Page 5 of Tortured Eyes
Two
“Didn’t think you’d still be here, boss.”
I look up from my screen and eyeball whoever just dared interrupt me.
“Um, yeah, I’ll go.” The rookie makes a retreat sign with his thumbs before rushing from my door. Maybe he’ll think better of it next time.
I lounge back in my chair and kick my boots up on the desk, staring at the gallery of photos on the board. Violent crimes. Yeah, no shit. Blood and death stare back at me, whispering their secrets that I’m yet to decipher. But I will.
Just not tonight. I have somewhere to be.
I grab my jacket and slam my door shut, rattling the metal frame as I stomp down the dimly lit corridor to the access door. Three rounds of security and I’m out of the station and heading for my bike. It’s a bitch in winter. Chicago has an icy bite that can put a dampener on being out in the elements, but nothing can beat the adrenaline rush I get from the roar of the bike. And there’s only one place that can keep my thoughts as clear and focused as on my bike.
It’s not a long ride out to Rosehill Cemetery. I’ve travelled it so often over the years it’s automatic, and I let the bike do all the work. When I pull up outside, I notice the time. They’ll be closing soon, but that’s never stopped me before. I kill the ignition and pull my helmet off before heading for the gates. It’s a good five-minute walk, but I could find my destination blindfolded.
“Hi, Dad.” I pause and listen to the light rustle of trees around me. It’s the most peaceful place in the city—my salvation on some days. Or I just refuse to leave my dad here, forever alone.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier. You know how it is.” I crouch down and sit, crossing my legs in front of his grave. “How is it four years?” I look at the dates chiselled into the gravestone and mentally rewind to when he was still with us. “It seems like yesterday. But I do have some good news. Benjamin Vico died last week. It’s been all over the papers. Of course, he’s being portrayed as the model citizen, and there’s no word of the Canes, but we know better. No further leads, but I won’t give up, Dad. I promise.”
I stand up, feeling uneasy with yet another visit and nothing more to say. “I’ll see you soon.” I kiss my fingers before pressing them onto the cold stone, a swell of regret and grief threatening to pull me back into depression. “I love you.”
Refusing to dwell on things in the past that I can’t change, I leave, determined to do something about the things I can.
Darkness shrouds my apartment when I finally get home. I kick the door shut and double lock it—force of habit and one I don’t intend on breaking. “Hall lights,” I say. I’m welcomed with a warm glow as I ease my way past the small console table and turn into my bedroom to set my gun on my nightstand.
Job one, done. The hallway opens up into a large, open-plan living space. Some would describe it as industrial. Or empty. But it suits me fine. “Main lights,” I command, and the three lamps around the space all begin to glow. Before I’ve even opened the fridge, I know what I’ll find. A handful of raw vegetables, some leftover take-out, coconut water and two beers—an odd combination and one that isn’t a rarity. Tonight, I grab for the beer, head to the round wooden table in the corner of the kitchen and pull the box of Dad’s old cases towards me.
“Here’s to you, Dad.” I toast the man who was everything to me and drain half the bottle.
My fingers run over the stack of papers, the manilla covers to each file now yellowed with age and wear. My fingers have crawled over every sentence, every letter, time and time again. I know them by heart. All the cases. All the details. But that doesn’t stop me opening them again. None of these are active investigations. They're all unsolved crimes. Or rather, crimes that no one wants to solve. They're also what my father was working on when he died.
Missing people. Murders. Unexplained events.
My father believed that they were all connected to the Cane family and their business. Of course, he couldn’t prove it. He became obsessed with these cases in the last years of his life, pouring his time and energy into them. But he couldn’t find the evidence that he was so convinced was there. At first, I thought Dad was crazy, that he just needed to let some things go, and this was one of them. He was a cop in Chicago all of his life—a beat cop who’d seen enough to know that you couldn’t save everybody, but he wouldn’t let this go. For the last few years of his life, investigating the Canes and their associates became his obsession. Until a routine drug bust… except nothing was routine about the junkie who decided his next hit was worth more than my dad’s life.
And now his task sits with me.
In four years, the only thing I’ve managed to do is add to the pile of suspicious crimes that seemed to vanish or go nowhere. Or, in my own opinion, cops were paid off, which means evidence has disappeared. I don’t believe in coincidences, and there are too many for no one to know what really happened with these particular cases.
Over the years, I’ve widened the search, linked associate crimes or suspicious open cases with similar markers by speaking with other forces. Chicago and New York are the hot spots, but I can’t rule out others such as Miami. This stack of cases that dates back over twenty-five years, now weighs on my shoulders. I owe it to my dad to find the answers he was looking for.
I finish my beer and scan over the first file. So many nights and so many hours given to the jigsaw pieces of these crimes and still they don’t fit together.
This one is as familiar as all the others. Four missing people, a reported gunshot victim taken to the hospital, and a crime scene left with nothing but a gun with no prints or connections. A dead end. No further witnesses and no statements. Who was the girl who reported the shooting? What happened to the victim? And how did the missing people tie in? Did they?
The dates and notes printed on the papers blur into one as I try to see the truth behind them, desperate to find the one thing I might have missed the other hundred times I’ve looked. But there’s nothing new. My fists ball and pound the desk in frustration with myself and the impossible task in front of me. As I stand, my chair knocks back and slams against the floor in disgust at my inability. I owe it to my father to crack this, not stare at half-truths and poor reports.
Agitated and pissed off, I leave the past on the table in favour of something I can control. All day, I sift through facts, figures and traces of evidence to find the truth. To reveal the truth behind each crime and punish those responsible. Being methodical and meticulous are two traits I’ve honed over the years, but sometimes you can’t beat the endorphin rush from physical exertion.
* * *
“Hey, Jimmy.”
“Bryce, my girl. Didn’t think you were on?”
I raise my eyebrow at him. He knows better than to quiz me on when and why I’m here. Hell, if it weren’t for me, he’d be bored shitless most of the time.
“Okay, lady. I get it. I get it.”
