Corktown

She’s short. She’s feisty. She’s sexy. She’s Mom. Meet FBI Agent, Abby Kane.

In the quiet Corktown neighborhood of Detroit, a mutilated body has the residents nervous and for good reason. Detroit Metro Police recognize the handiwork of the serial killer known as the Doctor. But there’s a problem with that. They locked him up seven years ago.

Because of her expertise with serial killers, former hotshot detective and now FBI agent, Abby Kane, is tasked with figuring out how this madman is able to kill again. When she visits The Doctor behind bars, he swears he’s innocent and not the psychopath everyone thinks he is. Oddly enough, Abby believes him.

Corktown is a page-turning thriller that dives headfirst into the grit of Detroit, exploring government corruption and deadly violence.

Enjoy – Ty Hutchinson

 

CORKTOWN

Ty Hutchinson

 

1

To be honest, I never had many girlfriends growing up. They seemed to come and go. As a teen, I was a bit of a tomboy. I preferred hunting trips with my father to hair braiding sleepovers with girls from school. I liked boys, but second dates were hard to come by after my suitors met my father; the tall, broad-shouldered Irishman that hovered behind me. In lieu of dating, my father taught me to bare-knuckle fight, a favorite pastime in Ireland, he would say. When I graduated from Hong Kong’s Police College at age nineteen, unheard of for a woman, he told me, “I’m proud of you, son.”

I like to think he was joking.

From that point on, my career in law enforcement became my focus; it took over my life. It left little time for what few friends I had and completely ruined any chance of a romance with someone other than myself. My relationships were pathetic at best and upsetting for my mother. All she had ever wanted were grandchildren. What about me, the child you birthed?

“Why Abby?” She would start over Sunday dinner. “Why are you not married? What is wrong? Are you a lazi?”

“What?”

“I knew it; you’re a lazi.”

“I’m not a lazi!”

I finally proved my mother wrong eight years later when I married a man.

Peng Choi was my first true love. He also showed me there was more to life than the job. We enjoyed six months of marital bliss. I say six months because that’s how long we had been married before my old partner, a good friend, sat me down and told me my husband had just been found brutally murdered.

We had no motive and no knowledge of enemies Peng might have had. I wasn’t prepared for that—life shoving its hand into my chest and ripping out all that mattered.

He left me with two young children, Ryan and Lucy, and a mother-in-law, Po Po. Peng was a widower when we fell in love; now I was a widow, and a stepmother to boot.

I dealt with his death by throwing myself into my work. I had all but abandoned the family during that time. My stepchildren were strangers to me and Po Po was fast becoming their mother, a job I slowly started to realize I wanted. So I did what I thought was best. I quit the force and moved the family to San Francisco for a new start on life. Mine, mostly.

• • •

I checked my watch—ten to seven. I picked up the pace on my Sunday morning run, enough to get the endorphins flowing and the hair tangled. Po Po would already be up, puttering around the kitchen, doing the job I should have been doing—the job of mom. I turned onto Pfeiffer Street and walked four houses toward our Victorian—a fixer-upper.

As soon as I stepped inside the two-story, the smell of pancakes filled my nostrils. Po Po stood next to the kitchen counter in her blue and white nightgown making a batch of everyone’s favorite, blueberry. Her arm jerked back and forth, mixing more batter than necessary. Ever since she’d discovered Bisquick, we’d been eating silver dollars quite regularly.

“Why are you cooking now?” I asked. “They won’t be up for another half hour.”

“You eat,” she said, staring at me in her loving yet authoritative way.

It irritated me that she made the kids breakfast every morning. Does she know that? That should have been my job. I worked during the week and almost never got home before 5:00 p.m., when old people and small children liked to eat.

I should have been grateful to have a mother-in-law who wanted to help out. But deep down inside, I wanted to be the awesome supermom fixing her kids’ meals yet still managing a career. In the meantime, I focused on mastering the not-tired-when-I-came-home-from-work role.

A month after arriving in the states, I took a job as a federal agent investigating white-collar crime, mostly fraud. I know it made no sense for a burned out detective to join the FBI, but I needed a J. O. B.

“I’ll eat after my shower,” I called out to her.

I headed upstairs to my bedroom and started the shower before stripping off my running gear. With my new career, I actually had time to practice an active lifestyle. Even though I had the metabolism of a cheetah, I missed the high those double-digit runs had fueled.

I moved my finger across my stomach and traced the noticeable six-pack before clucking my lips and patting my tummy. You still got it. I couldn’t take all the credit, though. Both of my parents passed along their best genes, except for one thing; my Chinese mother blessed me with her short stature. Despite that, I stood proud at five foot one.

My hair, however, was another matter. I longed for curvy body but settled for straight silk. I turned so my back faced the mirror. I had started to grow out my shoulder length hair; it popped nicely against my fair skin.

In the shower, my skin tingled under the delicious warmth. I had one of those rain showerheads and it felt like hundreds of fingertips tapping away on my body. Speaking of tapping, my bathroom door had opened and the tap-tap of tiny feet made their way across the floor.

“Is that you, Lucy?” She was my youngest, age five. Ryan was eight.

I heard her yawn before she answered. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Didn’t Mommy tell you not to come into the bathroom when other people are using it?”

“I had to pee-pee.”

“What’s wrong with the hallway bathroom?”

“Ryan’s hogging it.”

Lucy was the only one who called me Mommy. Ryan called me Abby. It didn’t bother me. I completely understood. He was old enough to remember his mother. She had died shortly after Lucy was born. As far as the five year-old was concerned, I was her mother, and I liked that.

By the time I had made my way back downstairs, both kids were eating their fluffy stacks. I poured myself a cup of tea and sat at the table, where the San Francisco Chronicle waited for me. I picked up a knife and fork, preparing to cut Lucy’s meal, only to see someone had beaten me to it, and that someone had already read halfway through her copy of the Sing Tao Daily.

Before I could think of a clever remark, we all heard impatient rapping at the front door. All eyes fell upon me, so I got up and did my duty.

“Abby, sorry to disturb you so early.” My unofficial partner, Agent Trey Wilkinson, stood outside my door and he didn’t look too happy.

I stepped onto the front porch and closed the door behind me. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, adjusting his Oakland A’s cap.

While we weren’t exactly assigned partners, he and I had worked closely together on a number of small cases. Wilkinson was a rising star inside the Bureau and was a great help to me in the beginning. We had a friendly relationship; I occasionally called him Wilky. Whenever possible, we would seek the other one out and team on a case. We respected each other’s abilities.

“You remember telling me how you enjoyed your job with the FBI, how easy breezy it was?”

My right eyebrow rose, giving him my answer.

“Well, Detroit Metro Police had a couple of homicides pop up. There are similarities between the cases and the detectives think they might have a serial killer on their hands.”

“Really? How many so far?”

“Two.”

“Don’t you need three to officially qualify or is it different in the states?”

My partner shrugged and nodded. “That’s not all though; they want us to fly out today.”

My gut tightened a bit. I didn’t expect to hear that.

“We’re to be briefed first thing Monday morning,” he said as he looked down and kicked at the porch with the tip of his sneaker. “Sorry about ruining your Sunday.”

I knew it wasn’t his doing. He was only the messenger. I poked him. “Hey, we can enjoy each other’s misery on the flight.”

Wilkinson smiled again. He may have been thirty, but he looked twenty-two.

Breaking the news to everyone wasn’t something I looked forward to doing. For the last six months, we had lived as a normal family. We were happy, content and gelling. My new job allowed me the flexibility to take off for an hour so I could walk Ryan and Lucy home from school on a somewhat regular basis. I had even attended my first PTA meeting.

And now the job was getting in the way, again.

As I headed back inside, Po Po saw it on my face. She knew what a hushed conversation outside meant.

Five hours later, Wilkinson and I were sitting in coach and halfway to Detroit. I already missed Po Po and the kids. But to be honest, the chase excited me.

 

2

“I’m horny,” she said.

“I’m driving back from Kalamazoo,” he said.

“It’s Sunday evening. Why aren’t you home?” she cooed, allowing the last word to trail. “I need you to take care of me.”

“I’m three hours away.”

“Hurry.”

Recently divorced, with her kids away in college, Marian Ward had started to enjoy her single life. It got better when she met Paul Poole, an engineer at Ford. He had turned Marian on to her first screaming “O,” as well as a slew of other sexual firsts. He also opened her eyes to the wonderful world of BDSM. She couldn’t get enough of the whipping, clamping, and toy-infused lifestyle. From the start, she was hooked.

Completely nude, except for the dangles of bling around her neck and wrists, Marian stood in front of her oak-framed, floor mirror. She twirled around, bent over and struck other seductive poses. Not bad for a forty-six year-old. By all accounts, the five-foot-seven brunette took the term MILF to a whole new level. Marian was extremely proud of her tight stomach and taut butt. Her early morning gym visits kept those areas in check and her social calendar full. She paid for a lift in the bosom department, but you couldn’t blame her; her age and two kids made it inevitable. Plus, she had a life now.

She entered her walk-in closet and continued toward the back wall where there were four customized drawers built in. All were filled with fun stuff. She reached for the third one and pulled it out. It was five inches deep and lined with black velvet material. Neatly displayed inside were all sorts of vibrators and various sized dildos and butt plugs. She had metal and fuzzy handcuffs, rubber and metal cock rings, and a slew of G-spot stimulators. She even had a strap-on harness. The other drawers were filled with whips, feathers, chains, blindfolds, mouth gags, numerous latex outfits, and assorted bottles and tubes of lubricant.

Marian felt extra naughty that day and plucked out her favorite butt plug, the one made of clear safety glass with a colorful jeweled bottom. She decided against lube, preferring to feel the plug grip her. It was a wonderful way to prepare for Paul.

Reaching around, she slowly inserted the toy until it popped in and only the sparkly base was exposed. She then pranced around the room, accentuating the shift of her hips from side to side. With each step, the plug moved, giving her the most wonderful of sensations. She often dared herself to spend the day at work with the toy inside of her, but hadn’t yet built up the nerve.

The dancing beauty made her way back down to the kitchen where she uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and flipped through Saturday’s mail. With time to kill, the wait made her want it more. She grabbed the bottle and a glass and headed back upstairs. A good soak to relax couldn’t hurt.

Marian relished every bit of the warm sudsy water while she puffed lazily on a joint, something else Paul had introduced her to. It didn’t take long for her to start dreaming up scenarios for the evening. She liked Paul and was grateful that he had helped her open up sexually. He would always hold a special place in her vagina.

With her eyes closed and her mind flying high, she thought about Paul and how he knew her body so intimately. He knew exactly where and how to touch her and, more importantly, how to give her the most wonderful feelings. She absolutely adored the way he made her quiver when he kissed her lips lightly. She loved it even more when his tongue dotted her neck. But the best was when he would let his fingers linger along the outside of her folds before letting them slip between them to her happy button.

Her coral nipples responded quickly to the pinching and pulling. Soon she had both hands fondling, thoroughly enjoying the foreplay before the foreplay.

Even though she had completely submerged herself in the tub, she could still feel her wetness increasing. With her eyes closed and her body limp, she encouraged her fingers to explore every part of her landscape. God, that feels great.

Yes, everything felt great right then. Marian was in heaven, enjoying every bit of it—until the obvious presented itself. If both of her hands were busy with her nipples, then whose hand was busy between her legs?

 

3

She tried to scream. She gave it her all. But the orange gag strapped to her mouth had done a wonderful job of shutting Marian up. She lay flat on her back, tied to her bed with the same leather straps she had enjoyed many times before. She twisted and turned from side to side but could not free herself. Her head hurt and her eyes were crusty. The last thing she remembered, before awakening, was a cloth being pressed onto her face.

“That’s the downside of being into kink,” the stranger said, startling her. “You never know if the other person will forget the safe word.”

The blond man sat casually on the chaise lounge in the corner of the bedroom. She was surprised to see him and thought for second she had smoked too much whacky weed, but the bindings holding her legs open were a firm indication that she was wrong.

Her legs were tied in a way that she could not close them. She felt exposed as he stared between them. He noticed the toy still inside her and waved a finger. “You’re a naughty one, aren’t you?”

He stood up, fixed his brown corduroy blazer, and straightened his khaki pants before walking around the bed toward her walk-in closet. “You have such fun toys. Many I’ve never seen before.” He disappeared for a moment and then reappeared holding something in his hand. “This one is my favorite. It’s genius.”

Marian’s eyes widened when she saw what he had returned with.

He walked toward her and sat near the edge of the bed. His eyes soaked up her nakedness, paying extra attention to the details between her legs. He breathed in, chest expanding. “I can smell your scent.” He breathed deeply again. “Fear. It excites you.”

Tears flowed as she shook her head from side to side. The straps dug deeper into her wrists and ankles. He held the gift Paul had bought her last month—the only one she refused to use. The one she even considered throwing away.

He moved closer as she desperately tried to scoot away, her legs flailing hopelessly. Marian let out more muffled cries for help. Her eyes, wide and wet, begged for him not to.

“You haven’t tried this, have you?” he said.

Marian shook her head, hoping he would understand.

He did. The stranger reached up between her legs.

Marian screamed at the unthinkable. Her body, now rigid, shook uncontrollably. Her face drained itself to an ashen white. Her fists tightened into balls and her nails cut into her palms. As much as she tried, as much as she wanted to, she could not tear her eyes away from his hand, from what he held.

And in an instant, before she could gasp, she watched his hand thrust forward.

 

4

“It’s a fist.”

Detective Vince Solis had bent down near the bed and looked straight up between Marian Ward’s legs. The life-like piece of rubber was still lodged inside her vagina.

“A what?”

Solis motioned with his hand. “You know. A rubber fist.”

Detective Ray Madero stepped forward for a closer look and saw an object sticking out of her. “How can you tell?”

“Played with one in a porn shop once,” he said while standing up and fixing his jacket. “It’s like a dildo only in the shape of a real arm, and the part inside of her, it’s shaped into a balled fist. Except I think this one is a double fist.”

Madero crinkled his eyebrows. “Why buy a fake one? What’s wrong with the one she’s already got at the end of her arm?”

“Why buy a fake cock or a pussy? People get off on it.” Solis knelt again next to the body.

Madero shook his head. “I’ll tell you why; women don’t have cocks, so it makes sense to buy one. But she,” he pointed at her, “she’s already got a hand.”

Solis looked back up at his partner. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe she can’t reach with her own fist?”

Madero’s fat head pondered the conundrum for a few seconds before he waived off Solis. “If she can wipe her own ass, she can reach.”

• • •

“Reach what?” I asked as Wilkinson and I entered the bedroom. The two detectives turned toward us. They both had ignorance scrawled across their face. The one standing showed his intelligence first. “Miss, this is a crime scene.”

They always do that, assume I couldn’t possible be there for the crime. I didn’t get it. We were dressed in suits, though I thought I looked cuter in mine than Wilkinson did in his. We made it past all the uniforms downstairs but still the idiot couldn’t connect the dots that I might be somebody.

Unbelievable. I whipped my badge out. “FBI. I’m Agent Abby Kane. This is my partner, Agent Trey Wilkinson.”

The detective who had spoken sauntered toward me with a stupid smirk on his face. He looked roughly six feet tall and probably had about three hundred pounds on me. I may have been short, but I had a powerful upper cut that was perfectly aligned with what had to be his tiny set of balls. Before my father left Ireland, he was the best bare-knuckle brawler to ever come out of his town. Did I mention that?

“Look. This is our case,” he said. “We appreciate your help, but it’s not needed.”

That’s when he tried to be funny and patted me on the head. I grabbed his hand and yanked down, forcing it back at the wrist. I had him immobilized and crying like a baby in just a few seconds. With him bent over and his face closer to my height, I leaned in. “I’m not a dog. Don’t ever pet me.”

“You fucking psycho bitch. Let go of me,” he yelped.

Wilkinson stepped in just as I winked at the crybaby and forced him off to the side. “Let’s all calm down here.”

“Tell that bitch—”

Wilkinson grabbed the detective by his suit and pushed him back into the wall. “Watch your mouth.”

“All right. Everybody calm down,” the other detective spoke up. “Relax, pal.” He stepped between Wilkinson and the other man and separated them. He then faced me with tired eyes. “I’m Detective Vince Solis,” he said with his hand extended. He seemed like the smarter of the two. He was evenly tanned and wore a mustache. “That’s my partner, Detective Ray Madero. Look, we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.”

I shook Solis’ hand and then walked over to the body. “What do you guys know so far?”

Solis joined me near the bed. “This woman had an appetite for kink. She’s got drawers filled with this stuff.”

“Besides her sexual tastes, got anything else?”

“As you can see from the sheets, she bled out. If you look closely, you’ll see there are three tiny incisions.” Solis pointed with a pen to her neck and then her legs. “One along the carotid artery in the neck and one on the femoral artery in each leg. She drained quickly.”

I bent down for a closer look. “And this rubber object?”

“It’s a fist. Doesn’t look like it played a role in her death. Below that is a butt plug. Killer might have been screwing around with her beforehand,” Solis said.

“Any idea who she is?” I asked as I stood up and faced him.

“She’s some big shot over at Chrysler, Marian Ward. Every once in a while she’s on TV or in the paper.”

I turned to the only uniform in the room. “Were you the first on the scene?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me Agent Kane,” I said with a smile.

“Sorry. The pasty guy on the couch downstairs found her and called it in.”

“Anybody talk to him yet?”

“I talked to him a little just to get a sense of what happened.” The young officer took out his notebook. “His name is Paul Poole. He’s an engineer at Ford. Said they met at some automotive function. They had been seeing each other for about six months, though he says it was mostly booty calls. Oh, he admits to turning her on to the BDSM life. Anyway, he said she called him on his cell and invited him over tonight.”

“He took his time?” I asked.

“No. He was on his way back from Kalamazoo and had about three hours of drive time left.” He scanned his notes again. “Uh, he said when he got here, he followed her trail of clothes upstairs and found her like that.”

“He had a key to the house?”

The uniform shook his head. “He said the door was unlocked. He figured she had left it open for him.”

“Do us a favor; make sure Mr. BDSM doesn’t leave and no one talks to him before I do.”

The uniform nodded again and then hurried downstairs.

I turned to Solis. “What are you thinking?”

“No sign of breaking and entering. Whoever did this knew her or had access to the house.”

“Maybe she’s such a horn dog she decided to fit another guy in before her main squeeze got here,” Madero added.

Tiny ball man not helping.

“Forensics just arrived. We’ll know more once they’re able to give this place a sweep. They might find another print or something we overlooked,” Solis added. He then took a step closer to me. “Agent Kane, I gotta ask. Why is the FBI involved and how did you guys find out about this crime scene so fast?”

 

5

“I was hoping you could tell us,” I said. No point in holding back our agenda. “Our supervisor ordered us to fly to Detroit today. We knew coming out here had something to do with a potential serial killer. Our briefing isn’t until tomorrow morning, but when we landed we got instructions to head over to this address right away.”

Solis looked at Madero for a second and then back at me. “That’s all you know?”

Wilkinson and I nodded. Solis motioned for everyone to follow him out of the room. We huddled at the end of the hallway, away from the CSI crew that had just appeared.

“This is what we know,” Solis said. “Two months ago, a body pops up. Old homeless guy in an alley near Corktown—”

“Corktown?” I said

“Yeah, it’s a small neighborhood east of downtown Detroit. Anyway, this guy has the same M.O. as our vic here, minus the fist. A month later, another body pops up. Middle-aged guy, fishing on the shores of Lake St. Clair. Again, same M.O. minus the fist.”

“Wait. You’re Birmingham police. Aren’t these other cases out of your jurisdiction?”

Solis nodded. “They are.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand. Why are you keeping tabs on them?”

“We’re not,” Madero added.

“Here’s a little background for you.” Solis pointed at Madero and then himself. “We’re both new to the precinct. I’m from Jersey. Madero here is from Tampa. We’ve both been in the city maybe a year, so we have no history; no one knows us. But get this: we’re sharing old war stories with the desk sergeant when he starts to tell us about the original Corktown murders, took place maybe fifteen years ago. A couple was found dead—cut and bled out.”

“Like our vic here,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “But nobody was ever brought in. Seemed like the case was headed for the filing cabinet marked ‘unsolved’. Anyway, all was quiet for six months, and then bam—a few more bodies, same M.O.”

“In Corktown?” Wilkinson asks.

Solis nods. “Soon after, more bodies pop up. A couple in Detroit this time, same M.O. Next thing you know, Detroit’s got a massive serial killer problem. This guy is terrorizing the place, leaving bodies left and right. Male, female—all ages. All told, maybe forty to fifty victims over a five-to six-year period. All of them killed the same way, with an incision to the neck or legs and then left to bleed out. Of course, minus—”

“The fist. Yeah, I get it. So what happened to this killer?”

“They finally caught the guy trying to pull off a bank heist with his girlfriend. He killed fourteen people during the botched robbery.”

“So they caught the guy. Case solved, right?” I asked.

Solis shrugged. “Appears that way, except…”

“Bodies are starting to turn up with the same M.O.,” I said as I shifted my weight to one leg.

Solis nodded.

“It’s the higher-ups who connected the dots?” Wilkinson asked.

“That’s what we’re thinking. Had Madero and I not chatted with the desk sergeant, this M.O. wouldn’t have stood out to us. This is probably why you guys were called in.”

I turned to Wilkinson. “Why us? The Bureau has local agents here.”

“You know, I remember hearing about this case,” he said. “The press nicknamed the guy ‘The Doctor’. Anyway, I believe the local field office lent its support, and like Solis said, they ended up catching the guy. But why we’re investigating instead of them seems strange.”

“And they called us before this murder, the third, ever happened,” I added. “Seems like there’s more to this than what’s being said. Two murders shouldn’t spook them.”

Solis put his palms up in front of him. “Hey, don’t look at us. It’s clear we’re being kept out of the loop.”

I chewed on my bottom lip. “Any other connection between her, the guy fishing on a lake, or the homeless person?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Take away the incisions and these are three separate cases. Also the ‘serial’ word is forbidden for now. As far as the citizens of Detroit and the press are concerned, it’s a whacky copycat that we’re closing in on. Nothing to worry about.”

“Maybe the killer is checking off a bucket list—you know, a person from different categories.” Madero added.

Again, not helping.

I shook my head. “The killer seems educated. He must have had some sort of medical training, enough to know how the human body operates. These incisions are meant to drain a body as fast as possible.” I headed back into the room and took another long look at the victim. “There has to be a reason why he’s mimicking the original killer’s M.O.”

“We have yet to figure that one out,” Solis said as he came up behind me. “Perhaps that’s where you guys come in.”

I turned to the three men. “Most serial killers have a motive behind each kill they make. They hate women, or they’re ridding the world of jerks.”

“So what’s this guy’s beef?” Solis asked.

“Not sure, but I’m betting there’s an agenda. There’s a reason why this person choose to copy the M.O. of a known serial killer.”

“Maybe he’s paying homage,” Wilkinson said.

 

6

That same night.

“I’m home.”

“Daaaaddyyy!” The two young boys charged down the tiled hallway to the front door and were scooped up, one in each arm, by the tall man.

“Where were you?” the oldest boy asked.

“Daddy had business to take care of. Boring stuff, you wouldn’t want to know. But I’m home now,” said Preston Carter, looking at his watch. “It’s beyond your bedtimes.”

A woman wearing wire-framed glasses walked into the foyer. She had chestnut-brown hair that fell just below her shoulders, and her eyes were a shade darker than a blue lagoon. She had on form-fitting jeans and a sheer blouse, and her body showed no sign that she had borne any children at all.

“It is, but they wanted to stay up until you came home.” Katherine Carter gave her husband a kiss as he lowered the boys to the floor.

“Eeewwww,” they groaned.

“Now, Jackson, Lorenzo. What did we agree to do as soon as Daddy got home?”

“Brush our teeth and get ready for bed,” they said in unison.

The little one begged. “Mommy, can’t we stay up just a little longer with Daddy?”

She looked at her husband. It would be his call.

“Here’s what we’ll do; you two go brush your teeth and I’ll come by and read you a bedtime story. Sound good?”

Both boys cheered and raced each other up the stairs. After they disappeared, Katherine turned to her husband. “We had spaghetti for dinner. Should I fix you a plate?”

He patted his stomach and shook his head. “Sounds tempting but I stopped for a bite on the way home. I’m afraid I might explode.”

“Well, you can have it for lunch tomorrow.”

Preston pointed up the stairs. “I’m going to freshen up and get the boys into bed. I’ll be back down.” Katherine smiled before turning and heading back into the kitchen.

The two met when Katherine was a freshman at Oakland University. It wasn’t long before afternoon coffee turned into weeknight dinners, which led to weekend getaways. They dated for five years, until she got pregnant. That’s when they decided to marry.

Preston double-stepped it up the stairs, a sign that he was still fit at forty-five, even after a couple of chili dogs. He stopped by the hall bathroom where his sons were busy brushing their teeth. “Hurry up and pick out a book. We’ll rally in Jackson’s room in a few minutes.”

He continued down the hall to the master bedroom and closed the door behind him. He hung up his jacket, slipped off his pants, and replaced them with a fresh T-shirt and sweatpants. In the master bath, Preston washed his hands and splashed water on his face. He ran his hand through his thick blond hair, checking the length, looking for the occasional white strand.

He stopped just short of leaving the room and headed over to the bed, where he retrieved a small metal box from under his side. He fiddled with the combination lock for a bit before it opened. Inside were two boxes of disposable scalpels and a box containing latex gloves. He plucked out two gloves and picked a scalpel. He then opened the closet and tucked them into the inside pocket of his blazer. Always be prepared.

He exited the bedroom. “What are we reading, boys?”

 

7

It was well after midnight when we left the crime scene. Making the trek from the burbs to downtown that night wasn’t an option we were keen on. Instead, we found a hotel in the area and got two rooms for the night.

The next morning, we exited the lobby a little before eight. The temperature outside had already soared to eighty-five degrees. I imagined it would only get hotter in the city and the humidity would start its frizz assault on my hair.

According to the hotel concierge, Central Precinct was a straight shot from Birmingham—about a forty-minute drive along Woodward Avenue. Wilkinson drove our rental, as usual.

“You know, we could have left later, if you weren’t ready.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked as I applied my make-up. “I was ready.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Oh, Wilky, stop being a grouch. I know you like to watch me put on my lipstick,” I said, smiling while I flipped the visor back up.

“Also, you should learn to drive one of these days,” he said shooting me a look.

“But you’re so good at it.”

“Don’t butter me up. You need to learn.”

“You know, when I was a detective in Hong Kong—”

“Another Hong Kong story. This should be good.”

I stopped and shot him a raised eyebrow. “Are you going let me finish or are you going to keep rolling your eyes like a little teenage girl?”

“Fine. Talk.”

“My partners always drove because, in my society, the men drove.” I pointed at my chest. “I wanted to drive. They wouldn’t let me.”

“I’m teaching you how to drive when we get back to San Francisco. I’ll insist you drive from then on to make up for all the times you were discriminated against in Hong Kong.”

“Great. Can’t wait.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I hope you’re patient. I’m a slow learner.”

They say when you fight with the opposite sex it means you like them. Did we really like each other? Maybe. Also, I still wasn’t sure how to tell him I had gotten my driver’s license three months ago. What can I say? I liked being a passenger.

I pointed at a McDonald’s. “Pull into the drive through.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re always like this when you haven’t had your morning coffee.”

“Like what?” Wilkinson scoffed.

“Exactly,” I said. “Plus I could use some hot water for my green tea.” I always kept a tin of loose leaf with me. Even though I had acquired my father’s taste for Jameson, my mother made sure I developed an addiction to the green elixir. Maybe that explained my eye color.

“It must have been tough for you at the start,” he said after a few sips.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, when you first got into law enforcement.”

“It wasn’t easy, but I managed.”

“I’d say. Chief Inspector in charge of Organized Crime, was it?”

“Organized Crime and Triad Bureau. Why the sudden interest?”

“Well, you haven’t spoken much about that.”

“What do you want to know? That when I got the job, I didn’t get a round of drinks after work or a celebratory lunch? That it was rumored the only orders the men wanted to hear me shout were, ‘Harder,’ and, ‘Don’t stop’?”

“No, not at all. That’s terrible.”

I turned to Wilkinson. “I’m sorry. Look, I know you’re not like those men. It was a bittersweet time in my life.”

“Was it always like that?”

“No, it actually got better when I saved my old partner from having his head blown off.”

“What happened?”

“My department had targeted a small Triad gang in the Sham Shui Po district. The plan was to grab as many of the members as we could at six different locations before sunrise. My old partner and I were hitting the same residence. We punched through the door with a battering ram and caught them sleeping. It was a pretty easy round up, until I saw a young male jump out a window with my partner not far behind.”

“And you followed them both right out the window.”

“Yup. Anyway, I ran down an alleyway until I reached an open doorway. Inside, I saw my partner with his arms up and a shotgun a finger’s length from his face.”

“He got the jump on your partner?”

“He did, don’t ask me how. I took one look at the gang member’s shifting eyes and knew what he was thinking; Blow this guy away, then take out the girl.”

“What happened?”

I chuckled a bit and shook my head.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know what I was thinking but I jumped to the side like that movie, the one with Keanu Reeves…”

“Wait, you mean The Matrix?”

“Yeah, except I only had the one gun.”

Wilkinson laughed and batted his palms against the steering wheel. “Don’t bullshit me. Tell me you did not reenact the fricken Matrix to save your partner—”

“Ex-partner.”

“Okay, your ex-partner’s life.”

“I did. And guess what? It worked.”

Wilkinson shook his head; he still had a fat grin on his face. I was laughing, too. Hearing myself retell the story, it sounded incredibly stupid.

“So what happened next?” he asked.

I took a moment to catch my breath. “Well that stupid move caught the guy by surprise. He did a double take, enough time to give me the jump on him. I was able to squeeze off two rounds before crashing down on my shoulder. The first shot took out his trigger hand. The second one slammed into his face.”

“Bullshit. For real?”

“If I had missed, do you honestly think I would be in this car sitting next to you?”

Wilkinson looked at me and smiled. “Damn, you really are the shit.”

We both exploded into more laughter.

Okay, so we do really get along, but we’re professionals. We respect one another, and that’s as far as whatever this will go.

 

8

We reached the station at nine sharp. Before exiting our vehicle, we cleared ourselves of the giggles and restored our professional demeanor. We expected to meet with the commanding officer that morning but it turned out that wouldn’t be the case.

Shortly afterward, we entered the building, a stocky gentleman in a dark suit needing tailoring greeted us. Clothing aside, he seemed pleasant and had a nice smile.

“Agent Kane. Agent Wilkinson. Welcome to Detroit. I’m Lieutenant Roy White.”

We shook hands and smiled. “Thanks for inviting us out, Lieutenant White,” I said.

“No, thank you for coming.” He then turned around. “Follow me; everybody’s waiting.”

Everybody?

White kept a fast pace as his shoes click-clacked on the tiled floors. “We’ve heard a lot about you, Agent Kane. Hong Kong’s loss is our gain.”

“Thanks, but I just did my job.”

The precinct was housed in a fairly old building with lots of beige. It did, however, appear to have a buzz to it. The public had started to trickle inside, filing complaints, mostly about neighbors or getting booked. Memories from my early years with the force flooded my head. I smiled, but I didn’t miss it.

We followed the lieutenant through two large, wooden doors. Inside I saw a long rectangular conference table surround by suits that weren’t smiling. I didn’t do a headcount, but it looked like twelve grumpy men sitting around a table. We were directed toward two open chairs in the middle.

A clearing of a throat captured everyone’s attention. I looked at the man who sat at the head of the table. His face was a look of fierceness, hardened from years of wearing the uniform, I supposed. He introduced himself as Chief of Police, Reginald Reed, Detroit Police Department. I was a bit surprised by his presence in the room actually, and slightly impressed. But the surprises didn’t stop there.

The introductions continued around the table. The chiefs of police for Birmingham, Royal Oak, Grosse Pointe, Madison Heights and many more were all in attendance. I didn’t expect their best. Were we in the right room? As the chiefs continued, I felt a buzzing in my pocket. I pulled out my cell. Lucy had sent me a text. “Ryan call me dog face.”

Ever since I taught her how to text on Po Po’s phone, it had been nonstop. I sent Ryan a text. “Stop calling your sister dog face.”

I tucked my phone away just as the last chief started to introduce himself.

“You got someone else you want to text before we continue?” he asked, glaring.

I had made a new rule for myself when we moved to the states—I would always take the time to respond to my kids; call it Operation Better Mother. “Sorry, classified stuff. Your name?”

The chief stared me down for a moment longer before continuing. His intimidation tactics had no effect on me. I had once worked for Hong Kong Police. I glanced at Wilkinson; he looked confused, probably wondering the same thing I had—why the grumpy order of police chiefs had gathered for us. But I suspected the reason was that we were about to be thrown into a hornet’s nest.

 

9

The chiefs looked uncomfortable in the oversized leather chairs. No good trying to hide the mood in the room. It was serious, bordering on gloom, and apparent no one wanted to be there. I started to think I didn’t want to either.

“If I could have everyone’s attention,” Reed spoke up. The leader of this shindig was about to start the briefing. He looked at Wilkinson. “Agent Kane.” And then me. “Agent Wilkinson.”

Wilkinson beat me to the punch and corrected the chief. “I’m Agent Wilkinson. She’s Agent Kane.”

The silence and the flat look on everyone’s faces told me they expected Agent Kane to be tall and broad-shouldered. What they got instead was a short, green-eyed firecracker looking up at them from across the table. I was used to it. So long as I wasn’t publically denied any ride at an amusement park, my height never bothered me.

Reed cleared his throat and then shifted in his seat for the third time. “I’m sure you have questions. I can start by answering the ones I know you’ll ask.”

This should be good.

Reed looked to be in his fifties—still young, but the worry lines across his forehead told another story. He clasped his weathered hands together and looked around the room before settling on Wilkinson and I.

“We are facing a grave situation—one we all would like to resolve quickly and quietly. What we discuss today must not leave this room. Is that understood, Agent Kane and Agent Wilkinson?”

We both nodded. “It’s my understanding that we’re here to consult on a possible serial killer,” I said. “I’m not sure what’s so secretive about that. You’ve only had your third body last night, which officially qualifies it.”

Reed didn’t blink, didn’t move… but only stared until he spoke again. “About seven years ago, we had a serial killer terrorize the city of Detroit and many of the surrounding towns. This went on for five… long… years.” Both hands helped him emphasize his point. “Forty-five victims, most of them in Detroit. Do you know what that does to a city, to the people?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to speak up. The seriousness with which Reed had delivered the information only filled my head with more questions seeking answers. “Our understanding is you caught him.”

Some of the chiefs shifted in their chairs as they looked toward Reed.

“We don’t want a repeat. Every chief of police you see here today represents a city that had victims the last go round. Some of them, including me, even have the pleasure of participating in the second go round. We’re all in agreement; we don’t want this to turn into another massacre. We believe we have a copycat on our hands.”

“Well, if you think it’s just a copycat, seems like you could throw enough manpower at it to put this to bed quickly.”

“Agent Kane, we were told by your superiors we would have your full cooperation. Did I misunderstand this?”

Note to self: Check with Special Agent Reilly on why we were sent. “You do have our cooperation. I’m sorry if I led you to believe something else.” Why is he so sensitive?

“We’re giving you and your partner full authority on this case. No matter what city a body pops up in, if it has the same M.O., you two will be the senior investigators on it.”

Take on every case? Oh, that sounds like fun. What else can I do around here? Hand jobs for the table? “What about the other detectives?” I asked.

“They’ll still work the case. Look at them as extra pairs of eyes and hands. Don’t be afraid to use them. Everyone here is behind this. Any resource you need, case files, access to evidence—Lieutenant White is your go-to guy, but feel free to reach out to any of us. Agent Kane, you come highly recommended. We’re looking to you to nip this in the bud.”

Don’t forget about the white male I walked into the room with; he’s helping too. I never thought I would see a room full of chiefs so scared of their own shadows. It worried me a bit. It’s not normal. Something isn’t right here.

As usual with briefings like that one, I had been thrown into a situation where I had the full support of everyone, so long as I stuck to the support they were comfortable giving. I also had complete control, so long as I stuck within the parameters of what they felt warranted enough control. Lastly, I had access to all the information they thought I needed to solve the case, not a file more. I knew the routine. It was bull, but I had never let it get in the way in the past and I wouldn’t this time.

Wilkinson and I thanked them with smiles long enough to carry us out of the room, not a step further. My partner leaned in and whispered, “What sort of clusterfuck did we just get handed?”

“The worst kind,” I said. “There’s more going on then the chiefs are letting on. That’s another case we need to crack. I have a feeling it’s the answer to catching our guy.”

 

10

White led us down a corridor away from the public areas of the precinct. “I’m gonna set you guys up near me. It’s quieter over here.”

Is that so you can keep a close eye on us?

He opened the door to a small office. We peeked inside and saw two desks, two chairs, and a large board for posting or writing on.

“This was an old storage area but we cleaned it out and use it for interrogations every once in awhile.”

I guess the cleaning didn’t apply to the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling?

“It’s your office now,” he continued. “My humble abode is just around the corner, past the men’s bathroom. Don’t be afraid to stop by if you need anything or have questions.” White took a step but stopped and turned back. “You guys have an idea on what kind of information you need?”

“Case files for all the previous murders and current ones to start with,” I said. Just then my cell rang. It was Po Po. I asked Wilkinson if he could continue as I stepped outside the office and walked a few steps away.

“Po Po, is everything all right?”

“Yeah, everything is fine. I’m calling to see when you’re coming home.”

“Wait, there’s a lot of static. Hang on.” I walked toward the front of the building. Much better. “I think I’m going to be out here for a while. I’ll see what I can do about coming back for a visit.”

Po Po grunted and then said, “Lucy wants to talk.”

I could hear the phone exchanging hands and then the sound of heavy breathing. “Hi, Mommy. I miss you.”

“Mommy misses you too, Lucy. Are you getting ready for school?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’ll have to show me what you did today when I get home.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Mommy doesn’t know yet.”

“Oookay.”

Before I could say anything else, I heard rustling and then silence. I walked back into the office. It smelled of turpentine. Wilkinson had already taken a seat at one of the desks. “The lieutenant is having all the case files delivered here. He said to give it an hour or two. Oh, and I cleaned off your chair.”

“Why? What was—”

“You don’t want to know.”

• • •

We spent the next few days holed up in the tiny office. I started to feel like a regular at the precinct—punching the clock and getting to know the vending machines. I even kept a stash of green tea in the break room.

A couple of uniforms had delivered a mountain of stuffed banker boxes to us that first day. Every single one of them filled with files from the previous and current case, so we were told. Without an obvious starting point, we just grabbed a file and started to read.

We dubbed all the victims before the Comerica Bank heist “pre-bank” murders. Anyone killed after that we called “post-bank.” It made it easier since there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to how the files were organized. I assumed all the information we needed was there; we just had to make sense of it.

It wasn’t until the third day that we found what we were looking for, something we should have had from the very start of the investigation.

“Got it,” Wilkinson waved a file in the air.

We had been searching for the original killer’s case file from the moment we got the boxes. Up until that point, we had developed a good grasp of who the victims were, but we didn’t know much about him.

“Michael ‘Blade’ Garrison,” Wilkinson read aloud. “Grew up in Sterling Heights. Did a year at Oakland Community College—”

“No med school?”

“Nope, not that I can tell.”

“Strange, you’d think this guy would have had a medical background given the way his victims died.”

“He could have gotten his information in a public library or online.”

Self-taught? “What else is in the file?”

“No previous arrests until he was caught robbing the bank.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” How did he get so good at being a bad guy without slipping up? “This guy terrorizes the city for five years, and it’s not until he robs a bank that they catch him. That make any sense to you?”

Wilkinson threw his hands up. “Why on earth would a serial killer suddenly want to rob a bank? It’s not like the skills transfer over.”

I listened as he continued to read out loud. “In a nutshell, he tried to rob the main branch of the Comerica Bank. Things went wrong. The police showed up. He took hostages and ended up killing fourteen people by either shooting them or cutting them before SWAT stormed the bank. He was found guilty of those murders, attempted robbery, and a slew of other stuff. Looks like that’s how they put him away. Sounds like amateur hour if you ask me.”

“What about the other murders?” I asked.

Wilkinson continued. “Well, it says he confessed to them.”

I picked up a file on one of the victims. “This one says, “Closed. Case solved.” I grabbed another. “Hmm, says the same thing here too.” It appeared as though Garrison did indeed confess to all the murders.

“Sounds like the dream case,” Wilkinson said. “Talk about caving in.”

My gut didn’t agree with what we had discovered. The guy they arrested for robbing the bank and killing the hostages turned out to be the serial killer they’ve hunted for five years. Talk about miracles.

Wilkinson looked at his watch and stood up. “You want the same thing?”

I looked at my watch; it was noon. “I’m sorry. I like chili dogs as much as the next guy, but I can’t eat another one of those things. It’s making me constipated.”

Wilkinson pulled his face back. I knew he hated it when I talked about bodily functions. He somehow had it in his head that there were only two things that ever came out of a woman’s body: babies and pee.

 

11

We took a two-block walk to the Coney Island restaurant where Wilkinson had been buying the chili dogs. Turns out they sold salads, too. Wish I knew. There were a couple of open booths, so we parked our butts in one.

“What are you thinking so far?” Wilkinson asked.

I scrunched my lips together before answering. “It’s like they took whatever they had and stitched the case closed.”

“You saying the stitching’s crooked?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“He did confess. Whether it was coerced, who knows? Does it matter if corners were cut on his case?”

“Good question,” I said with a head tilt. “The case against Garrison may not have been airtight, but everyone around here bought into it. He’s in jail.”

Wilkinson nodded at me. Just then, the waitress arrived and took our order. I waited until she was out of earshot before speaking again. “Let’s come at this a different way. All of the previous victims died from excessive bleeding, but not all of them were cut the same way. Some only had incisions to the carotid artery while others included the femoral artery as well.”

“You thinking there’s a reason for that?”

“Well, they bleed faster.” I sat back in the booth and flipped through a couple of case files I had brought along. “Hmm, just as I had suspected.”

“What?”

“Based on the sampling I have here, the victims that sustained three cuts were found in secluded areas, like a house or an alley. The victims that were found in public spaces had fewer cuts.”

“So Garrison didn’t always have time.”

“The more public the venue, the faster he had to be.”

“One cut, two cuts at the most.”

I nodded as I took a sip of my ice tea. “He needed to know exactly where to hit them. An incision elsewhere wouldn’t kill the person. Might even end up being a superficial wound.”

“And that’s where the medical training comes into play.”

“Exactly. Garrison had to be skilled. Which means our copycat is as well. Either that or he’s just some lucky nut slicing people up.”

Wilkinson looked at his notes. “Well, everyone of our post-bank victims had three cuts. The house and alley are secluded. They found the fisherman’s body on the shore of Lake St. Clair. It might have been a secluded area. But where does this theory lead us? This guy is a bit more selective?”

I shrugged, not sure if that angle took us anywhere either. “One thing is true; whether it’s one cut or two or three, he still has to know what he’s doing, because the incisions are so precise.”

The waitress placed a plate with two chili dogs and fries in front of Wilkinson and a fried chicken salad in front of me. His plate had more chili than bun and dog, like a big pile of slop. I watched him pick up the bun, and the chili poured off of it in glops. Yellow cheesy strands kept the chili in the plate connected to the chili on his hot dog. He opened wide, but still the thickness of that cylindrical meal was wider than his mouth and left a ring of chili around his lips. If he wasn’t so damn good looking…

I dug in to my salad. As I chewed, another thought replayed itself in my head. I tapped my fork at the edge of my bowl. “You know what keeps striking me as motive for Garrison?”

Wilkinson eyed me as he shoved the remaining half of his chili dog into his mouth.

“’He had to enjoy watching people bleed to death. There wasn’t any connection between his victims except how he killed him. He had to be getting off on the blood.”

“Makes sense,” Wilkinson managed as he finished swallowing. “So what does that mean?” Wilkinson asked. “That our current killer likes the blood version of Old Faithful? Also, why are we spending so much time figuring out a case that’s been put to bed?”

“Trust me on this one. The more we understand Garrison, the more we’ll understand our copycat.”

Wilkinson inhaled the last of his second chili dog and chewed. I poured more ranch dressing on my salad and mixed it in. I could sense Wilkinson wasn’t buying everything I said, but as my partner, he was willing to go along for the ride. I appreciated his trust. “This person could have been studying our original guy. According to the newspaper articles, some case details that should have remained off-limits were released. It was completely possible for someone to pick up where Garrison left off.”

Wilkinson swallowed the last of his fries and brushed his hands off. “Why go through the trouble of making the kills so exact? Most copycats are sloppy about it. This person is dead on.”

“Maybe he wants people to think the killer was never caught in the first place.”

We pondered our conversation while I finished off my salad.

Wilkinson broke the silence. “Where does it all go—the food?”

I shrugged, knowing he meant that as a compliment. My body was more athletic than curvaceous. Though, what I wouldn’t do to have more booty. Just for once I’d love to wiggle it, just a little bit. I wiped my mouth and reapplied my lipstick.

“You know, Garrison is being held in a prison not too far from us,” Wilkinson said.

“I guess it’s time for our first field trip.”

 

12

Grosse Pointe was an enclave for wealthy Detroit. A lot of old money resided in the neighborhood but the nouveau riche had started to take over. Either way, Preston Carter’s SUV, a Mercedes, allowed him to blend perfectly.

He parked his vehicle near the corner of East Jefferson Avenue and St. Clair Street and sat comfortably inside, hidden from the pummeling sun thanks to a large oak tree. Etta James crooned softly from the sound system as Preston hummed along. His windows were down, allowing the lazy breeze from the lake to carry its scent by him. He had been waiting for close to an hour with an eye on Strafford Lane, across the street. It led to a quiet cul-de-sac near the lake’s edge.

Almost time for another lesson, Preston chuckled. He was excited about the work he did. He felt people had to learn that there were consequences for their actions—that they had to be kept in check, made aware of such things. It’s my job to teach them.

Ten minutes later, an old pickup truck with lawn equipment in the back squealed to a stop at the corner of E. Jefferson and Strafford. The gardener was done for the day. Preston knew he had two hours before the man of the house would return from work. He started his engine and drove to the two-story brick house with white trim at the end of Strafford. Tall hedges surrounded the property to keep the neighbors at bay, with the exception of the side of the house that faced the lake.

Preston pulled his SUV into the driveway; the gate was on the fritz and therefore wide open. Of course, he had known that. A few seconds later, he rang the doorbell and waited.

The door creaked open, enough for a woman in her early fifties to peek out. She didn’t seem worried that a stranger had entered the property and stood outside her door. Preston was a good-looking man with a full head of hair. He stood six feet with proportionate weight. His attire was conservatively wealthy, and most importantly, he had a charming smile.

“May I help you?” the woman said.

“Sorry to bother you. Mrs. Walters… It is Mrs. Walters, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right. Do I know you?”

Preston let out a friendly chuckle and teetered back on his heels. “No, unfortunately we haven’t met. I know your husband, Dennis.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Preston Carter. Pleased to meet you.”

Mrs. Walters smiled, her guard completely down, as she opened the door all the way. Preston breathed in deeply. Lilac. How refreshing.

She wore a knee-length cream linen dress, and a single strand of pearls draped her thin neck. Her blond locks were pulled back neatly into a bun and held in place by a jeweled pin. She seemed extremely composed, though he did detect a hint of highbrow in her demeanor.

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, too, Preston. Call me Irene,” she said as she extended her hand. A few seconds later, she wished she hadn’t.

A Note From The Author

Thanks for reading my excerpt of Corktown. I do hope you liked it. You can find the story in its entirety on Amazon. It’s available in Kindle format and paperback.

Happy reading.

Ty Hutchinson

Author of the Darby Stansfield Novels

Author of the Abby Kane Novels