Shadow of Vengeance Read online

  SHADOW OF VENGEANCE

  By

  KRISTINE MASON

  Copyright © 2013 Kristine Mason

  All rights reserved.

  For my dad, Ron.

  I could get all flowery and wordy. Thank you for teaching me to work hard and never give up on my dreams. Thank you for teaching me the value of family, of right and wrong. I could go on and on about how much you mean to me, and that without you in this world life would never be the same. But because you and I are so much alike, I know you’d prefer if I kept it simple. So…

  I love you, Dad. This book is for you.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Jamie Denton, Christy Esau and Mary Ann Chulick for their help with this book. Another big thanks to my cover artist Kim Van Meter, KD Designs.

  I also want to thank Nikki Erickson, Jenny Gyurky, Renee Seefeldt and Sunny Thompson. You ladies were an enormous help to me while writing this book. Knowing how important this book was to me and how limited I am with time, you took care of my kids and gave me the chance to write. Your friendship and encouragement means the world to me.

  Prologue

  “Who did you piss off?”

  Detroit homicide detective Nick Merretti looked at the dead man lying on the bed in a pool of blood. After twenty-eight years on the force, with only two left until retirement, he’d thought he’d seen it all. Until today.

  “We got any ID?” he asked no one in particular, but after years of experience knew one of the half dozen cops or CSI techs would give him an answer.

  “Nothing,” a tech called from across the shitty, no-tell motel room. “No wallet, jewelry, clothes. No prints either. Whoever did this, cleaned up after themselves.”

  “Yeah, well, they still made one hell of a mess.” From the opposite side of the bed, Medical Examiner, Joyce Wilson, leaned over the victim, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Nick hadn’t either, and he’d seen some fucked up shit. “Time of death?” he asked.

  “I’ll have a more concrete time once I do the autopsy, but best guess?” Joyce looked at the dainty watch on her thick wrist as if it had the answer. “Twenty-four to thirty-six hours ago.”

  “According to the owner, the cleaning lady found him,” his partner, Leon Smith, said as he entered the motel room. Leon looked at the body and winced. “That’s fucked up.” He looked to Joyce. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

  “No worries, Detective.” She tossed Leon a pair of gloves. “You’re right. It’s totally fucked up. And I’m the one who gets to spend all kinds of time with him. Lucky me.”

  Leon held up the gloves. “What do you want me to do with these?”

  His partner had only been with Homicide for six months and had some growing to do. “Put them on and do whatever Joyce asks.”

  “Okay,” the ME began, and gently touched the dead man’s head. “Looks as if he was bludgeoned with…” She glanced at the lamp lying haphazardly on the filthy carpet. “Likely the lamp.”

  Nick nodded to the nearest CSI tech, and asked him to check the lamp for any evidence. “What do you think was used on his face?”

  She shrugged. “I’m assuming some sort of acid. Look at the way the skin melted.”

  Swallowing down the bile that had been burning his throat from the moment he walked into the room, he stared at the dead man’s face—or what was left of it. The acid, or whatever had been used, had practically liquefied the man’s skin, leaving behind only bits of reddish brown flesh and tufts of brown hair over the partially exposed skull. “I’m assuming the acid took care of the eyes.”

  After righting the dead man’s head, Joyce checked the eye sockets. “Acid would do that, and probably did. But look.” She pointed a Latex-gloved finger to the cavity. “See these grooves here?” she asked. “Again, I’ll know more during the autopsy, but those grooves are consistent with knife marks.” She pointed to the other eye socket. “They’re here, too.”

  “You’re saying he was stabbed in the eyes?” Leon’s caramel face grew ashen to the point where Nick wondered if his partner would lose his lunch. “What about his teeth? Do you think he wore dentures?”

  Joyce examined the man’s mouth, dipping a finger inside and along the area where gums and teeth should have been. “Most of his gums were destroyed by the acid, but based on some of the holes I can feel where his back molars were, I’m thinking they were ripped from his head.”

  Nick rubbed the back of his hand along his chin, and glanced at the man’s torso, where it looked as if he’d been stabbed dozens of times. “Total overkill,” he said. “In every sense of the word.”

  “No doubt he suffered.” Joyce also looked to the deep, jagged slices tattooing the man’s chest and stomach. “Someone thought he deserved it.”

  “I don’t know,” Leon said, his voice filled with dread and anguish. “Slicing off a man’s dick, sorry, I mean penis is…is…”

  “Personal,” Nick finished.

  Joyce met his gaze. “Based on the amount of blood, I’d say it was done while he was still alive.” She moved to the end of the bed. “I have a gut feeling my findings will prove he was alive during most, if not all of this.” She picked up the man’s gnarled, partially skeletonized foot. “Looks like acid was dumped on his feet, too.”

  “Let’s roll him,” Nick suggested. “I want to see his hands and back.” They were screwed. No ID, no recognizable facial features, and no teeth meant no dental records. They wouldn’t have been able to run a footprint through AFIS like they could with a fingerprint. But just like fingerprints, a footprint was unique to each individual.

  “Put those gloves to work, Leon,” Joyce said. “Help me roll him on his side. Good, now hold him steady.”

  Leon stood across the bed, his head turned to the side and his face contorted in a deep grimace as he held the victim’s bloodied shoulder and hip. “Don’t take too long.” His partner’s shoulders lurched and his Adam’s apple bobbed as if he fought to keep from vomiting. “I…I don’t know how long I can do this.”

  Ignoring Leon, Nick viewed the dead man’s backside. His hands had been tied behind him, the flesh around the fingers melted away, leaving behind nothing but bone. Small puncture wounds, likely from the force of a knife as it had been gouged into the victim’s torso over and over, lined his lower back. He glanced to the man’s shoulder blade, where a large chunk of skin had been removed. Swearing, he stepped away and ran a hand over his bald spot.

  Two more years. That’s all he had left. Two more years of dead bodies.

  When he glanced back toward the bed, Leon had just stepped away from the victim. “Get some air,” Nick told his partner. Once Leon left the room, he turned to Joyce. “They took his tattoo.”

  “That was my first thought.” She sent him a wry smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Glad you waited until Leon set the vic back down before you brought it up. I really didn’t want a mutilated corpse on my head.”

  “Right.” He propped a hand on his hip, and stared at the dead man. “She made sure nothing was left to ID this guy.”

  “She?” Joyce removed her gloves. “How can you be so sure? You’re obviously the detective here, but based on this motel, based on some of the prostitutes I saw when I was coming in, I figured this was a pimp putting a john in his place.”

  “I’ve had my share of run ins with plenty of pimps.” He shook his head. “They might beat the hell out of a john who did one of their girls wrong.” He shrugged. “They might even stab him. But acid? Ripping teeth from his head? This wasn’t a pimp.” He glanced at the mutilated genitalia and the gouged eyes. “This was a woman. This was personal. It was also premeditated.”

  “Maybe. But, and I’m gu
essing here, the vic is about six foot two and probably one ninety to two hundred pounds. Unless he was drugged or highly intoxicated, I can’t see a woman capable of subduing him, then mutilating him while he was still alive.”

  “She didn’t drug him.” With a tired sigh, he moved toward the door, then glanced over his shoulder at the disfigured corpse. “She wanted him coherent…for every single slice.”

  Chapter 1

  MONDAY

  Eighteen months later…

  Rachel Davis stared at the ringing cell phone, at the Michigan area code. Panic clamped her heart and tightened her chest. Her brother, Sean, lived in Michigan, but only called her from his cell phone, which used a Chicago area code. She glanced at the alarm clock beside her bed. He also never called her at six in the morning. Hoping something had happened to Sean’s phone and he was calling from the dormitory landline, she quickly answered.

  “Rachel Davis?”

  Not Sean.

  Panic morphed into utter dread. “Yes, who is this?”

  “Sheriff Jake Tyler. Dixon County, Michigan.”

  Mouth dry, mind racing, she reached into the nightstand drawer and grabbed a pencil. “Why are you calling, Sheriff?”

  Please let Sean be okay.

  “It’s about your brother.”

  She closed her eyes. Not caring that she’d just finished her hair and make-up, or that she was dressed for work in a freshly laundered suit, she slumped onto the bed and curled into the fetal position. Sean was her only family. Whatever news the sheriff was about to give her, she’d take it lying down. Fainting onto the hardwood floor would hurt like a bitch.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Is Sean…?” She couldn’t say the words. Hurt. Missing. Dead.

  “Your brother is at Dixon Medical Center. He’s been beaten, but the doc working on him says he’ll recover without issue.”

  Anger suddenly surged through her veins. She shot off the bed. “Beaten? When did this happen? Where? At the university?”

  Although she’d tried to encourage Sean to remain in Chicago and attend Northwestern, he’d chosen Wexman University, in northwest Michigan, instead. He’d liked the idea of going to a small school, loved the campus, the engineering program and the fat scholarship the school had awarded him for his academics. While she’d respected his wishes, and the scholarship had definitely been a Godsend considering she was paying for his education, she still wished he’d stayed closer to home. She loved his company and missed seeing his face on a daily basis.

  Now he was lying in a hospital bed.

  “Actually, we’re not sure where the beating took place. The doc thinks, based on the way Sean’s wounds have healed, that your brother was hurt sometime Saturday.”

  “Saturday?” Pinching the pencil between her fingers, she paced the bedroom. “In case you’re not aware, Sheriff, it’s Monday.”

  “I’m fully aware of the day,” he replied, his tone holding a hint of irritation. “But your brother wasn’t found until last night around midnight. He had no ID and was considered a John Doe until a couple of hours ago.”

  Rachel stopped pacing and snatched the picture frame off the dresser. Staring at the photograph of her and Sean at a Chicago Cubs game last summer, memories of the cheering crowd, the mouthwatering aroma of hot dogs and popcorn, filled her mind and made her want to cry. They’d had a great time at the game, then later pigged out on pizza and wings. He wasn’t just her brother, he was her best friend. And she could have lost him.

  Tears filled her eyes as she set the photograph back on the dresser. Swiping a stray tear from her cheek, she drew in a deep breath.

  She needed to maintain control. Think. Obtain the facts. Analyze the situation. Leave emotion out of the picture—for now—and use every resource she had available to find out who had hurt Sean. She worked for CORE (Criminal Observance Resolution Evidence), and had helped the agency investigate and solve hundreds of cases. She’d solve this one, too. And when Sean was well enough to travel, she’d haul his ass home. Maybe even force him to be the next bubble boy. Anything to ensure he remained safe.

  “Miss Davis? You still there?” the sheriff asked.

  She tucked the pencil behind her ear, then rubbed her temple where a deep throb began to build. “Sorry, Sheriff, I’m still here and didn’t mean to snap at you. My brother…” He was the only family she had left. After their mother had run off with a musician six years ago, she’d become Sean’s legal guardian. Had she been old enough, the courts should have given her that right when he was born. Even at twelve she’d been a better parent than their mom. The woman had spent more time trying to land her next husband than paying attention to her children. Rachel loved Sean. Without him in her life…

  Clearing her throat, she said, “I work for a private criminal investigation agency and we specialize in—”

  “I’m aware you work for CORE. One of your agents recently helped the Detroit PD with a case. A few months back, another of your people helped bring down a serial killer in Wisconsin.”

  “That’s right,” she said, and headed into the kitchen to where she’d left her laptop. “So, I understand that you might not be able to give me all the details while you’re still running this investigation.” She paused. “You are considering what happened to my brother as something worth investigating, correct?”

  “Of course. Actually, I was hoping CORE might lend us a hand.”

  While she’d planned to use CORE’s resources to find out who had hurt Sean, the sheriff’s hopes bordered on extreme. CORE didn’t usually handle cases like this unless they were high profile or the client had deep pockets. “What about the Michigan State Police?”

  “They…have no interest in what goes on around these parts.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” She closed the case file she’d been working on before her shower and the sheriff’s call. CORE had worked with the FBI, law enforcement in different cities around the country, as well as numerous state agencies. During the four years she’d been with CORE, she’d had the opportunity to work with the Michigan State Police a few times. In her experience, their personnel were both capable and professional.

  “It will once I explain. Now, the county can’t afford to pay your agency—”

  “We do plenty of cases pro bono.” More concerned over her brother than the sheriff’s issues with the State Police, she shifted focus. “Forget about that and give me details. It’s the end of January. Last night the temperature dipped to fifteen degrees in Chicago, and I’m betting it was even colder where you’re located. Did my brother suffer from exposure? Who found him and where? What are his exact injuries? Do you have any suspects or—?”

  “Hang on, and slow down,” the sheriff said. “Let me start at the beginning. Your brother was found by a local guy. He was heading home from work and spotted his body on the side of the road. Sean couldn’t have been outside for too long because his body temperature was normal. The guy who found him even said he was surprised your brother’s skin was warm when he touched his neck to find a pulse.”

  Somewhat relieved that Sean hadn’t been lying in the freezing cold for over twenty-four hours, Rachel began to type notes onto her laptop. “Who was the man who found my brother?” She’d like to thank the Good Samaritan. If he hadn’t seen Sean, he could have frozen to death.

  “Hal Baker. After he brought Sean to the hospital, Hal took me to where he found your brother. Based on the way Hal described the state of Sean’s body, the doc and I both think that he was thrown out of a vehicle. Something high off the ground—maybe an SUV or a truck—and that’s how he suffered the concussion and broken arm. The broken ribs, and bruising to his face and body…I think that happened somewhere else.”

  She paused her fingers over the keyboard and fought back the worry, anger and grief. Whoever had done this to her brother would pay dearly. “Did you find tire tracks on the road, or any fibers or DNA evidence on Sean’s clothes?”

  “While there’s snow
on the ground, there’s none on the road. There weren’t any fresh tire tracks, and I didn’t find any shoe imprints in the snow near where Sean was found. As for DNA evidence, we’re small time here, Miss Davis. I did bag Sean’s clothes and could probably send them to the Michigan State Police, but like I said, they really—”

  “Don’t have any interest in what’s going on in those parts,” she repeated what the sheriff had said earlier, and shook her head. “I’m still having a hard time wrapping my brain around that nonsense, Sheriff.”

  “Right. We…ah…have had some past events that have made the Michigan State Police look bad and my department look like a joke.”

  “Unless these past events are in any relation to what happened to my brother, I see no reason—”

  “Miss Davis,” the sheriff interrupted. “I’m afraid they do. Over the past twenty years we’ve had well over a dozen missing person reports in our county. Nineteen to be exact. Out of all of the cases, only five of those missing persons have been found. The couple of times the State Police came in to help investigate, the reports ended up being nothing but a hoax.”

  Shrugging, she said, “I don’t see why that would keep the State from helping with future investigations.”

  “Look, I’ve got a meeting with our town council and honestly don’t have time to go into the details right now.”

  “Fine, then you can explain when I get there,” she said. “It’s about a six hour drive from Chicago, and I’ll need to stop by CORE on my way out of town.” She glanced at the clock and did the math. “Will you be able to meet with me around three? I want to see my brother first.”

  “Sure. I’ll meet you at my office in Bola. If you’ve been to the university, you would have had to pass through the town.”

  If Wexman University wasn’t located near the town, and she hadn’t had the best breakfast of her life there, she probably wouldn’t have remembered the forgettable Bola, Michigan. Located near the Menominee River, the small town thrived on tourism during the summer, and the students and faculty from the university throughout the remainder of the year. Except for the small manufacturing company at the edge of town, and the place she’d eaten breakfast, she couldn’t recall anything else about Bola, other than it being boring.