The Conspirator's Agenda Page 2

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  “Max, I’m hoping you can show me the Gleason autopsy report and photos again.”

  “Man, you’ve got to give it up…let it go,” Max said. He was the night time coroner at the county, and he knew Nick better than just about anyone. He obsessed and didn’t let things lie, even when it was in his best interests. Yeah, he may solve the cases but it didn’t come without his fair share of injuries along the way. He’d been shot, had his ribs broken, and even been stabbed and poisoned. And that was all over the past year.

  “Aw, Maxie, you know me better than that. If you’d let me copy your report I wouldn’t have to bug you and risk you getting in trouble.”

  “Never.”

  “Never say never, Max.”

  “Never.” Max reiterated his sentiments while walking to the locked file cabinet. A minute later he was back with a thick file labeled Gleason, Meghan, Case Number 1429-B.

  “Go into the closet to look at this…just in case someone comes in, and I’ll lock you in there. Tap on the door when you’re set to come out.”

  “You’re not taking any breaks soon, are you?”

  “No, not soon.”

  “Good. I don’t mind hiding out in the closet to review the info, but last time you took a half hour break and left me in there with the formaldehyde jars full of phalanges. I wasn’t any too thrilled.”

  “You’ve seen worse. Why freak out at fingers?”

  “I just do, you know that.” Nick’s eyes turned a shade darker, and Max nodded, understanding.

  Nick sat in the corner of the closet, looking closely at all the pictures. He took his pair of reading glasses out so he could closely examine every aspect of the pictures. The glasses were quite the contrary look to the rest of his image. Thick black rimmed glasses with lenses that gave that extra bit of magnitude he needed to see every detail. He called the glasses his good luck glasses, as they were actually owned by the victim of the first murder he ever solved. How he got the glasses was a long story, and one that was hard to explain.

  Unlike many detectives, Nick always called the victims he investigated by name. He found that creating a personal attachment was the best way to really dive into the ways they thought and acted. Then, after the case was closed, they were virtually wiped out of his mind—no haunting memories or any connection. He’d done his job, and brought justice to the victim wherever they may be. This victim, Meghan, was a good looking woman, a proper girl by every standard, except the call girl thing. Yet, the call girl claim seemed highly irrelevant in the overall case.

  One picture of Meghan’s leg was particularly interesting. It had an A carved into it. A small simple A. What did that mean? It sure wasn’t a calling card for a mugger. And then there was the matter of her tongue being cut out. Yah, that was a symbolic gesture done by a certain portion of murderers throughout time, but only about 1/2 %. It didn’t add up with the rest of the situation in this case.

  Nick knocked on the door and he heard Max walking over to unlock it.

  “Was the tongue cut out before or after the death, Max?”

  “After.”

  “Have you ever seen that before?”

  “Once maybe. I recall a case where a girl was murdered by someone who was trying to be a copy cat. They didn’t know that the tongue had been cut first in that case…didn’t think it would matter I guess.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Find anything, Nick?”

  “Just some hunches…nothing adds up still. Whoever did this murder had some good information on how to make it complicated.”

  “A pro?”

  “Maybe…don’t know yet.”

  Nick left the county morgue, taking the back door so he could light up a cigarette as soon as he got outside. He was definitely ready for a smoke. All the smoking rules crap really had thrown off his pattern when he investigated. You had to be so damn careful of everyone’s rules, and worse yet, their reactions to the rule breakers.

  A bright red cherry glowed in the darkness of the alley, and Nick took a deep drag, blowing out a perfect ring of smoke. He reached his cigarette out and put it through the center of it before it disintegrated into the air.

  Smack. A haymaker to Nick’s jaw whizzed past his ear from behind, and sent his head spinning. He quickly flung around, trying to see what the hell was going on. One big frame stood behind him, winding up to swing again. Thankfully, big bastards usually were slow, and Nick was able to duck out just in time. He was still holding his cigarette, and brought it up to the guy’s lips, which were exposed in the mask he sported, and pressed the cherry down as hard as he could.

  You could smell the scorching flesh, and it was instantly pungent. The guy screamed and started to swing more aggressively, connecting solidly to Nick’s ribs. He instantly lost his breath, and dropped down to his knees. The guy was getting ready to unload on his skull with a thundering fist and Nick delivered one swift palm heel to the guy’s knee. You could hear the crunch of bone, and the tear of tendons in the otherwise quiet air. The guy flew back, screaming in pain. Nick taunted, “High voice for such a big guy.”

  The guy tried to retort, but couldn’t talk. Nick leaned over to see if he had any weapons or ID on him—nothing. He was a certified professional thug, meant to instill fear and deliver a message in the most physical manner possible. “Who sent you to visit me?”

  “Just drop the case—give it up or you will die.”

  “Maybe, but that’s just part of the adventure then, isn’t it,” Nick said. He decided it was time to get away before any reinforcements came.

  “The fact that this case is pissing someone off means that there’s something good in it. I want to find out what that is. Pass that message on.”

  Nick took off walking at a brisk pace. Each step made his face wince, and his ribs felt like they were popping out of his skin. He knew that he’d cracked one, and that was certainly annoying. Why was it that the old school method of thuggery was still attractive to people sending a message? Couldn’t they just steal your identity, try to frame you, or do something more sophisticated? No…men still loved their muscle and oozing testosterone out while pummeling someone they perceived to be a vulnerable opponent. Aside from size, Nick couldn’t recall a vulnerability that he had, except maybe his cat. Hatchet was one awesome cat.

  With an ice pack on the bruised and aching ribs, Nick slept restlessly, but woke ready to keep pursuing the case. There was one logical choice to go to next—Meghan’s mommy and daddy. They were apparently good with the case being closed, and he wanted to figure out why. Most parents expect police to actively pursue cases until they are solved when they involve one of their children.