Jericho's Razor Read Free Page A

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    I was taken to headquarters. No surprise. A body turns up in your garage with no head and no explanation for how it got there, you had better be prepared to answer some tough questions. I briefly considered calling a lawyer, but didn’t spend very long mulling it over. I had done nothing wrong. I had the message on my cell phone to verify my story. And I hate lawyers.
    The cop behind the wheel was a kid who looked like he hadn’t yet grown into his uniform. He kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror and fidgeting in his seat. Clearly, he was not crazy about being ordered to bring the psycho downtown. Or maybe he just had to pee.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I asked.
    â€œRourke.”
    â€œYou can relax, Rourke. I didn’t kill that guy, so you can stop checking the mirror to make sure I’m not going to tear through the metal screen and bite your head off.”
    Rourke glanced back at me, but did not make eye contact. His gaze went back to the road.
    â€œYou wanted to see it, didn’t you?” I asked. “You wanted to see the body.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œTrust me, Rourke. You are much better off for not having seen it. I wish I didn’t see it. Hell, I may never stop seeing it.”
    â€œWas it really that bad? I mean, is it as bad as the stuff you write about? I’ve read your books. You conjure up some pretty graphic stuff.”
    â€œMy books don’t come close. My books are Disney compared to what is back there.”
    â€œNo shit?”
    â€œNo shit.”
    Rourke nodded, and we rode the remainder of the short drive in silence. He parked in the underground parking garage and led me up two floors in an elevator and through a hallway into the special investigations division. This time of night, it was completely deserted. I looked at the desks in the bullpen, observing what I could as I followed my escort. There were three pairs of desks. Six detectives, three teams. The area was experiencing heavy layoffs and hard economic times. People were out of work, and many had given up looking. But homicide detectives had job security. I wondered which team I would get. One of the desks was covered in Chicago Cubs fanfare. Another was just covered. It was a mountain of papers and files and boxes that looked on the brink of collapse. By contrast, the one beside it was so clean that I wondered if it belonged to anyone. Stacks of files were set to the left in perfect alignment. Everything, from the desk calendar to the keyboard to a penholder, was at right angles. A full pump bottle of hand sanitizer was beside the phone.
    Rourke took a call on his cell phone, turning his back and speaking in hushed tones. I still was not cuffed. Had I been dangerous, I could have attacked Rourke from behind, taken his weapon and had free reign of the floor. In my mind’s eye, I pictured Christian Black doing it. I casually glanced around the room, playing out the struggle. After a minute, Rourke ended his conversation with a crisp “Yes, sir,” snapped his phone shut, and turned back to me.
    â€œThe detectives are still at your building. If you want to wait in one of the interview rooms, one of them should be here in a few minutes. I also need to take your phone.”
    â€œMy phone?”
    â€œYeah. We need to have the tech guys look at that message. They may be able to get something useful.”
    â€œSure.” I said and handed it over. The screen had shown ‘Unknown Caller”, but there was really no such thing. Someone with the right know-how and enough patience could trace just about anything. Unfortunately, the kind of people who were good enough to do that sort of thing usually worked the other side of the law. It paid better. But I knew that was not the real reason he was asking for my phone. Cops did not allow people into an interrogation room with a form of communication. Rourke smiled as he took the phone, seemingly grateful that I