Face Off by Emma Brookes

back and the handshakes, that he wasn’t the only officer who had been sickened by the events of the previous night.
    Three days later, before his leg had properly been set, Willie Rodriguez disappeared from the hospital. Six months later Jim ran into him again, hustling anything he could on the streets, and dragging a gimp leg along.
    As an officer of the law, Jim knew he should report Willie as an illegal to be deported. But by then he knew that Willie had kept seven young Mexican men alive in the hot train car by shinnying out of a tiny space in the ceiling and going for food and water whenever there was a train stop. He was the only one small enough to do it, and at any point could have abandoned them, disappearing into the countryside.
    Besides, Jim figured, Willie was left with a crippled leg because one of his own kind wanted to flex his muscles. Screw it. He wouldn’t give him up.
    Willie was still eyeing him warily when Jim stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, Willie. How’s it going? Did you get to your dad in time?”
    Relief and admiration played across Willie’s features. “Sí. I was with him two weeks before he died.”
    And with that, a friendship had developed between the two men. Several years later, when amnesty was granted to many of the illegals, Jim had made it a point to see that Willie got his papers.
    Now, Jim was sixty-three years old and Willie had passed fifty, but they still looked out for one another and both men trusted each other implicitly. That was what worried Jim. Willie kept his ears to the pavement. He could weasel in and out of places without anyone ever realizing he was there. After talking with Willie, Jim felt in his gut that the story of the Kansas City Butcher wasn’t over yet.
    There was a light staccato beat on the door to Caswell’s office. Jena Karnitz, a first-year detective, stuck her head in. “Chief, you won’t believe this, but we have a murder on Brighton Avenue. Same MO as the butcher—body parts scattered about.”
    â€œSonofabitch!” Caswell exploded.
    â€œAnd, Harry…” Jena’s tone indicated that there was a marked difference between how she viewed the nearly sixty-year-old, graying, potbellied, married chief, and the thirty-seven-year-old, unmarried Harry, who was six foot four inches of lean muscle. “There’s a nun here who wants to see Clark. Shall I let her go back?”
    Harry nodded. Right now, the last thing he had time for, was Randal Clark’s religious needs.
    â€œGet the ME on the phone, Jena—Davis, if he’s available, and get him over to Brighton. Jim, let’s roll. This has got to be a copycat, but we won’t know for sure until Davis checks. Good thing there are a few little facts that the copycat couldn’t know. Maybe that will keep Nordyke off our asses.”
    Chief Caswell’s office was located down a narrow hall, just slightly off the main activity room. When Harry hurried past Jena out the door, he saw the nun standing off to the side, and thought to himself that if the nuns who had drilled catechism into him in his younger days had looked anything like this one, he might have learned his lessons. She was tall, with thick eyebrows and lashes, and a complexion which was flawless, except for the film of sweat covering it. There was just something about the woman that caused Harry to slide to a stop. “You wanted to see Clark?”
    Suzanne nodded, dropping her eyes demurely. “Yes, sir.”
    Harry glanced at Jena. “Fix her up with the phones for a few minutes, then.”
    â€œThe phones?” Suzanne questioned.
    â€œYes,” Jena said. “We have a two-way phone where you can speak to Clark through a glass window.”
    â€œOh, but that won’t do!” Suzanne protested. “I need to touch Clark.” Her mind searched for a logical reason for the request. “I need to anoint him. You know,