsky's plump, hairy ear. "He wants you to kill some prostitutes."

Brotsky turns around slowly, and his lips part in a smile. His breath is meaty, and he has a tiny bit

"This employer of yours," Brotsky says. "I think I'm going to like working for him."

Present day
2010, August 10

The rope secured my wrists behind my back and snaked a figure eight pattern through my arms, up to my elbows. Houdini with a hacksaw wouldn't have been able to get free. I could flex and wiggle my fingers to keep my circulation going, but didn't have a range of movement much beyond that.

My legs were similarly secured, the braided nylon line crisscrossing from my ankles to my knees, pinching my skin so tight I wished I'd worn pantyhose. And I hate pantyhose.

I was lying on my side, the concrete floor cool against my cheek and ear, the only light a sliver that came through a crack at the bottom of the far wall. All I had on was an oversized t-shirt, and my panties. A hard rubber ball had been crammed into my mouth. I was unable to dislodge it--a strap around my head held it in place. I probed the curved surface and winced when my tongue met with little indentations.
Teeth marks.
This ball gag had been used many times before.

My sense of time was sketchy, but I estimated I'd been awake for about fifteen minutes. The first few had been spent struggling against the ropes, trying to scream for help through the gag. The bindings were escape-proof, and my ankle rope secured me to a large concrete block, which I felt with my bare feet. It was impossible for me to roll away. The ball gag didn't allow for more than a low moan, and after a minute or two I began to choke on my own saliva, my jaw wedged open too wide for me to swallow. I had to adjust my head so the spit ran out the corner of my mouth.

Based on the hollow echoes from my sounds, I sensed I was in a small, empty garage. Some machine--perhaps an air conditioner or dehumidifier--hummed tunelessly in the background. I smelled bleach, a bad sign, and under the bleach, traces of copper, human waste, and rotten meat. A worse sign.

Fighting panic and losing, I made myself focus on how I got here, how this happened. My memory was fuzzy. A hit on the head? A drug? I wasn't sure. I had no recollection of anything leading up to this.

But between the smells and my past, I knew whoever abducted me was planning on killing me. I used to be a cop. Now I was in the private sector.

And this was definitely not the way I wanted to end my new career.

Twenty-one years ago
1989, August 15

I didn't become a cop to do things like this.

The red vehicle pulled up and honked at me. It was one of those strange combinations of a car and a truck; I think they were called SUVs. This one said
Isuzu Trooper
on the fender. I found them to be too big and blocky, especially for an urban setting like Chicago. And with gas prices up to almost $1.20 a gallon, I doubted the trend would catch on.

The night was hot, humid as hell, and I was sweating even though I was nearly naked. My candy apple red lipstick kept smearing in the heat, forcing me to reapply it. I had the whole block to myself, having chased the other girls away earlier. I'd done them a favor; action was molasses slow. Plus, the city was eight days into a garbage strike, and the stink coming from the alley was a force of nature.

"Your call, Jackie,"
my earpiece said. My partner, Officer Harry McGlade, waited in a vintage Mustang parked up the street.

"Aren't you bored with this game yet?" I said into the microphone, which was hidden in my Madonna push-up bustier; an item that should have been worn under a top, not as a top.
Jacqueline Streng, working girl.
I reached inside the cup and readjusted my boob. The transmitter was the size of a pack of cigarettes, but harder and heavier, the sharp corners not meant to be wedged tight against delicate female anatomy. It hurt. The wires trailed up my bra strap, and to the earpiece, hidden by my
Fredrick's of Hollywood
blonde Medusa wig.

"I'll be bored when I'm actually ahead a few bucks,"
Harry said.
"Go on. Guess."

I squinted at the guy behind the wheel. The street was dark, but he had his interior light on while he looked around for something. Possibly his wallet. Hopefully not a straight razor or an Uzi. He was Caucasian, late forties, balding, thick glasses. White collar, probably married with kids.

"BJ," I said to Harry.

"Naw. I'm guessing something pervy."

"He looks like a member of the PTA."

"The clean-cut guys are always the perverts."

"You said the weird-looking guys are always the perverts."

"They're pretty much all perverts. I'll say foot fetishist."

I actually didn't know what a foot fetishist did. Something to do with feet, I assumed, but what? The Vice training manual didn't explain that particular kink. I wasn't about to ask Harry, because he'd make fun of me. It was hard enough being a female in the Chicago Police Department. Being a young female who did prostitution stings made me an easy target for potshots.

Not that I would be young for much longer. Today officially began the last year of my twenties. I was going to celebrate the happy occasion by watching TV and getting drunk. My boyfriend, Alan, was out of town on a business trip, and so far he'd neglected to get me anything. Big mistake. True, I didn't want any reminders of my rapidly retreating youth. But we cops were big on intent. And forgetting your girlfriend's birthday said a lot about your future intent.

Not that I had any intentions myself. His last name was
Daniels
, for chrissakes. I had a hard enough time getting respect on the Job. If my name was Jack Daniels, I'd be the laughing stock of the city.

"You in or out, Jackie?"

"Fine," I said. "Ten-spot?"

"Make it twenty. I got a feeling."

Bald Guy honked again. I pulled up the elastic top of one of my black fishnet stockings, pulled down the hem of my hot pink spandex micro-mini skirt, and walked over to the car on painfully high, strappy heels, trying to look sexy when I felt completely ridiculous. His window opened, and I stuck my head inside. The air conditioning bathed my face, cooling the sweat on my brow and upper lip.

"How are you tonight, sugar?" I asked, smacking my gum.

Bald Guy appeared nervous, jittery. Most of them did. Maybe because soliciting sex was embarrassing. Or maybe because they were worried that the hooker they propositioned was actually an undercover cop.

Imagine that.

"How much?" he asked without looking at me.

"How much what?" I asked.

"How much money?"

In order to make a clean arrest, and avoid the dreaded entrapment defense, the suspect had to be the one to bring up the subject of money. This guy cut right to the heart of the matter. Now he needed to mention what he wanted in exchange.

"Depends," I said, playing coy. "What is it you're looking for?"

"Something special. Can you quote me your, um, rates?"

"Sure. Head is ten. Straight is fifteen. Half-and-half is twenty. Round the world is thirty. Anything to do with feet is fifty."

"No fair!"
McGlade yelled in my ear.
"You're price-jacking!"

I hoped Bald Guy didn't hear that, even though it was so loud my eyes bugged out.

"I've got kind of a strange request," Bald Guy said.

I leaned in further. The air conditioning was wonderfully frigid, and the interior smelled like lemon air freshener. After four hours on the street, this was a little slice of heaven.

"Kinky is extra. Tell me what you need, big boy."