Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1997 16:42:43 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (01/5)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
The Unsuiteds Challenge possessed me! Instead of working on my
current project, this story screamed for scribbling. It takes place
between Seasons Two and Three. This story contains an unlikely pair in
addition to our dear Unsuiteds, but Don and Lucien run the show.
Adoration and praise to my beta readers: Ann Raper, Amy Reed,
Amanda Sridasome, and Lee Hickling streamlined this puppy proper with
their corrections and suggestions! Their work was phenomenal!
Standard Disclaimers Apply: The characters of "Forever Knight"
were created by Parriott, et al. and are owned by Sony/Tristar.
Quoted lyrics are from Bachman Turner Overdrive. Quoted poetry from
William Shakespeare's 'Othello.'
**********************************************************************
UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (01/5)
by Bonnie Rutledge
That wretched holiday for lovers snuck closer for yet another
mish-mash of hearts, flowers, candy, and misguided sentiment.
LaCroix's mood gradually cankerized as February 14th approached,
evidenced by the cowering CERK employees and his oratory broadcasted
a week before the detested day:
"Speak no more to me of love...That fickle oasis of
emotion...A misbegotten shrine at which you sacrifice your plastic
roses and stale chocolates in tribute to your sweetheart. But the
illusion soon fades doesn't it, my children? The poetic whispers
disintegrate into nagging chatter. Comfortable routine stifles your
rapturous embraces. Your lovers of yesteryear -- where are they now?
Drinking another beer while watching the game on television, sleeping
with your best friend, or do you even remember their name? A
collection of cells -- that is the heart -- layered in an amalgamation
of chambers, valves, and vessels. The blood pumps in --the blood pumps
out. The heart is life, sweet, luscious life, not love.
This is the Nightcrawler, and I am waiting for your call.
Whisper to me words of life and death."
The phone lines blinked frenziedly, they always did. LaCroix
chose one to answer at random, prepared to verbally rip any
mild-mannered callers to shreds.
"This is the Nightcrawler -- who has the pleasure of speaking
with me?"
The voice that echoed from the speakers was low and seductive,
quiet, not out of shyness, but in indifference to the radio listeners.
This woman spoke as if for his ears alone, privately and
confidentially with a teasing lilt added to spark LaCroix's interest.
"Call me Desdemona."
"Ah. A woman fated to die at the hands of a jealous lover -- is
that how you see yourself?"
She laughed indulgently, tauntingly. "Hardly. But since
everyone dies in some form or another, I personally want to do it in
bed." Those phrases seemed almost an invitation. "A name is simply a
word, changeable at whim, don't you think, Nightcrawler?"
"A metaphysical approach, how enchanting. I'll bite -- how do you
perceive the nature of your existence, Desdemona?" LaCroix's tongue
rolled around the syllables of the caller's name in a vocal caress.
"I am a killer...you understand that nature, don't you? In fact,
I've just disposed of a tasty morsel in the CERK lobby. Consider
dinner my treat."
LaCroix's fascination with the woman's conversation immediately
withered. His lips drew into a stiff line, his eyes sizzled with
anger, and his reply was carved in ice. "Really, Desdemona. What an
overt tease you are. I trust you will be present for my 'treat'?"
Another taunting laugh cracked over the airwaves. "I may be
overt, but I am not naive. We will meet when I am ready." The line
clicked at her disconnection.
LaCroix's fingernails raked over his console with fury. He
spoke again into the microphone, his tone a smoldering threat. "That
dear listeners, brings us to another subject -- naïveté. We all know
the expression 'Curiosity killed the cat'. Let me explain why..."
********************************************************************
Schanke kissed a passing, and very male, traffic cop juicily on
the lips then engaged in a triumphant pseudo-rumba around his desk.
"What's with him?" the traffic cop wondered aloud.
"Beats me," replied the young, blonde detective. She watched the
performance in wonder. "I just said that I was here to do catch-up on
Detective Knight's paperwork while he was away."
Schanke paused in mid-hip wiggle. "No. No. *Our* paperwork. You
said *all your* paperwork."
She shrugged in capitulation. "Okay, okay. *Your* paperwork."
She observed the Detective recommence his joyous jigging and
sighed. "I still think assigning me to desk work is a waste. Why not
give me something more useful to do? I'm a detective, too, you know.
I could join you on the streets -- crack the big cases!"
Schanke ceased his dancing and gave her an indulgent grin. "Sure
you could, hon. And how long have you been a detective?"
"Two weeks," she announced defensively.
"Bingo! There's your answer."
A desk clerk approached, interrupting the young woman's frown.
"Detective Vetter? The Commissioner, uh, I mean, your father is on
line two. Detective Schanke? You're needed at a crime scene at the
CERK radio station."
Schanke's mouth dropped open as Tracy reached for the phone.
"Commissioner's daughter?!? I thought she said her last name was
'Vedder', like the grunge guy." He leaned over and gave Tracy a wink.
"Hey, I'll let you take it easy -- just worry about *my* paperwork.
Knight can do his own when he gets back. Enjoy the coffee!" He gave a
wave, then left.
Tracy groaned as she pressed the button for her call. "Hi, Dad.
Gee, thanks for preserving my anonymity."
***************************************************************
For eight whole days, Don Schanke was on his own. El Hombre
Solo, with keys to the Caddie as a bonus. His freedom resulted from
Nick and Captain Cohen traipsing about in Ottawa, extraditing a collar
from the week before.
Since the sojourn lasted until after Valentine's Day, Nick
volunteered for the journey so that Schank could, quote, have a
romantic evening with Myra, unquote. Don personally considered the
holiday a chance to stay out of the doghouse until the wife's
birthday. Muy expensive. Muy worthwhile. The next out of town trip
would be Schanke's, no matter what, Nick promised.
Regardless of the cause, a week of calling the shots was just
what the doctor ordered. Having no paperwork to fill out made the
week sublime as souvlaki with extra cucumber sauce.
Arriving at CERK, Schanke straightened his suit jacket out of
habit, and brushed past the reporters swarming around the station with
a curt 'No comment.' He entered, bypassing the facing stairs
and made a right turn towards the lobby. Natalie noted his arrival
and rushed to greet him.
"Good! You're finally here, now I can go." Natalie appeared wary
and ready to run out the front door.
Schanke tagged one of her arms. "Whoa-ho-ho, Nat. Aren't you
going to run some of that dead-people terminology past me?"
Nat gave him an impatient look. "All right."
Identifying the victim for Schanke as she approached, Natalie
swept its temporary covering away for a view. Two puncture marks the
size of peppercorns leapt out from the pale expanse of the victim's
neck.
"It's pretty obvious what happened," she said. "The skin of the
throat was meticulously pierced just above the jugular in two
locations, splitting the vein apart, as well as the tissue almost all
the way through to the back of the neck. I know -- I poked. The weapon
was probably something like an icepick."
Standing up, she started anew for the exit. On the way, she
paused and called, "See the puddle? Death by exsanguination. I'll see
you at the morgue. Have fun."
Schanke gave a befuddled wave as Natalie hurriedly departed. "Was it
my breath?" he wondered aloud.
"M-maybe she's just sp-spooked," stuttered a beat officer
shakily. "This is k-kind of creepy."
Schanke inspected the wounds once more. They weren't totally
dissimilar to a bite.
Schanke shook his head. Best stick to the facts. "Tell me -- who
was first man on the scene?"
The beat officer cleared his throat, then replied, "I-I was.
That's why I'm st-standing here."
"Well, Officer First Man, start talking! Or are you gonna mime
your report for me?"
The cop looked confused at Schanke's question, until he
realized it was a joke. Then he sighed with a relieved smile and
began to speak. "Well, I was driving my rounds as usual, listening to the
radio--y'know that Nightcrawler guy?"
Schanke nodded. "Yep, I know him. Go on..."
The officer seemed confused again by the Detective's comment,
but carried on with his description. "So this female dials in to the
Nightcrawler's show, calls herself Desdemona, and says she's left a
body in the CERK lobby for him. Since I've never actually seen a dead
body before, I stopped by to check it out, and sure enough..."
Schanke interrupted. "Wait a sec -- you've never seen a dead body
before? How long have you been a cop?"
"T-two w-weeks." The officer was nervous again.
"Man, it must be something in the water. You're name isn't
Vetter, is it?"
"No, sir. It's Lapinskiwitcz."
"Okay, two things Lapinski," Schanke ordered. "Change your name,
then go over and look at that dead body until it's as familiar as
your mother -- and it's not *spooky*."
"Yes, sir," Lapinskiwitcz warbled. "What are you going to do
Detective Schanke?"
He aimed a stalwart glance at the elevator. "I'm going to have a
chat with Mr. Nightcrawler."
Lapinskiwitcz sputtered. "But sir, the radio people said he was
not to be disturbed until the night's broadcast was complete. Plus,
he's creepy."
"He isn't creepy. Well, maybe he is...but the radio folks were
referring to you, not me, and I don't believe in 'off-limits'." With
that swarthy statement, Donald Schanke waltzed to the elevator -- who
needed stairs, anyway? -- leaving Officer Lapinskiwitcz to gape in
admiration.
***************************************************************
LaCroix was staring at the door as Schanke came into sight, as
if he expected someone to ease his way down the hall and enter. Don
pushed away the shiver of creepy feelings -- damned if that Officer
Lapin-whatever hadn't gotten to him -- and projected an earnest,
business-like demeanor instead.
LaCroix granted him a reserved smile. "Well, well...If it isn't
Don Schanke. What happenstance brings you to my lair this evening,
Detective?"
Schanke squinted at him. He couldn't just say 'Hi. What's up?'
like a normal person, could he? "There's been a murder."
"Do tell."
Schanke nodded, then sat down in the chair across from
LaCroix's desk without waiting for permission. "I will," Schanke
emphasized, causing LaCroix to raise an eyebrow. "The body was found
in the CERK lobby, which you no doubt are aware of, seeing how the
killer called in to your radio show announcing the deed. I believe
there are a few things that we need to talk about."
LaCroix steepled his hands together and watched, a snake
observing a tasty field mouse. "Yes, Detective Schanke. Perhaps there
are."
"First of all, did you recognize the woman's voice? Did she call
the show often?" Schanke inquired.
LaCroix seemed to come to a decision, and broke the spire of his
palms. "No. I believe she was a virgin to my airwaves."
Schanke shifted slightly in his chair at the terminology.
"Really?"
The vampire nodded. "Really. I am rather surprised to have you
visit alone, Detective -- what would your partner think?"
"Nick's away for the week. I'm handling affairs," Schanke
offered confidently.
"Of course," LaCroix responded. "I am curious, though. How do
you intend to 'handle' this affair?"
Schanke found himself divulging what he knew so far. It wasn't
exactly an orthodox practice, but something about the Nightcrawler
made it feel more productive to share his thoughts rather than
conceal them. "The victim was a CERK employee -- one of your
technicians. Her name was Patricia Rodger. You know who I'm talking
about?"
"Yes. I am aware of the employees who wander in and out of my
booth. Please, continue."
"She was killed by two puncture wounds to the jugular."
"Fascinating." LaCroix's eyes appeared full of dare. "Does this
method appear strange to you for any reason?"
Schanke gave LaCroix a conspiratorial grin. "Well, I gotta admit
some of the cops downstairs, they're less experienced than me, mind
you..."
The vampire nodded in agreement. "Of course they are."
"Yeah." Schanke leaned forward a bit. "The crime scene has them
freaked out. The puncture wounds kind of look like a bite from
a..." LaCroix's expression seemed to prod him onwards. "A...you know.
But I'm different -- who needs that hocus-pocus goofy stuff?"
"Who indeed? That is a very reasonable position for you to take,
Detective."
Schanke settled back in his chair again, then gestured between
the two of them. "Exactly. You and me, we're practical guys. Why
would we carry on about a...you know...when it's obvious the victim
was skewered like a shish kebab by some wacko."
LaCroix rose from his chair to approach a piece of recording
equipment. "I appreciate the style of your observations...Don. I
expect that you desire a copy of the conversation? You may listen to
it while I duplicate the call."
Schanke listened intently to the replay, a frown descending
over his features as the woman's comments progressed. As the sounds
of the conversation clicked to a close, he echoed, "We will meet when
I am ready...I'm sure you realize this Desdemona character is
probably an obsessed fan?"
LaCroix shrugged casually. "She is hardly my first."
"Which you may find nice and dandy," Schanke replied. "But I bet
all of them don't run around killing people for your attention."
"The lobby *would* get crowded," LaCroix drawled.
"And there's that suggestion that she's like you -- a killer. Why
would she say that?"
"It is her obsessive fantasy, Detective. The reason behind her
words could lie within her imagination."
Schanke stood and leaned over the desk. "I'm not a psycho-babble
genius," he cautioned. "But it doesn't sound to me like she intends
to stop with one murder, and eventually, she's coming for you. We
might have to put you under police protection."
The vampire was very amused at this pronouncement. "I assure
you, I am well able to guard myself. Your care will not be
necessary."
"Normally, I would agree with you. You strike me as a man of
action, which I can relate to. But you're also Nick's family, and
while he's away, I feel honor-bound to look out for you. Call me
traditional."
An indulgent smile broke over LaCroix's features, and he
glanced away momentarily as he stifled the expression. "I am touched
by your devotion. I, myself, have quite a few long-standing
traditions."
Schanke nodded in understanding. "You'll be seeing me again," he
promised, then headed for the hall door.
"Don?" Schanke turned at the other man's commanding voice. "Don't forget
your tape."
"Oh, right." He walked back to the desk to grasp the recording
from the vampire's waiting hand. "Thank you, Mr. Nightcrawler."
"Please, call me LaCroix."
***************************************************************
End of Part One
UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (02/5)
by Bonnie Rutledge
"Tell me you found something terribly interesting, Doc."
Natalie looked up from the remains of Patricia Rodger, and
smiled in welcome. "My, my, Schank. For some reason, I expected to
see you sooner. How did things go at CERK?"
Schanke peered at Natalie's written notes, answering
nonchalantly. "I had a good shooting the breeze with LaCroix. That's
the Nightcrawler's real name."
Natalie did a double-take of Schanke's calm and lackadaisical
demeanor. She opened and closed her mouth several times
before commenting, "You...you questioned this LaCroix fellow?"
He nodded.
"In person?" A nod. "Alone?" Another nod. "And your talk went fine?"
Schanke rolled his eyes. "Geez, Nat - what's with the third
degree? Yes, I talked to him, mano a mano, with no problems. We
established a rapport, you know what I mean?"
That statement had Natalie panicking. "Maybe you should lean
back on this one until Nick returns, Schanke. Isn't this LaCroix
supposed to be a friend of his?"
"He's a relative, and that's exactly why I'm staying on top of
the case. The radio caller also made threats against the Nightcrawler's life.
I'm not about to sit on my duff until Knight gets back, leaving
LaCroix a sitting duck."
Schanke continued talking, ignoring Natalie's sudden coughing
fit. "He may need to hide out. LaCroix has his doubts, but I'll bring
him across."
Something was making Natalie cough again.
"Hey, Lambert. You should do something about that cold before you
pass it on. From your notes I see that Patricia Rodger was tied up
with rope and gagged before the killer stabbed her."
Natalie collected herself and nodded. "I found multiple
indentations around the wrists, legs, and jaws, as well as fibers
from a rope type common to this area."
"Thank you, good doctor," Schanke gave her a little bow with a
hokey grin on the side. "Don't be a stranger, now."
"I won't," Natalie chuckled. "But *you* had better watch
yourself." She punctuated this comment with a poke in the chest.
She shook her head as Schanke left the morgue while staring in
trepidation at his hands, mocking her warning. She had a feeling this
case was going to be bad. Very bad.
*********************************************************************
Two nights later, Schanke was impatient for a lead. He had
assigned Tracy the task of finding the number that had dialed the
radio station, only to have her discover Desdemona had employed a
phone in the CERK lobby. There had been no fingerprints. That would
have made it too easy.
Schanke had positioned a few suits at the building entrance to
check who entered and left the building, and the night before had
yielded nothing but quiet. Except for Detective Vetter, that is. She
was determined to have watch duty, and Schanke had yet to release her
from the desk.
Tonight, he saw that his paperwork mound had decreased in
inverse proportion to Tracy's grumbling. To boost morale, Schanke promised
she could monitor a door tonight, but Vetter had to wear a uniform.
She rode with him to CERK in the Caddie. "I hope you're aware
that old cars like this one wheeze out a lot of pollution."
"I'll be sure to tell Knight. It's his car," Schanke retorted.
"And what's a part-per-million of carbon dioxide compared to a classic
auto with the most trunk space of its kind?"
"Trunk space? Who cares about trunk space?"
"My partner does. He has a skin allergy to the sun. So when work
runs into daytime, Knight needs the large trunk for his health."
Tracy glared at him. "You don't have to be so condescending.
Just because I'm the Commissioner's daughter, it doesn't mean that
I'm gullible."
Schanke pulled the car up to the curb in front of CERK and got
out. "Vetter, trust me. Your family tree has nothing to do with it.
I'm equally offensive to all the new guys." He swept towards the
lobby, not bothering to hold the door open for Tracy.
"I'm one of the guys," she murmured. "Cool."
***************************************************************
Up, up, up, the elevator rose, delivering Schanke into the dim
passageways that led towards LaCroix. There was one extraneous night
employee still on duty. He sent her home and continued towards the
studio while impatiently thumbing the walkie-talkie that hung
from his belt. The unit was to coordinate with the officers below if there was
any action.
This time, those cold, blue eyes weren't waiting for his entry.
The Nightcrawler seemed to perceive who he was without looking. With
an elegant gesture he indicated that Schanke should use the extra
chair without interrupting the flow of his words.
"This is the Nightcrawler, and tonight, I am considering
obsession in its many forms. What obsesses you, my children? You have
such filthy habits - let us parade them forth in their detestable
glory. What inescapable need do you feed? You addicts, fetishists,
compulsives - bring out your needles and whips, your passions, and
share them with me..."
Schanke was fantasizing about another souvlaki when LaCroix
gestured to the blinking phone lines. Don sat up straight and leaned
forward, preparing to listen intently to the first caller.
"Yes. Hello, Mr. Nightcrawler. This is Myra Schanke, and I have
a fetish for husbands who call home every day or so to find out what
their families are doing. Don? Are you listening?"
Schanke leapt out of his chair and lunged for one the phone
receiver. LaCroix, meanwhile, replied amusedly. "Let me assure you,
Myra. I can guarantee *Don* will satisfy this urge momentarily." He
put her back on hold and led into the next caller.
Schanke picked up off-air. "Hey, honey...What a surprise hearing
from you like that...What's up?"
Suddenly his voice rose. "She did what?!? Is she okay?...Well, I
hope you told her she's grounded for eternity...Yeah, lock it away
somewhere and flush the key. I'll deal with her when I get home...This
is serious, Myra. She's gotta learn the consequences of her actions."
Schanke caught the name 'Desdemona' coming over the radio and
turned to see LaCroix smirk at his expression of horror. "Listen,
sweetie. An emergency just came up here -- you'll see me when I'm
there...Love you, too. Bye."
He crashed down the receiver in time to hear LaCroix introduce a
musical piece. "She's gone? Damn!"
LaCroix interrupted the tirade, instructing calmly, "Listen."
Schanke recognized the seductive voice from the earlier tape.
"You didn't partake of the feast that I left you the other night --
I'm struck."
"Good evening, Desdemona. How amusing to hear from you again."
The Nightcrawler's voice had an undertone of wicked glee.
If the caller heard it, she paid no attention. "Wasn't she
to your tastes?" Her tone had developed a more urgent, accusatory
note.
The Nightcrawler tsked. "No fair, my dear. If you wish to talk,
you must play by my rules," he chastised, his voice resembling
fingernails scratching across satin. "The topic is obsession. Do you
have anything to contribute, Desdemona?"
"You know that I do," she snarled harshly, then resumed her more
lilting speech. "But I'm not convinced that you understand what I
want. I'm getting closer, though. Closer to you. Just savor the
taste..." Then she hung up.
Schanke hefted up his walkie-talkie, ordering, "All floors, I
want a full sweep NOW! And no one leaves the building. Copy?!" A
multitude of crackled voices echoed in answer.
**************************************************************
"Copy," Tracy said. "Out."
She was torn. A woman, deeply bundled in a hooded overcoat, had
exited just before Detective Schanke's transmission.
, Tracy reminded herself
furiously. The woman's name had been on the list of employees allowed
inside...Maybe she could keep her post on the outside, and simply call
the woman back.
Pushing through the entrance and into the cold night,
Tracy spotted the figure in the familiar coat, already twenty meters
away. "Halt! Metro Police! Would you please return to the CERK
building, ma'am?"
An unreal sensation passed through Tracy as the woman broke into
a run. She immediately set off in pursuit, yelling her location into
her radio as she unsnapped her firearm with one hand.
Her quarry had a good head start, but Tracy was very fit with
the speed to match. Her feet glided over the pavement, and within a
minute Tracy had cut the distance separating them by half. "Stop!" she
called. "Metro Police!"
The woman could hear that Tracy was growing closer and chose to
dart across the street, weaving through speeding cars and squealing
brakes. Tracy frowned while dodging
a taxicab.
With renewed determination, Tracy rolled over the hood of a
freshly-braked sedan. The woman was almost within her reach. Tracy
stretched out an arm, attempting a hearty grasp of the suspect's
clothing, but she ended up with only a few square centimeters of coat
which slipped readily from her hand.
The force of Tracy tugging on the coat caused the woman's
hood to fall back. Tracy took a mental photo. She heard a loud airhorn groaning her way.
Tracy looked up to witness a mammoth vehicle barreling towards her.
she thought, then leapt the shorter distance backwards
out if its path.
In a blaze of air and machinery, the public transport
swiped safely past. Through a cloud of the exhaust aftermath, Tracy
couldn't locate the woman. She finished crossing the street,
searching plaintively in each direction. Tracy thought
with disbelief. Everybody who
resented her because of her father's identity would
have a field day.
The young detective kicked a nearby fire hydrant in frustration, then
dejectedly walked back to the CERK building.
***************************************************************
End of Part Two
UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (03/5)
by Bonnie Rutledge
"Stay here," Schanke ordered, causing LaCroix to frown in
distaste. "I'm going to search this floor, and I don't want to get you
confused with any Shakespeare wanna-bes."
The detective pulled out his gun, holding it barrel-up by his
shoulder. Schanke kicked the broadcasting booth door open, then with
alert and matter-of-fact steps, proceeded cautiously into the hallway.
LaCroix observed his progression with interest. Schanke was
steady and confident, facing life-threatening danger with a silent
fierceness and skill. He would have made an excellent soldier in
another time.
In a sense, the detective was a soldier...for justice. LaCroix
scowled at this analogy. It reminded him greatly of Nicholas. Perhaps
that was the reason he found Donald Schanke amusing - since their first
meeting, when the detective spouted impertinent questions about his
nature.
Schanke stepped slowly, his back to the wall, searching each room
that pronged from the hall with precision. He saw no foreign
shadows, heard no strange noises. When he reached a bend in the
hallway, Schanke took a breath, then swung around the corner with his
pistol raised.
Schanke let the breath whistle out slowly, crouched down, then
lifted the handheld from his belt once more. "All units. Standby. I
found a body -- no sign of the perpetrator. Does anyone have anything
to report?!"
"Vetter here. Can I come up?"
"Do you have something to share?"
"Yes!" There was a slight pause, then, "But I'd rather give my
report *privately*."
Schanke sighed at the plea in her voice. "Okay, Vetter. Get up
here and make it quick. Make a left out of the elevator."
"Copy," she replied.
"Jensen," Schanke ordered. "I want you to take Vetter's place at
the entrance, and somebody -- anybody -- call this in!"
Schanke returned his gun to its holster and re-hooked his
walkie-talkie. He always carried latex gloves in a suit pocket for just
such an occasion. He fished a pair out and slipped them over his
knuckles.
The method of murder was the same: two punctures in the throat,
death by exsanguination. He could even spot abrasions on the wrists
consistent with rope burns. Schanke stood as he heard brisk footsteps
approaching and peeked around the corner. It was Tracy, speeding to the
scene.
"So what's the secret news flash?" he asked.
Tracy gulped as she caught sight of the corpse. "Um, I chased a
suspect, and she got away."
Schanke scrunched his forehead incredulously. "Would you care to
add a couple adjectives and a few more phrases to that description?"
Tracy looked embarrassed. "Well...A woman who checked out on
the list left the building just before your alert. I thought I should
call her back, but when I did, she made a run for it. I pursued...I
mean, I had my hand *right* on her...But there was this bus...I had
to pull back to avoid being flattened by it. By the time it passed, she was
gone. I lost her."
"Did you get a visual? Can you describe her?"
"Not a good one," Tracy said apologetically. "She was dressed
in bulky clothes, and her coat had a hood. I could specify her nose, height, and
her hair, if that was its real color."
Schanke nodded. "We'll make a composite when we get back to the
precinct. You did get the name she used, right?"
"Sure. Hilda Bryant." Tracy watched him suspiciously. "Aren't you
going to yell at me for letting her get away? Make some nasty comment?"
"What is this, some kind of persecution complex? Hey, in a perfect
world, every chase would end up with the suspect falling into your arms
like they were coming home to poppa. But this is the real world,
Vetter. Every cop has a perp escape sometime, and it's not because they
did something wrong, or they're the Commissioner's daughter. Consider
the alternatives -- if you hadn't gone after the woman, you'd be
hanging out ridicule-free in the lobby, but we would have nothing in
the way of vitals to go by. On the other hand, if you'd let the bus
crush you flat as a pita, we'd still have nothing. Whoa, Vetter -- you
did good!"
She grinned in response. "I didn't think you'd be so...so decent.
Thanks. Oh, call me Tracy."
Schanke pulled another pair of gloves out of his pocket and handed
them to her. "Don't mention it." He looked sneakily from side to side,
then confided. "If anyone gives you trouble, make a list and I'll
wedgie them at recess." Tracy huffed with indignation and prepared to
protest - they weren't high-schoolers - but Schanke pre-empted her by asking,
"Did you see the crime scene report from the Rodger murder?" Tracy nodded. "Then
put on those gloves and tell me what you think."
Tracy peeped uneasily at the corpse. "Is that necessary? I mean,
you've already looked at her already. You don't need me."
"I might have missed something," Schanke insisted. "I need a
second opinion. Take a look. It's part of 'cracking the big cases', you
know," he added as an incentive.
Tracy sighed, edged towards the body, and gingerly looked it over,
her hands frozen at her sides. She turned away slightly before stating
an opinion. "The wounds are similar to the first killing."
Schanke snorted. "I need a little more input, Vetter."
She snuck another glance at the corpse while nervously picking at
the rubber fingertip of one glove. "Um, there's reddish rubbing about
the wrist and ankles like the killer tied the victim up to restrain
her. The two stab wounds over the jugular are similar, too." Tracy
looked up, waiting for another comment from Schanke.
"Anything different?"
"Everything here is just...messier, as if the killer was in a
hurry. On Patricia Rodger, it was as though the wounds were
painstakingly, delicately done, just so."
"So maybe she's more emotional, more frustrated, about reaching
her target this time," Schanke suggested.
"Maybe." Tracy gestured to the blood on the floor and looked away
again. "See how the stains are different -- with the first victim there
was one big puddle. Here, we have a puddle and that trail of dots
off to the side." Tracy stood up straight, unwilling to go further.
"Maybe she was moved by the killer whereas the other body wasn't?"
"See? You *do* know what you're doing," Schanke congratulated.
"But next time, you might try actually touching the body. Make eye
contact. Working with dead people is an important skill for a homicide
detective."
"Right." Tracy's agreement did not sound enthusiastic.
"Why don't you go downstairs, Tracy? You can show forensics the
way to the party when they arrive."
Watching her walk out of sight, Schanke returned to his inspection
of the spilled blood.
"They are two different blood types," LaCroix said.
Schanke looked up, startled. It was amazing how the guy had
noiselessly approached, whereas Tracy, half his size, had created the
racket of mating bison. He glanced back at the blotches of red dying
the industrial weave carpet, then once more at LaCroix. "How can you
tell?" Schanke mimicked. "This reclusive red dot looks type AB, the big
red splat is that pushy O?"
The vampire glided towards the body. "It is more a matter of smell
and palate." At Schanke's continued confusion, LaCroix added, "It is an
acquired skill."
"Oh," he nodded in pseudo-understanding. "So you can sniff the
victim's blood," Schanke indicated the large puddle. "From this little
bit... The killer's?" he guessed.
"Exactly."
"Oh yeah," Schanke muttered under his breath. "That's waaay
normal." He looked away, distracted by the sound of forensics filing
from the elevator. "Hey guys! Over here!" He returned his attention
towards the spot where LaCroix stood, but the radio personality was
gone. Schanke glanced about, perplexed.
Schanke moved down the hall. Tracy led the entourage, and he
pulled her aside. "Can you handle forensics and make sure they catch
everything?"
Tracy flushed with enthusiasm. "Sure."
"Make sure they get separate samples from the different stains.
One might belong to the killer."
"Really?" Tracy eyed him curiously. "So what are you going to
do?"
"I want to talk some more to the Nightcrawler." Schanke frowned.
"Where's Doctor Lambert?"
Tracy shook her head. "She didn't come. One of her assistants
showed up instead."
Schanke mentally growled, waved her on, and strolled in the
direction of the sound booth. Natalie should have been here; she knew
it was better if the same M.E. worked potentially related scenes. He
relented on his irritation, though, recalling her coughing fits a couple
nights earlier. Maybe Nat was full-blown sick.
LaCroix, enthroned once more at his console, was orating into the
microphone. Schanke shut the door and elected to lean against it rather
than grab a seat. As soon as the strains of Brahms' Violin Concerto in
D Major coursed smoothly over the airwaves, Schanke spoke.
"You certainly play a slew of string pieces, especially those with
violin cadenzas. Like last night, Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade and
more quartets than you could shake a baton at," he observed.
LaCroix, somewhat surprised at Schanke's insight, confessed, "I
have a small interest in the violin. I play when the mood strikes me,
and it makes for a pleasant diversion from Marilyn Manson."
Schanke nodded enthusiastically. "I'm kinda partial to wind
instruments, myself. Give me a lone oboe, and I'm a happy boy.
Oom-pah bands and syncopation, both sides of the fence -- that's me."
"I suppose we can arrive at a happy medium. The Polovtsian Dances,
perhaps?" At Schanke's greedy nod, LaCroix cued the appropriate disc,
then gazed at the detective approvingly. "Ready for questions." It was
not an inquiry on LaCroix's part, or an offer. The words floated
through the room as a statement, possibly a threat.
"Oh, yeah," Schanke answered innocently, "There were a few things
that I wanted to discuss."
"Be my guest. Please, do sit down."
Schanke capitulated to be polite. "Does the name Hilda Bryant mean
anything to you?"
"I cannot say I have had the pleasure of encountering anyone by
that name," LaCroix offered. "Should I have?"
"Maybe, maybe not. Our potential Desdemona used that name to get
in and out of the building."
"Ah." LaCroix's mouth splurged in a knowing smile. "And the
victim?"
"Another night tech, but you know that."
"Yes, she was an employee, one of many, quite proper, yet no
different from the others. Her name, for identification purposes, was
Michele Cassidy, I believe." He considered Schanke for a moment,
watched how his concentration attuned to each word LaCroix expressed,
then prompted insidiously, "You met Ms. Cassidy, yourself, did you
not?"
His focus suddenly blurred, Schanke started, "Huh?" He caught
himself, weaved into a more comfortable position in his chair, then
answered. "I talked to her once."
LaCroix corrected him. "You encountered her coming off the
elevator when you arrived. You joked about the message on her
shirt -- 'Husbands, can't live with them, can't shoot them.' 'My wife
would argue with you about that one,' you replied. You both laughed.
You instructed her to head home for the night. 'So long. Take care.'"
"Wow. You heard all that? Does sound travel that well here? I
thought you'd have these walls 'proofed."
"That is not my point," LaCroix gestured a ringed hand towards
Schanke. "You were the final person to witness a laughing, smiling
Michele Cassidy. I doubt that Desdemona and she exchanged jokes. What
must spin through your head at seeing someone so vibrantly alive one
minute, then lying in a pool of their own blood the next, their cold,
blind eyes gelled into sobriety?"
Schanke's countenance became stark, seeming to pulse in some sort
of battle for balance. "I won't even try to pretend that it doesn't
bother me," he began.
"How can that be? Her corpse did not seem to affect you at all:
Your examination was frank, your tone irreverent," LaCroix picked
deeper. "You do not appear bothered. Au contraire, Don, you appear
immune."
"Well, that's not true," Schanke protested. "Nobody's so dead that
they don't feel some kind of emotion for people who come and go in
their lives." LaCroix seemed to flinch slightly at this declaration.
"It's a matter of your heart and your head."
Schanke tilted forward, propping one forearm on the desk surface.
"I've had close friends die as I cradled them in my arms. Do you know
what that's like? It's like a stake through the heart. Bam! You're as
flat-lined as the corpse in front of you. A couple of quiet, cold
hearts. But that's not all...your mind's still working, still puttering
out signals. 'Didn't I play poker once with this guy?,' or 'I love this
woman with my every thought.' That's where the pain, the hate, the
grief, the loss, and the cry for revenge come from -- your mind. But if
you're smart and strong, you can tell when you could use the ache and
when it's going to tear you apart. Sometimes you simply need anger for
the bad guys and a rally for justice on the side." Schanke shrugged.
"I'm not immune to the dead, LaCroix. I just feel what I can afford to feel."
The faint passage of Brahms that underscored the conversation
altered, tumbling into its second movement. An adagio violin began a
yearning appeal that stretched through the silence, a plea draped in
some ephemeral echo.
LaCroix was still, frozen in a gaze that caused Schanke to
second-guess whether the man had even listened to his defense. He
could literally hear the seconds tick by, felt them drop like nervous
sweat as he watched those hollow eyes stare.
Then LaCroix blinked, and then tension was broken.
"Some people," he said softly. "cannot afford to feel anything."
**********************************************************************
End of Part Three
UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (04/5)
by Bonnie Rutledge
During the three days leading up to February 13th, the case had
gained considerable pressure from the media. Employees had trickled
away from work at the radio station -- not necessarily a bad thing --
Schanke had even encouraged it. But the absentees talked to reporters,
fanning the flames of public outcry. That made the higher-ups antsy,
and antsy higher-ups put Don Schanke on the defensive.
Having to defend his investigation irritated him immensely,
because it insinuated that he wasn't doing his job, and
Schanke did his job.
Frustration was making it harder to keep a grip on his foul mood.
Every lead Desdemona offered had turned into a dead end, until Schanke
was ready to pull out more of his already lonely hair.
The suspect Tracy chased through the streets had not been Hilda
Bryant, CERK employee. The real Hilda turned out to be the 64 year-old
secretary to the station manager. On the dates of the murders, Mrs.
Bryant had been in a hospital recuperating from hip-replacement
surgery.
The borrowing of the secretary's name was not an outrageous
surprise to Schanke. Desdemona had no doubt observed the station for
some time, whether as an outsider or an employee. She had known her two
victims worked around LaCroix. The location of each victim grew closer
to his sound booth, as if she worked her way to confront him. Schanke
considered Desdemona's words again.
An ominous suggestion, considering the last body had been down
the hall.
Natalie had tested the separate blood samples, and as LaCroix had
said, they were different types. Desdemona's had been type O like the
majority of CERK employees. This only narrowed the field of
concentration by a third, and Tracy's composite had ended up too vague
to single out any particular person.
Unraveling the reason behind Desdemona's blood at the scene had
been frustrating as well. If they could identify a cause or potential
location for the wound that produced it, there would be physical
evidence to search for on the remaining employees. Finding some sign of
struggle on Michele Cassidy's body would have been a bonus, but she was
clean of fibers other than the rope. Nothing under the fingernails, no bruises,
nada.
All the forensic evidence they had that pointed towards the killer's
identity was the blood type and its DNA profile. The latter at this point would
do Schanke little good unless he lined up all the remaining employees for
profiling, and it was impossible at this point to be absolutely certain
Desdemona wasn't an outsider. There was no way he'd get that many tests
approved on the shoestring budget of the Coroner's Office.
Schanke felt somewhat stymied, passing each night on his duff.
Tracy had tired quickly of guarding the station entrance as well, but
resigned herself to the fact that she was the only person capable of
potentially identifying their suspect. She'd had no bouts of
recognition so far.
There were more police patrolling each floor now, uniforms standing at
the elevator and stairwells, than there were actual workers. The floor
of the Nightcrawler's outpost still had one technician willing to be on
the job at night. A slender young man named Emile Manton, type A. He
typically worked days, but with college loans to pay, he said he needed
the overtime.
Each night, officers would see Emile tinkering with
transformers and editing commercials in one of the rooms off LaCroix's
booth as they passed, studiously unaware of anything but circuits and
tape.
Schanke had taken to spending the evenings in LaCroix's studio. He
drove there now, squalling at the top of his lungs:
"And then she looked at me with those big brown e-yes
and said: You ain't seen nothin'yet...Bowmp-bowmp...
B-b-b-baby you justain't seen nothin' yet...Here's
something that you're never gonna ffff-orget...
Yaknowyaknowyaknowyaknowyaknow you just ain't seen
n-n-n-n-nothin' yet...You need educatin'...Go to school..."
He was not listening to CERK. Nightwatch with the Nightcrawler had
another half hour before it began, so Schanke felt at liberty to spin
the dial. He had not been able to persuade LaCroix to accept police
protection during daylight hours. Any circumspect attempts to find his
address had failed. Officers who tried to tail the Nightcrawler when
his watch was over lost the man immediately. The station didn't even
have a personnel file; apparently LaCroix wasn't officially an
employee. All in all, protecting Desdemona's ultimate goal morning to
afternoon was frustrating, but Metro Police still had the nights.
More specifically, Schanke had the nights. LaCroix stated plainly
that he wasn't interested in anyone else's company. So with every
sunset Schanke headed through the avenues to the radio station, and
with every shift's end, it was home to Myra, Jen, and a fluffy pillow.
Maybe it was that tiny frisson of panic that reamed from his
nerves each night as he stepped over that sound room threshold. LaCroix
was dangerous and fascinating. He didn't exactly fall into the category
of Don's bowling buddies, he didn't encourage debates over hockey or
fishing, yet Schank had been satisfied with their talks anyhow.
There was something about the guy -- a statement from LaCroix
could spark the adrenaline zinging in his blood and accelerate his
mouth into overdrive. Schanke would catch himself thinking as his lips
spouted a reply. Go figure.
Schanke was also getting a sense of why Nick didn't hang around
this relative as much as Janette. Talking with LaCroix was a challenge
because he asked tough questions. He would attack, putting his company
on the defensive, leaving them to bare their soul to change the
subject. Considering how tight-lipped Nick was about his private life,
it was no wonder Schanke never saw LaCroix at the loft.
Schanke found himself doing most of the talking, but he didn't
mind. He had bragged to Nat before that LaCroix and he had established
a rapport. Now he actually believed these words. It was surprising the
things they had in common. Like the night before...
"Hey, LaCroix -- ever had kids?" Schanke asked distractedly.
LaCroix did not respond right away. Schanke glanced at him,
noticing one of those thinking stares the guy slipped into now and
then. He could almost hear a switch click as the full force of
LaCroix's attention focused on him again.
"A daughter," he allowed.
"Me too! I guess I don't have to tell you how hard it is to raise
a kid."
"Child-rearing has its obstacles," LaCroix agreed. "And its
rewards."
Schanke huffed in appreciation. "I'll say," Then his face lifted
in a dreamy smile. "But there's nothing like their first words, their
first steps..."
"The anger, the betrayal at their first lie, their first
punishment..."added LaCroix cynically.
Schanke sighed. "Yeah, that too. Y'know, a child is supposed to be
a mixture of parts from both parents: your eyes, her face, her smile,
your bowling arm...But it's not so easy to understand their behavior."
"What is difficult to understand? It is a simple fact, despite our
distaste at considering the source. A child claims foul temperament
from their father just as surely as fair. They witness his actions over
the years and develop blemishes as a result. We choose to espy the
virtuous qualities first, for the evil stings too deeply."
Schanke looked ready to protest, but capitulated. "What
can I say, LaCroix? You're right. Do you remember the other night when
Myra called your show?" The Nightcrawler nodded. "She wanted to tell me about
our daughter, Jen. Myra'd gone to the store for an hour...left Jenny there
alone...when she got back, Myra caught Jen playing with a pistol I keep
in the house...I mean -- Christ! What was the kid thinking? She's only
nine years old -- she could have wound up shooting -- no, *killing* someone
else, not to mention losing her own head." LaCroix grunted in
agreement with that statement.
"So I tell Myra to lock the gun away somewhere and throw away the
key. She put it in with the silver." Schanke shook his head. "So the
next morning I'm at the locksmith's retrieving the pistol *and* the
silver, thinking 'Jen's grounded three days short of forever, now
what?' The kid wouldn't have been messing with a loaded weapon if
I hadn't brought it into the house. Even though the gun was there, Jen
might not have been so curious about it if I wasn't a cop. She sees me
leave for work every afternoon, strapped with a sidearm. I picture
Jen's mind working -- if guns are so bad, why does my dad carry one?"
"'The sins of the fathers' and so on..." LaCroix echoed. "We are
our children's fiercest protectors, and yet their worst enemies. Such a
fiendish irony to bear."
"Yeah," Schanke commiserated wholeheartedly. "I brought home some
video footage we had on file of kids who'd hurt themselves or others in
just Jen's situation. I showed it to her, discussed the films, gun
safety, whatever I could think of...she was shook up. Myra says Jenny's
having nightmares now...So did I do the right thing, playing cruel to
be kind?"
"What other way is there? To let your daughter continue unchecked,
to endure, to risk the threat again and again?" countered LaCroix.
"Tell me. Do you consider your child's freedom important?"
Schanke pondered the question, then offered his opinion with
certainty. "In most situations, sure. But if their behavior is only
going to hurt them later on, you gotta step in and stop it. I'd protect
a kid from themself."
"So do I, Don," LaCroix murmured in content. "So do I."
Schanke mused as he flipped through the CERK station
entrance one more time,
Tracy Vetter motioned for his attention as he strolled past.
"Detective Schanke?" She quizzically eyed her list of people allowed to enter
the building, now with photo I.D. required. "I cross-checked
these names against the medical report of CERK employees. Three names
on the list aren't on the chart, besides that Nightcrawler guy, I mean."
Schanke frowned. "You got the list from personnel, right?" Tracy
nodded. "So if they don't work for CERK, who are they? Lemme make a
phone call."
***************************************************************
End of Part Four
UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (05/5)
by Bonnie Rutledge
He sensed when she entered the booth, but made no
acknowledgment, preferring to force her to beg for his attention. She
did that quite well. She had a guest -- an unwilling one by all
perceptions. Two rapid heartbeats, desperately rhythmic, sang to his
ears.
"I'm here, Nightcrawler," she said. "Time to meet your
biggest fan."
LaCroix spun his chair around gradually, returning the flash of
her wild eyes with a dispassionate stare. "Desdemona. The name
doesn't really suit you, does it?"
She shifted her weight between her rubber soles, jerked the
gagged figure she supported closer to her chest, then used one
knife-wielding hand to tug down her apron. "It does. It does." Her
blade glinted as she pressed it close to her victim's throat once
more. "Everyone dies because of her, you know. Every time he doesn't
listen, he doesn't pay *attention* to her, but listens to the lies
and pretenses, doesn't see through the facade, doesn't see how she
loves him." Desdemona's lips drew back in a murderous snarl. "Someone
dies!" She slanted the knife towards her, pulling the blade deep and
horizontally, trilling a happy sigh as she felt the warmth of the
blood course over her palm. The gash pulsed once, twice, then she let
the body slide to a heap on the floor. "Poor Emile...No more songs
will dance in his ears," she crowed like a child, then suddenly
turned fierce. "Did you taste my blood?"
"I perceived it would be a trifle...stale."
Desdemona reared a foot back, kicking Emile's head solidly.
"WHY?!" She spit out an exasperated sigh at LaCroix's raised brows,
then stomped to the spare chair. She sat stiff and lady-like,
flicking the bloody knife tip with her thumbnail. "I suppose I will
have to explain *everything*."
"Oh, do, my dear. I am certain your explanation will be most
diverting."
"Your voice called out to me. You know that it did. 'I want all
of you to love me,' you whispered. I listened. 'I love you all,' you
promised. I heard. I knew that we were meant for each other, but I
wanted to know more than just the words that sang through the
night...Those fantastic stories of betrayal, guilt, and greed. I had
to get closer." Desdemona pursed her lips, savoring the memories,
continuing her tale with anticipation. "I watched you from far, far
away. Binoculars and a good telescope can do wonders," she bragged.
"I saw you, discovered what you are -- a vampire. The rest of the play seemed so
clear. I've done my part, now you must do yours."
She ran the knife luxuriously down an index finger, closing her
eyes in satisfaction as the flesh split open. Then her lips snapped
wide apart, her vision appearing clear and lucid. "Kill me."
LaCroix laughed. "You really have provided me with some excellent
entertainment, my dear, but the answer is 'no'."
Desdemona had returned his humor with a smile until the final
word. Her face hardened into a mask. "No? You can't mean that. I
have alluded to what you are over the radio, left signs on the
victims...You have to kill me -- I'm causing suspicion with the police -"
"The police," interrupted LaCroix, "see nothing in your actions
but the mad, dark fantasies of a criminal. When they find you, and
they will, you will be dead. What was the argument you used?...Ah
yes, everyone dies because of Desdemona. If you want this play to
reach its proper conclusion, you know what you must do."
Her eyes widened, and she whimpered a faint protest. "No."
"Yes," he insisted. "You chose the name, my dear. You must
finish the part."
She scrambled from the chair, dropping the knife into her apron
pocket and yanking off her bloody sweater. "I am your Desdemona. I'll
prove it." Then she ran from the room.
********************************************************************
Schanke snapped off his phone with undue force. "Housekeeping.
The extra three names are for the janitors, custodial engineers,
whatever they call them, that CERK leases from another company. Damn!
We should have thought of that!"
Tracy studied the paper. "Only one of the three is a woman, and
she's signed in today."
"When?"
"It says four o'clock. Right before I arrived. Her name is Maureen
Eddsane. You want to follow it up?"
"Right away. Call Industrial Cleaning of Toronto -- squeeze her
address out of them, and, if you're a genius, her blood type." Schanke
seized his receiver to demand, "Attention all units, we have another
suspect. Sweep all floors for a woman in custodial type clothing.
Goes by the name Maureen Eddsane. Try 'Mo' for short. Copy?" All floors
responded except the top one. LaCroix's. Schanke headed for the stairs. "While
you're on the phone, Vetter, how 'bout calling for some backup?"
He took the steps two by two, gun in hand and on guard for
surprises. He breathed hard by the third floor, admitting to himself
that too much souvlaki was not always a good thing. He pushed higher, freezing
at the landing halfway to the last floor. A leg, clad in familiar police blues,
hung limply down the final flight. Schanke stalked the remaining stairs
carefully, checked the man's pulse and found no sign of life. A hypodermic
sprouted from the man's neck, and there was an overwhelming stench of bleach.
Schanke moved into the hall, recognized the tint of old blood on
the carpet, then turned the corner. Another body, another officer. His
anger flared, but he pushed it to the back of his mind, stalking the
final path to the booth, his firearm aimed and ready to fire.
LaCroix waited, sending him that cold, blue gaze that had greeted Schanke
the first time he'd entered this office. LaCroix gestured to the fallen
Emile. "You've missed the finale, I'm afraid. It was a spectacular performance."
"Desdemona?" Schanke clipped.
"Escaped. Fifteen minutes ago. She was a maid. Can you imagine
someone who cleans for an occupation making such a sloppy mess?"
"You just sat there and watched." Schanke's voice was harsh,
filled with a bitter aftertaste as he made the statement.
"Should I have placed myself in jeopardy? Surely you aren't
suggesting that, Detective?"
"I'm suggesting you enjoyed the result of what Desdemona did, and you want
me to know it. But what can I do? On paper, you're the victim." Schanke turned
to leave.
"How quiet and cold is your heart now, Don?" LaCroix taunted.
The door slammed, and the vampire leaned back in amusement. It
was too enjoyable. The mortal had actually dared to sneer at him.
This dance with Detective Don Schanke had hardly begun.
*******************************************************************
Schanke quickly found Desdemona's path of escape. He found an
open window marked in bloodstains. A glance outside revealed the fire
escape was within reach. He had been cocky enough to think that the
officers on guard could have prevented someone using this ladder as a
retreat. He had been wrong.
He took the elevator down, briefed the officers on the
situation, and called the three murders in to the station. Tracy
quietly offered him a slip of paper with Mo Eddsane's address. He looked at the
blonde detective's young, earnest face, waiting patiently for the next step.
"You wanna ride shotgun, Vetter?"
She answered firmly. "Yes, I do."
"Well, let's move on out."
Desdemona lived in an apartment close by. Schank and Tracy took
position on either side of the door. Schanke slammed his fist against
it repeatedly, bellowing, "Metro Police! Open up!" No sound replied.
Schanke backed up and kicked at the door with all his might. It
was made of metal, but the door casting was fabricated of less sturdy stuff, and
it was old. The hinges gave in a groan, and after a heavy crash the entrance
tore wide open.
They proceeded again with caution, covering each other, but found
that it was unnecessary. Slack on her mattress, the figure of
Desdemona, nee Maureen Eddsane, imitated sleep. The only blemish was the plastic
bag sealed over her head with duct tape. The slick, transparent surface
clung to her nostrils and open mouth, highlighting her stillness in stark
relief.
"She suffocated herself," Tracy realized in shock before dizzily
backing away.
Schanke solemnly pulled the bedspread up, covering the body as
if bringing the curtain down on the case. "Not wisely, but too well."
******************************************************************
Valentine's Day was sunny and full of promise. Don Schanke
arrived at the Ninety-Sixth precinct for an early shift since he'd
planned the night off to romance Myra. It was time to wrap up the
Desdemona case and put it behind him.
Tracy was placing a stack of papers in order at his desk as he
approached. She looked up with a cheerful smile, then offered the
mound of forms to him with pride. "I went ahead and completed all the
paperwork on the case for you. I figured you'd have private plans
today and all."
Schanke looked down with budding joy. "Desdemona's all done? You
are fantastic, Vetter!"
Tracy beamed. "There's really no reason for you to hang around,
so...since Detective Knight is coming back tomorrow...I guess I'm out
of here. I just wanted to say thank you...for letting me do the job."
Schanke shook her hand. "You know what, Tracy?"
"What?"
"Someday, you're gonna make some lucky cop a hell of a fine
partner."
Tracy glowed with respect. "I believe you."
They heard the sound of some snickering across the room, and
both detectives turned to the source. Two officers, Jensen and
Donahue, snuck glances their way, exchanged whispers, and chortled.
Schanke and Tracy turned back around.
Tracy sent Schank an impish look, then gestured with her thumb
at the men behind them. "Wedgie," she mouthed.
Schanke rubbed his hands together, giving her a wink. "Time for
the Don to go to work."
*******************************************************************
"Ah! This night for love," the jubilant Nightwatch began. "What a
monstrous creation it is, full of fancy and grace, and all those
bloody hearts lined up for the feast. Tonight I come to you as
Othello, a dark man of violence, cursing the fair Desdemona...
'Yet I'll not shed her blood;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light,
and then put out the light...'
I am the Nightcrawler, and I still love you all."
********************************************************************
End of Part Five
End of "Quiet, Cold Heart"
Did you catch all the wacky 'Othello' bits?
Story comments/feedback to: br1035@ix.netcom.com
(
geocities.com/~br1035)