clipping my own nails for years now.”
I was surprised, and a little impressed. “I guess we were both wrong to stereotype.”
“Agreed. So what is it you do like doing, if I might ask?”
“Competition shooting. I’m the best marksman in the district.”
Shell raised an eyebrow. “Marks man ?”
“The Chicago PD is still getting used to the idea that someone with boobs can shoot. All of my trophies have little gold men in Weaver stances on top of them.”
“I bet that pisses off your fellow law enforcement officers.”
“It does,” I said. “That’s why I do it.”
Shell stood up, holding out his hand. “So, Officer Streng, are you ready to piss off more of your coworkers by catching this psycho murdering my girls?”
I took Shell’s hand. “There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.”
Present day
2010, August 10
I had to take a break from rubbing the rope against the edge of the concrete. The salt Mr. K had applied had gotten into the raw skin on my wrists, and the pain was otherworldly. I could have worked through the pain, but it was so bad it caused me to cry, and the crying was accompanied by a runny nose.
With the ball gag in my mouth, the only way I could breathe was through my nostrils. A stuffy nose could kill me.
So I rested, keeping still, trying to calm down enough so I could regain control over my emotions. I’d never felt so along before. The only company I had was the unknown machine humming in the background, and my thoughts and memories.
It would have been okay if there were some good memories mixed with the bad.
Unfortunately, my head was filled with bad stuff that refused to fade away.
Most of the bad stuff revolved around my career. I’d chased, and caught, my share of human monsters. But catching them, or even killing them, didn’t bring their victims back. It also didn’t make me sleep any better at night.
Before my recent retirement, I’d almost called it quits several times. I never did, but I had come pretty close. In my never-ending quest to prove myself to my coworkers, I’d endured a lot of sexist and chauvinist attitudes. A lot of male cops didn’t think women had what it took to work Homicide. It was too ugly for their delicate sensibilities.
In my opinion, it was too ugly for anyone’s sensibilities, female or not, delicate or not. But the fact was, women did have a definite disadvantage when working violent crime cases. It didn’t have to do with physical brawn or stronger stomachs. It had to do with empathy.
Women in general had the ability to feel the emotions of others. Pain in particular.
I’d seen a lot of pain in my years on the force. It was tough to handle.
Coming upon some horrific crime scene, seeing what some psycho had done to a fellow human being, was difficult for me to cope with. Because I could put myself in their place.
I could see their last moments. The struggling. The fighting. The final breath. I could hear their pleas for mercy. I could feel their fear, their agony, sense their helplessness, imagine their horror so deeply it had led to a lifetime of nightmares. That is, when I could get to sleep at all.
Thinking back over the victims I’d encountered, two stood out as the absolute worst ways a person could die. Both were at the merciless hands of Mr. K.
One was known as the Guinea Worm.
The other, the Catherine Wheel.
Lying there in the storage locker, eyes closed, I couldn’t help but shudder at the horrible images they induced.
I also couldn’t help but wonder what was making that ominous humming noise next to me.
Three years ago
2007, August 8
W hen backup arrived at Merle’s U-Store-It, there was more vomiting, every time someone new showed up. I got wise and pulled a garbage can over to the scene, but that was about the only wise thing I’d done that day. Even Phil Blasky, who had a stomach made of titanium and could often be seen eating lunch while doing an autopsy, flinched when he saw the body.
“He’s
I was surprised, and a little impressed. “I guess we were both wrong to stereotype.”
“Agreed. So what is it you do like doing, if I might ask?”
“Competition shooting. I’m the best marksman in the district.”
Shell raised an eyebrow. “Marks man ?”
“The Chicago PD is still getting used to the idea that someone with boobs can shoot. All of my trophies have little gold men in Weaver stances on top of them.”
“I bet that pisses off your fellow law enforcement officers.”
“It does,” I said. “That’s why I do it.”
Shell stood up, holding out his hand. “So, Officer Streng, are you ready to piss off more of your coworkers by catching this psycho murdering my girls?”
I took Shell’s hand. “There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.”
Present day
2010, August 10
I had to take a break from rubbing the rope against the edge of the concrete. The salt Mr. K had applied had gotten into the raw skin on my wrists, and the pain was otherworldly. I could have worked through the pain, but it was so bad it caused me to cry, and the crying was accompanied by a runny nose.
With the ball gag in my mouth, the only way I could breathe was through my nostrils. A stuffy nose could kill me.
So I rested, keeping still, trying to calm down enough so I could regain control over my emotions. I’d never felt so along before. The only company I had was the unknown machine humming in the background, and my thoughts and memories.
It would have been okay if there were some good memories mixed with the bad.
Unfortunately, my head was filled with bad stuff that refused to fade away.
Most of the bad stuff revolved around my career. I’d chased, and caught, my share of human monsters. But catching them, or even killing them, didn’t bring their victims back. It also didn’t make me sleep any better at night.
Before my recent retirement, I’d almost called it quits several times. I never did, but I had come pretty close. In my never-ending quest to prove myself to my coworkers, I’d endured a lot of sexist and chauvinist attitudes. A lot of male cops didn’t think women had what it took to work Homicide. It was too ugly for their delicate sensibilities.
In my opinion, it was too ugly for anyone’s sensibilities, female or not, delicate or not. But the fact was, women did have a definite disadvantage when working violent crime cases. It didn’t have to do with physical brawn or stronger stomachs. It had to do with empathy.
Women in general had the ability to feel the emotions of others. Pain in particular.
I’d seen a lot of pain in my years on the force. It was tough to handle.
Coming upon some horrific crime scene, seeing what some psycho had done to a fellow human being, was difficult for me to cope with. Because I could put myself in their place.
I could see their last moments. The struggling. The fighting. The final breath. I could hear their pleas for mercy. I could feel their fear, their agony, sense their helplessness, imagine their horror so deeply it had led to a lifetime of nightmares. That is, when I could get to sleep at all.
Thinking back over the victims I’d encountered, two stood out as the absolute worst ways a person could die. Both were at the merciless hands of Mr. K.
One was known as the Guinea Worm.
The other, the Catherine Wheel.
Lying there in the storage locker, eyes closed, I couldn’t help but shudder at the horrible images they induced.
I also couldn’t help but wonder what was making that ominous humming noise next to me.
Three years ago
2007, August 8
W hen backup arrived at Merle’s U-Store-It, there was more vomiting, every time someone new showed up. I got wise and pulled a garbage can over to the scene, but that was about the only wise thing I’d done that day. Even Phil Blasky, who had a stomach made of titanium and could often be seen eating lunch while doing an autopsy, flinched when he saw the body.
“He’s
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