Silent Crime Read online

  He didn’t really give a shit about who her father was. All he wanted was for her to shut her pie hole, and when her slice was placed in front of her two seconds later, she wasted no time digging in. Thank God.

  But before she could finish her next bite, Jake’s phone rang. He looked down to see the boss was calling yet again. He answered. “Please tell me you’re not sending me to Stevens County again.” Jake didn’t think he could survive the drive with Jo Chatter Box in the seat beside him.

  “No,” said O’Connor. “This is local. Too close for comfort, actually, and it just got called in. Tune into dispatch for the rest, but get there fast.” The line went dead, and Jake got to his feet. “Come on. It’s go time.”

  She crammed the last bite of pie into her mouth and quickly washed it down with the rest of her coffee. “I’m ready.” She went toward the counter, but Jake grabbed her arm.

  “Put it on the tab, Ruth Anne!”

  As they walked out the door, the waitress called out. “Sure thing, Jake.”

  Driving across town, he put his foot on the gas, showing Jo everything that his car was made of. As he finally arrived at their destination, he turned into a high-end neighborhood on the edge of the woods to find a house that looked like it belonged on a cracker box somewhere. The fancy cottage-style home was lit up enough to appreciate the beautiful landscaping and the cobblestone drive that led to the crime scene.

  He pulled over to the side of the road, not wanting to get blocked in.

  “I love this house,” said Jo. “It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s hope the inside doesn’t look like a horror movie.” He got out of the car, and she followed, trying hard to keep on his heels.

  One of Jake’s fellow officers and friends, Sam Finch, met him at the door. “It’s bad in there. I’ve never seen anything like it. Some sick fuck did this.”

  Jake didn’t like the sound of that. A huge case might mean he’d have to stick around a lot longer. “Has forensics made it in?”

  “No. We’re first on. I told the chief to get you here faster with a little head start. They’re probably on their way though.”

  “Who called it in?” Jake asked, stepping around him.

  Sam took a deep breath like he didn’t want to go back inside the house. “Anonymous call. But that’s not the strangest thing. Wait until you see.” He turned to Jo and raised his hand, putting it on her shoulder. “Hold up, ma’am. I’m afraid you’ll want to stay out here. It’s a bloodbath in there.”

  Jo turned her eyes to his hand and then lifted her chin. For a moment, Jake thought she was about to put Sam in his place. “I appreciate your chivalry, but I’m Officer Jo Calloway,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’ll soon be replacing Detective Thomas here, so please excuse me.”

  “My apologies,” said Sam, stepping aside. He gave Jake a scolding look. “Replacing? You mean you’re leaving the department? Are you moving?”

  He may have forgotten to tell a few of his friends that he wasn’t going to be on the force anymore. “I can’t talk about it now, Sam. I’ve got to go to work.” He hurried into the house and stopped dead in his tracks as he looked over to the victim, who still dangled by his neck from one of the thick, wooden beams of his ceiling. There was blood everywhere, and the poor bastard had been stabbed multiple times. “Holy fuck.”

  Sam came in behind Jake. “I told you it was a sight.”

  Jake turned around to see Jo looking at the wall next to the man, and Jake’s eyes followed, seeing the wild display which looked like some kind of crazy art.

  “What the hell is this?” She shook her head. “I mean, I know what it is, but I can’t believe I’m seeing it.”

  “Hangman,” said Sam. “The man’s dog is also dead by the backdoor. I think that’s where the asshole got in.”

  While Jo gave a sympathetic moan about the dog, Jake had other things on his mind. “What’s hangman?” He had never heard of it before, and apparently, he was in the minority.

  “Don’t tell me you never played it.” Jo looked at him like he had just told her he’d never eaten breakfast cereal. “It’s a popular game. Like tic-tac-toe, you don’t need anything but a pencil and paper.”

  “In this case, blood and a blank wall,” said Jake. “Consider me a fast learner.”

  Jo walked over to the wall, carefully minding any drops of blood on the floor. “You see, you start off the game with a word. And you make a blank for each letter of that word, and then the opponent guesses. This one was a long one. He didn’t stand a chance.”

  “In this case, the victim guesses,” he said, still following along. “This is just like Wheel of Fortune.”

  Her eyes lit with surprise. “Right. But every time you guess wrong, you draw another piece of the little man. First, the head.” She pointed to the circle drawn in blood as if she were a teacher standing in front of a chalkboard. “Then the long line of the body, and then each arm, and each leg until you are hanged. Game over.”

  “So, you have six chances.” Again, Jake wasn’t asking, but Jo seemed pleased that she knew something he didn’t or, at least, something he hadn’t Googled yet.

  “Right!” she said, seeming pleased. “You are a quick learner.” Jake wasn’t sure, but he detected a hint of sarcasm for the first time from Jo. “So now, we just have to figure out the word. I’m sure it’s a clue of some kind.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Jake wasn’t as impressed as everyone else that the killer had so much fun with the man’s death that he’d made it into a fucking game. “Let’s start getting some of our own photos, and we’ll figure it out when this poor bastard isn’t hanging from the ceiling.” He had yet to see the man’s face, who was turned toward the opposite wall.

  When he walked around to get a look at him, he found that one of his eyes had popped out. It dangled by a piece of meaty flesh. “What the fuck?” That wasn’t helping with the identification. He had to look around the room and finally found the man’s wallet sitting on the table next to a photograph of him and his dog on a much happier occasion.

  The man’s winning smile and perfectly combed hero hair gave him away. “I know you,” Jake said to the framed photograph before opening the wallet. His face was one Jake had seen at the station multiple times a week. “Elliot Gaines.”

  “Elliot Gaines,” said Sam, who looked like he couldn’t believe it.

  “More like Elliot Loses,” said another officer, a rookie who had been hanging out in the kitchen. “I think he shit his pants.”

  Jake didn’t like anyone making a mockery of the dead. “This isn’t a joke. Have a little respect.” He stared at the young officer who was immediately apologetic.

  Sam shook his head. “Damn, the house was listed under Marvin Drake. I just assumed it was him.”

  “It’s an honest mistake,” said Jo.

  “Yeah, that’s probably a landlord, relative, or lover,” said Jake. “Who knows?”

  “Lover?” asked the rookie. “Are you saying he’s gay?”

  “For fuck’s sake. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m saying we don’t know who this Marvin person is. But just because there’s a dead man in a house, it doesn’t have to be the homeowner. It’s best not to assume.”

  The young officer shrank a little and then walked outside as Jo and Sam exchanged a look that Jake didn’t miss. They thought he was being too serious, and maybe they were right, but he was sick to death of all the killing. No one took the value of life seriously anymore.

  “You know him?” asked Jo. She had her phone out, snapping photos of the wall.

  “He’s a prosecutor.” Jake turned his attention back to the photograph. “Man, what the hell happened to you?”

  Chapter 3

  Elliot

  Elliot glanced in his rearview mirror and brushed his fingers through his hair, causing his dried hair gel to loosen up a bit. He had spent hours getting it right for the public eye, but since he was on hi
s way home, it was time to cut the hero act and relax a bit.

  With no family waiting at home anymore, he couldn’t wait to curl up with his dog and a nice glass of bourbon. He’d kick back in his favorite chair and then turn on another episode of Ru Paul’s Drag Race. Something totally fascinated him about the show, even though he could never quite understand the infatuation some men had with dressing like women.

  He’d never been the least bit interested in his ex’s clothes, and he guessed that was a good thing since their relationship had turned so ugly in the end. They didn’t need anything else to fight about. He should have known it was doomed from the start, with him unable to share his tastes with her.

  His dog had never judged him for bringing the occasional man home for a little experimental fun. Not that he was gay. No, he’d never call himself that or be seen in public with another man for more than a game of golf or to have a beer and talk about sports. It gave him a certain amount of pleasure to keep his dirty little secret all to himself.

  He drove his Benz across town to the quiet neighborhood that he’d only moved into months before. It had taken him a year to secure it after his ex had taken him to the cleaners, but it had been worth the wait. Thankfully, Marvin Drake, one of his grandfather’s best friends had passed away, and the place had become available through the man’s grandson, Lonnie Drake, who had inherited everything. He’d also been one of Elliot’s first fans, the younger man having a crush on him since they were kids together.

  He’d had to christen a few rooms with him, but as long as he topped, he was good with it. One warm, wet hole was as good as the next to him. And he could always close his eyes and pretend, especially if it gave him a chance to live in one of the better neighborhoods in the city.

  Pulling into the drive, he hit the button on his garage door opener. He pulled in, stopping when the tennis ball he’d hung hit his windshield, and he turned off the car.

  Usually, his dog was already scratching at the door and eager for him to open it, but not today. He hoped the little shit hadn’t eaten another pair of his shoes, and as he unlocked the door, he tried to remember if he’d closed his bedroom door that morning.

  “Hijinks?” he called to the golden retriever who had been his best friend and closest companion for the past four years. He’d been with him through his marriage, the birth of his son, and the divorce. “Jinks, if you’re up to no good, I swear you’re a goner. And if you eat my Gucci loafers, I’m having your teeth pulled.” He had named the little mongrel Hijinks because he’d earned it as a pup, but lately, he had grown into a fine dog, friendly and loyal. Which was more than he could say about most other people he knew.

  He pushed the door open and walked inside, looking across the kitchen bar to the living room. “Jinks?” He listened for the animal but heard nothing.

  The house felt empty and odd, like something was out of place. Elliot got a bad feeling that something had happened to his four-legged friend. He stepped around the kitchen counter and then turned to go down the hall to the back door. That was where he saw him, lying lifeless on the floor in a puddle of blood, his golden hair orange from the stain.

  Elliot screamed. He started for the dog but stopped in his tracks, not knowing if whoever had done it was still in the house or not. He put his hand over his mouth, and while every nerve in his body screamed for him to get out of the house, he turned and ran right into a tall, dark figure who hit him in the neck.

  He stumbled back to see a hypodermic needle in the man’s hand, and he fell on the floor, landing just inches away from Jinks.

  Sometime later, Elliot came to, his head not only spinning but throbbing with pain. He opened his eyes, unable to focus, but seeing a tall, menacing figure blocking the light from the front window. “Help me,” he said as he opened his eyes and found himself sitting in a chair, his shirt gone.

  Suddenly, the person forced a rope around his neck. “On your feet. Stand on the chair.” The voice was deep and commanding.

  “What? I’m dizzy. Take my money, my car. It’s yours.” His weak voice was scratchy, and his neck felt like it was still on fire from whatever had been injected there. He opened his eyes and tried to focus, seeing a man dressed all in black with heavy black work boots and a black hood obscuring his face.

  “Stand. On. The. Chair.” The mystery man couldn’t be any clearer about his wishes.

  Elliot wondered if this was some kind of revenge thing. Had someone heard about his lifestyle, how he used the men and blackmailed them to get the things he wanted? Or maybe it was about his work, how he’d taken bribes to misrepresent cases, and done dirty dealings to get his guilty clients less jail time. Whatever had gotten him ahead had been his focus in life, but that didn’t make him unlike others, did it? Everyone was out for themselves in this dog-eat-dog world.

  “I’ve got a lot of money,” he said. “I can pay you, fuck you, whatever you want.” He wondered if it was some kind of sick game that Lonnie wanted to play. They’d talked about some of their darker fantasies, and Lonnie had always wanted to be tied up and forced. While Elliot didn’t share the same interests, he hadn’t judged the man based on his preferences. As long as Lonnie agreed to keep his secrets, he’d keep Lonnie’s.

  Suddenly, the rope tightened, and the man came over and snatched Elliot from the chair, manhandling him like he was nothing but a ragdoll. After some force, he found himself getting pulled up onto the chair.

  “Okay, okay,” he said as the rope bit into his skin. On shaky legs, he stood on the chair. “Please. Please let me go.”

  The man tightened the slack in the rope. “Oh, you’re not going free. But if you play along, I might give you a quick death like your little Jinks out there. Refuse to play, and I’m going to make it slow and painful.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Let’s get started.” The man held up a knife and sliced it quickly across Elliot’s chest. As the blood trickled, his attacker reached up and dug his gloved hand into the wound. Elliot screamed out.

  The man walked over to the nearest wall, where Elliot had meant to hang his grandmother’s cuckoo clock. He brought his bloody fingers to the wall and drew a long vertical line, which he then made into an upside-down “T” by adding a base, but more like a reversed “1” as he added another line to the top.

  Elliot shivered, not knowing what kind of sick joke this was or what the game was, but it looked familiar. As the hooded man stepped over to take more blood and quietly drew lines on the wall, Elliot knew what kind of game the man wanted to play.

  “Hangman,” he whispered, thinking how he had always been good at that game. The man glanced over his shoulder as if Elliot had spoken his name, and suddenly, his hood made sense. He was the executioner, the hangman.

  He turned back to his task, but as Hangman continued making dash after dash—soon ten, then more—Elliot couldn’t help but worry that he’d never make it out of this alive, and he imagined all the horrible things the man would do to him if he didn’t guess things right.

  After the man had seventeen lines, he turned to Elliot. “Now, you’re going to give me a letter. And if you’re right, I mark it down, and if you’re wrong, I stab you.”

  “E,” said Elliot, confident that the letter E was bound to be in a large word.

  “Good for you.” Hangman dug into the wound on his chest and then turned to mark three Es on the wall.

  Elliot realized, right or wrong, it was going to hurt. “C,” he said, not really trying. It was no use. The man wasn’t going to let him go. The faster he got this over with, the better.

  Hangman shook his head and clicked his tongue. Then without a word, he reached out and stuck the knife into Elliot’s arm. He gathered the fresh blood and drew a circle for the figure’s head.

  Elliot’s piercing scream rattled his own ears, and his throat felt like it was on fire. “B,” he screamed, desperate to be put out of his misery. But the man shook his head again, stabbing him in the shoulder.

&nb
sp; “You’re not even trying,” the Hangman taunted as he drew a line down from the circle.

  “I’m not playing your fucking game anymore, Hangman,” said Elliot. He was not about to go out like a little bitch, letting the Hangman have his fun with him. “Kill me now, you fucker. Whatever I did to you, you deserved it.” He thought of his son and how he’d never see the child grow up. There was a time when that sounded best for the child, but all he wanted was to see his face again. He couldn’t focus.

  “Pick another letter,” said the Hangman. “Before your next wound isn’t so superficial.”

  “S,” Elliot hissed out the letter. He hated the man. He hoped that whatever happened, he’d be caught and locked away until he rotted.

  “See how easy it is just to play along? Look at the word. You know it well.”

  Elliot could only focus on the pain as the Hangman dug his fingers into his wounds, soaking them in blood to write the letter in the space. Elliot’s vision clouded with the sweat that dripped down into his eyes. He rattled off another letter, “L.”

  The man struck out, hitting him in the gut, and the pain was so terrible that Elliot couldn’t take it anymore. He sagged against the rope, his face turning red from the pressure. The Hangman drew another line on the figure.

  “G,” Elliot said. Maybe the long word ended with “ING”. Not that he really gave a fuck at this point. He was just calling letters out as he grew weaker from blood loss. But he tried to stay on his feet. Thankfully, the chair was on solid, level ground, and it did not wobble beneath him. But then, just as quickly as he’d yelled out the next letter, the Hangman struck him again, this time aiming for his ribs.

  Elliot felt the knife as it sliced against his bones, and he fought hard not to pass out. The knife hadn’t gone nearly as deep as he thought it had, or at least, that was what he told himself. He didn’t want to look. The figure on the wall now had a head, body, and two arms.