Prologue

Prologue

Cleveland, Ohio

November 10th, 2001

08:35

The sun was just flipping the sign indicating it was now open for business. Pedestrian traffic bled out from the buildings to collect into a swirling pool of self involved urban indifference. Each down-turned face was intent on nothing more than making it through another day. All except one, thought Inspector Shaw, as he ran his fingers lightly over the folder on the passenger seat. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he retrieved a plastic bottle and thumbed the lid away. He sifted two capsules into his palm, dumped the remainder into his pocket for later, then dry-swallowed the two in his hand.

After sitting for two minutes with his foot still riding the brake, Shaw slid the transmission into park and killed the engine. His reason for missing breakfast sat perched on a pedestal above and between two mannequins in the store-front display window of the Bales Department Store.

As he peered past a row of uniforms, through the window at the disembodied head, he ran through his ever-present “Why here, Why me?” mantra. Any other time, say, in a cartoon or a Monty Python sketch, the tableau might have been humorous: Two mannequins posed playing a friendly game of volleyball, but in place of the ball, a disembodied head hung frozen—game point—between them. A regular fucking riot, he thought. If it weren’t for the blood-painted drop-cloth hanging behind the head and its boldly stroked offering, not a soul would have noticed at all. That is, until the sun crested the roof-tops and the flies began to gather.

Inspector Shaw pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a headache, and reached for the file on the passenger seat. A crowd of gawkers had begun to fill in the holes around the hastily erected barricades and he wanted to get by them and situated before the Feds showed. Sweeping their ranks, he came to a sudden realization. He despised gawkers. God-damned vultures, he thought. 

He didn’t hate them in a “You’ll rue the day” kind of way. That would imply that he cared—which he didn’t. He was just miffed that he was going to miss his quarterly fishing trip because some bimbo had gone and got herself decapitated just to ruin his fucking day. Why does this shit always come down on a Friday? Just once it would be nice to have a five day week like these assholes. 

Shooting his cuffs, he pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and checked his teeth in the mirror. The time for lollygagging was o-ver. It was time to do his job…time to inspect and detect…time to wonder at another at another man’s madness. Maybe by the time it came to inspect and detect, the pills will have kicked in enough to make him look like he cared.

He’d also been hoping to have a minute to go over some of the photos and coroner’s reports before hanging his shingle over the crime scene but, given the growing crowd, that just wasn’t going to happen—which sucked. It also would have been nice to be able to inspect the body, or lack thereof, without having to carry the one-inch folder like the instruction manual for an IKEA dinette set.

But then he smiled and thought of the possible up side of the heinous nature of the crime: federal jurisdiction. That translated to FBI. And that translated to this: One man, one lake, tons of fish. Fuckin’-A.

Twenty years of searching for answers to questions he sometimes didn’t want answered did nothing to desensitize him to the violence. If anything, it made it that much harder to roll out of bed each morning. His solution to this was a well-regimented state of practiced detachment and plenty of prescription drugs. It was easier to not have to think about the bullet wounds and crushed skulls, the gang-raped ten-year-olds and habitual wife-beaters. His only other options would have been to either quit his job or search for solace at the bottom of a bottle—but since he abhorred clichés about cops as much as the idea of circling dead-end jobs in the Want-ad’s, he wore his panic room of pain-killers like a flak-vest.

The morning glow was still far below the mini-rises that made up the downtown core and shadows stretched in long yawns across the streets like a titan’s prison bars. The jockeying crowd of pin-striped pomp and power-ties, warm pastel pant-suits and patent leather shoes, stood waiting. Waiting for what, exactly, Shaw could only guess, but their collective faces wore the look of an expectant mark waiting for the magician to finish his trick.

He flicked his gaze toward the waiting window and licked his lips. Some trick, he thought. Superimposed like slack-jawed specters against the drab grey backdrop of the unlit shops and stores, they all seemed scared that they might just miss that mystical revelation if they were to bow away from the scene of the crime first. No one left first, so no one left at all; typical mob reasoning. They wanted blood, the more the better. Shaw figured that it somehow lifted them out of their slow-and-steady march over the cliff to catch a peek at death, to see what’s next. Or, it could end up being an interesting foot-note at a Sunday get-together, whispered from behind cupped hands: “You’ll never guess what I saw on the way to work this Monday…”

Abracadabra, motherpluckers.

Shaw tucked his badge into the front pocket of his blazer and waded through the onlookers with the ease of a waitress carrying a full tray of drinks. He stepped on every toe, and kicked every shin he could reach.

Grinding past, and on, the last of the onlookers, he nodded to three different officers on his way through the gauntlet of yellow tape and barricades. Of the three, he knew just one by name, causing him to feel older than his forty-two years; it seemed to Shaw that he didn’t know half the force anymore. Most of them just looked like a bunch of milk-moustached kids playing a game of dress-up.

Closer now, he stopped short of the revolving door and peered through the window, taking in the painted canvas hanging between the mannequins and, for the first time, was able to block out the head and marvel at the picture’s simply layered boldness.

Before being sucked into actually straining a brain muscle on it, he squashed curiosity with a rapid succession of blinks. Forget it, Jimmy. Focus on not focusing. What do you think this is, high school art class? Wait for the Feds and then bow out graciously. Fishing, remember? 

Turning to the closest officer, a baby faced rookie he’d never laid eyes on before, Shaw said, “Find something to cover this window. People are gonna want to eat later.”

Pushing through the revolving door, he didn’t bother to worry about fingerprints; the police would get nothing from the layers of oily reminders of the thousands that had passed through before. After side-stepping racks of women’s clothes and undergarments, he found the small door that led to the store-front display. It was open. He stepped gingerly up into the space, walked carefully over to stand between the beach-wear clad statues and—just as he was in the process of raising a shaky hand to touch the canvas—a voice from the small door caused him to jump back a step and nearly swallow his tongue. An act that he hoped the other man hadn’t noticed.

“Inspector?”

“Get away from the door, officer—and for chrissake, don’t touch anything. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Sorry, sir, it’s just that the store manager’s been crawling up my ass about when he gets to open the doors; says there’s a sale today.”

Standing inside the Bales Department store display case gazing out the wall-to-wall window, Inspector Shaw eyed the growing crowd of spectators on the other side of the barricades. Since he’d entered the building, the gathering “patrons” had spilled out onto the road and were now blocking traffic. Granted, some of them might have been there to take advantage of price-slashed merchandise, but most, he judged, were there to see the just plain slashed.

Slowly, so as to not disturb the crime scene any more than he had to, Shaw turned back to the painting. “Tell the manager to go fuck himself.”

“Right. Got it,” said the patrolman, then his face disappeared from the doorway.

“Officer,” Shaw called.

“Yes, Inspector?”

“I was kidding.” But not really. “Don’t tell him that. Tell him…tell him that we appreciate his co-operation and understanding, as well as blah-blah-blah—you get the picture.”

“Sure. Okay.” Dipping his head past the doorway for a glimpse of the victim, the officer stated, “Just like down in Dayton, eh Inspector?”

Flipping through his notebook, Shaw read out loud: “And St. Louis, Chicago, Detroit, and ten more cities in between.”

The patrolman took another dip, another look. “Are those bites?”

Irritated, the inspector glared down at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to step out front with the cattle so you can get a better look?” When are those fucking Perc’s gonna kick in?

The young patrolman stepped back a pace, but made no other move to leave. “They are, aren’t they? Bites, I mean.”

Why so pissed off, Jimmy? That was you twenty-plus years ago. He’s hungry. Give him something to chew on. “Don’t know for sure yet, Officer..?”

“Bishop, sir. Billy Bishop.”

“Okay, officer Bishop. If it’s him, yes. If not, then, I don’t know.” Shaw snapped his head back to the officer. “Say, are you any relation to Sam Bishop? We came up together.”

“Uncle Sam,” Billy said quickly. Then he smiled broadly, an action that nearly caused his rather long proboscis and chin to meet. “Good ol’ uncle Sammy.”

Jesus, kid. You must have gotten your looks from your mother’s side. What a fucking mug! “Sam get you in, did he?”

“In?”

“The force. Did he pull some strings?” He must have if you’re half as daft as you seem.

Billy Bishop stared intently at the painting, and then raised half a smile. “Yeah, sure did. My mom had other plans, but…” Shaw thought the kid was going to add more so he waited. The kid looked over his shoulder then back at Shaw. “You think it might be a copycat, Inspector?”

“Hard to say. My best guess is no. I downloaded a few of the crime scene photos from other “Drop-cloth” murders before leaving the station and, to be honest with you, my first instinct says this is him.”

“Why? What makes you so sure it couldn’t have been some local kook or a hopped-up junkie?”

“Details, kid. Details. While any crank could paint an angel on a sheet, they sure as hell couldn’t paint it like that. This guy’s like some kinda Michelangelo, only with blood. Look. Look there, just below the head. See that detail in the folds of the robe? Do you know how hard it would be to add shadows, convey depth, using nothing but blood? With no errors? Not one? No way. This is him, hundred percent.” Just then the drugs started to settle in, flooding through Shaw like redemption or cool, clean water.

Billy pointed his nose skyward. “The man knows his art,” he told the ceiling. “Are you an art critic or a cop?”

Are you a smartass, or a nosy rookie? “Don’t you have somewhere to be, officer Bishop?”

“Well?”

Jesus, just fucking go, kid. “Can’t I be both?”

“I guess. It is your case, right?”

“Only until the FBI gets here, then it’s their baby—can’t really say as I really mind, either.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because this guy doesn’t want to get caught, that’s why. He’s bold—got balls like King Kong—but he’s also extremely cautious…and very, very vain.”

“Vain?”

“Yeah,” Shaw fanned the folder at the uniformed cop. “Every one of these photos I’ve seen are from someplace public but not somewhere just anybody had access to, see? This asshole knows he’s got us by the short ‘n’ curlies, and he gets off on it. What’s more, he wants us and everyone else to know that he knows. Hell, he’s probably here watching us right now and we wouldn’t even know it.”

The officer craned his neck toward the crowd, rubbing absently at a chin worthy of a Shakespearian witch. “Creepy. Well good luck with that, Inspector. I better get out of here and let you do your job.”

“You do that,” Shaw said to the now empty door. Smiling to himself, he thought, Huh. Maybe I should have asked the kid if he wouldn’t mind sniffing the killer out for me with that Jimmy Durante banana of his. Jesus, what a nose.

Not more than thirty seconds after officer Bishop left the doorway, another head materialized in the opening. “Inspector?”

“Jesus Christ! What now,” he grated. “And keep in mind these two truths: I haven’t had a coffee this morning and, more importantly, I’m carrying a loaded firearm.”

A thin man with drooping eyes and jowls regarded him with apprehension, seemed to weigh his next move, then continued with the delicate tone of a man born with an apology on his lips. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m the store manager here, and—it’s not a big deal or anything—but I was wondering how long you were going to be. You know, with…” He waved his arms toward the head without looking, “With all this.” If he didn’t see it, it wasn’t there.

Percs were good for a lot of shit, but they did nothing for him right then. The predicted headache came on, throbbing like a squashed toe. You impatient little self-important fuck. In times like this, when his temper threatened to get the better of him, he always reached back to some sage advice his mother had offered him when he was a child of five: Always count to five before responding in anger, Jimmy. You’ll thank yourself later that you did.

He didn’t get it then—mostly because he couldn’t count very well—but he’d used her remedy at least fifty times a day since joining the force. One, two, three, four, five. Deep breath. Okay, go. “I just sent the officer you were speaking with earlier to tell you that it would probably be all day.”

The store manager lost his chin within his jowls “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Is there something you find confusing in what I said?”

The pink-faced manager pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and ran it backward along his receding blue-black hair. “I’m terribly sorry, but that’s just the thing, sir. I haven’t spoken to any of your people this morning. Not since I called nine, one, one.”

Shaw felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Is there someone else my people might have spoken to?” Not good.

“No sir. I was the first one here and I didn’t let any of my staff into the store. I cancelled the afternoon shift by telephone.”

“Oh shit.” Inspector Shaw’s eyes shot wide as he scrambled toward the door. “Move,” he yelled, knocking the little man over when he didn’t react fast enough. Clawing through the racks of lingerie as though it were jungle foliage, he stumbled around the corner and tripped over a set of mannequins—sending the file folder’s contents into the air like a ticker-tape parade—and leaving him writhing under a plaster arm-and-leg heap that resembled the thirty-third position of the Kama Sutra.

After untangling himself from the dolls, he rolled and continued on, and, with a spray of polyester-cotton blends, fell into the open area at the front of the store. Running full tilt, he bounced off the revolving door and crumpled to the floor.

The door was locked. 

Fuck. My fucking nose! I think I broke my nose. Holding his split sniffer between two fingers, he cupped his hand underneath to catch the blood. “Store manager,” he yelled, realizing that with a broken nose he sounded like the black-haired dwarf from Fantasy Island. “Get out here with the key to this door. Now! Right-fucking-now.” No-No-No-No…

The little man couldn’t have played a better Igor if he tried. Favouring his shoulder, he lurched forward. “Coming, officer, coming.” Hunched over and limping, he shook a wrist-size ring of keys. “Oh.” He stopped and apologized with a look, like the broken nose must have been his fault somehow. “I’m sorry. The man door is unlocked. There, beside you.”

Shaw wasted no time shouldering through the door. Still pinching his nose and catching his blood with the other hand, he ran over to the only uniformed officer he’d recognized on the way in. “Dawson! Officer Bishop. Have you seen Billy Bishop?” De Plaaane.

Dawson regarded Shaw, and the blood pooling in his cupped hand, with a raised brow. “Billy Bishop?” He drawled, like Billy was a dirty French word. “You mean Sam, don’t you? Sam Bishop? ‘Cause, him, I’ve seen—should have been in there with you. Hey, what happened to you?”

“Not Sam,” Shaw shook his head violently, “Billy. Sam’s nephew,” he blurted.

Dawson shook his own head. “Sammy don’t have a nephew, Inspector. Got a niece, but shit, she can’t me more ‘n five years old. Remember last Ea—”

“No! He was here. Right fucking here, Daws. It was the killer,” he spat, spraying blood from his nose onto the other man’s shirt. Shit. The door. “Did a uniform just come out this door before me?”

“Nope. Just you, sir. But, like I said, Sam should still be inside. He was first on the scene.” Stepping closer, Dawson eyed him curiously. “You okay, Inspector? You fall or something? You’re not making any sense at all.”

Near the back of the crowd, out on the street, Shaw could see the river of bodies make room for approaching vehicles. FBI, he guessed, and with a wrench and a twist, his stomach seconded that motion.

The Feds were there. 

Oh, Shaw. You really screwed up this time. They’re gonna crucify you. He suddenly felt hot and cold, hot and cold, and his breath started coming in laboured gasps. Am I hyperventilating? Bookend suits with bookend badges and Bureau issued sunglasses waded through the throng and stood before him. Jesus, I can’t breathe… Am I crying?

“Inspector Shaw?” said a mouth. “I’m special agent Accusation and this is agent You’re Fucked…”

Shaw didn’t remember very much of what happened after that, but if he were to ask NBC, they’d probably send him a tape. It would have gone something like this:

“I saw him, Daws. I talked to the fucking killer. Said he was Sam’s nephew! He got away. He got away. I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

“Jim…you’re crying…”

Something bumped his head. He was hoping for a bullet or an airplane, but it was a microphone on a boom. At the other end of the boom, a man smiled. Beside that man, there was another man. He held a camera to his face so Shaw couldn’t see his teeth, but knew he must have been smiling too.

For a while there, the broken nose had stolen the pain of the headache—but not anymore. Behind his dribbling nose and through the drug-inspired haze in his brain, a blurry vision appeared, rippling at first, and then settling like a stone in a shallow pond…

 …He was standing behind a long stainless-steel counter, wearing a paper hat and smiling, saying, “Do you want fries with that?”

About a month later, long after the press had finished picking the last of the meat from his bones, and internal affairs had removed their rubber-gloved fists from their elbow-deep plunge up his ass, the former Inspector Shaw, now Detective Shaw, went on vacation. He didn’t catch any fish but the lake was blissfully quiet.