Raider's Grove: Crime Thriller

CHAPTER ONE

4:15 PM. Friday afternoon, another day in dreary Chicago. The streets are flooded with taxi-cabbies and agitated locals. One by one, they scurry about to their homes and offices all while trying to avoid the dreadful weather. The police station is the busiest it’s ever been; the perks are pouring in like rats and calls are blasting the switchboard.

Every officer is engaged in their own duties and they are all accounted for; except one. Michael Cornell, a hard knock strapping detective named who was highly decorated and well known throughout the windy city. A rebel of sorts, Michael tended to go out on a limb and act on his own accord. But as of late, Michael’s sudden tactics had begun to raise eyebrows among his peers and causing embarrassment to his superiors; first and foremost, Gordon Chandler; his commander and chief.

“Where in the hell is Cornell?!” Chandler’s voice bellows as he takes another puff from his cigar. For once during the whole afternoon, the room was still. All eyes turned toward Chandler and noticed the indignant expression that now formed on his face. Heads slumped down into their chests as others were too fearful to answer.

“Well, have you all gone death? Speak up already damn it! Where is he?!” Chandler snaps his fingers together as the loose skin under his arm shakes with such dispatch. He was known for his short fuse and constantly butting heads with Mike. Usually when it came to the detective’s whereabouts, one was not prone to covering for him out of fear of retribution from Chandler. However, those who did assumed that by ratting out Mike, it would mean getting on Chandler’s good side; if he had one.

Chandler stood with his arms crossed, waiting for a reply. A rookie rose from his seat and quietly spoke. His hair was fluffed like whip cream and soft as a ball of cotton His shirt tight fitting and his pants a size too big.

“Um sir, the last time I saw him, he said he was going to go bring in Pasty Paul…..sir.”

“Oh really?” Chandler’s voice was sneered. “How long has he been gone?”

“He left a few hours ago sir.”

“It was around about noon.”

“He said you wouldn’t mind.”

The rookie’s hands were glistening with sweat. He struggled a small chuckle from the middle of his throat trying to lighten the situation. Chandler’s eyes narrowed and his lip was tight. His chest heaved up and down, his skin flourishing with crimson.

“When he gets here, you tell me. Is that clear?!” He growled out the last few words before he returned to his office and slammed the door.

“Yes sir.” The private replied quietly and sat back down. Everything resumed as if the last five minutes was just a minor setback. The sound of computers, voices and ringing phones continued as Chandler remained in his office.

Seconds later, Mike busted in through the swinging doors dragging a hand-cuffed pasty Pauley by his collar. A two-bit drug dealer from Detroit, Pauley had a knack for winding up on the wrong side of the law. Although he was a regular, Pauley never seemed to stay long. Thanks to the amount of unscrupulous lawyers that seemed to merge whenever trouble arose, Pauley was always out in the blink of an eye. He reeked of bad news and Mike loathed him with a passion.

As they reached the sign-in desk, it was then that old pasty decided to endeavor in brute force. He lunged toward the detective with his flimsy fist, only failing as he received one of Mike’s all-time favorite left hooks. Wham! The blow was swift, causing numbing pain to seer through Mike’s knuckles and pummeling Pauley to the hard floor. Shocked by the display, two officers popped to their feet, quickly escorting Pauley to a cell. His nose bled ferociously as Mike’s hand began to swell. Pauley took the tip of his shirt and wiped it across his nostrils leaving a smear of blood behind.

With adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Mike glanced around the station to see if he could detect any sign of the chief. Surprisingly, he saw none. Mike then expelled a sigh of relief. As much as he enjoyed a good tongue lashing with the chief, given the day he had so far, Mike could do without. He headed for his desk when suddenly he heard a door screech open.

“Cornell!” The Chief yelled. “Get in here now!” His voice rumbled like summer thunder, disturbing everyone in the station once again.

Mike turned face him, walking steadily toward his office. Crossing over the threshold, the door slammed behind Mike, rattling the floor beneath his feet. The large room is dark with a blood maroon painted on the walls. The shades are drawn tightly, shutting out the world from his work. There is a small lamp on the far side corner of Chandler’s desk. Its light bounces off the walls, creating a minor ounce of visibility. A heavy scent of cheap cigar smoke and over-drenched cologne lingers in the air. By now, Mike is extremely nauseated. He swallows hard, breathing through his nose to keep from gagging.

“Sit down.” Chandler commanded Mike slouched in the chair and crossed his arms; his posture conveys a cocky poignancy, infuriating the chief. Chandler jerks his own chair toward him, the wood creaks and grinds as it accommodates to his excessive weight. He places his elbows on his ash-covered desk, taking another puff from his cigar. Chandler gawked at Mike with displeasure, their eyes boring into one another with such concentration. Chandler’s eyes read nothing but intolerance as Mike’s is filled confidence and blamelessness. No longer delaying the inevitable, Mike spoke calmly.

“So Chief, what can I do for you?”

“What the hell is your problem detective?”

“I don’t have a problem sir.”

“Oh you don’t do you?” So striking a man in custody is not a problem?!”

.”Mike shrugged his shoulders, smirking boldly. “He was resisting arrest.”

Chandler’s eyes narrowed, grinding his teeth. He was sickened as he watched the tremendous display of arrogance that sat before him.

“Do you find this funny?!”

“No not at all sir. The way I see it, I was just doing everybody a favor. I’m pretty sure that everybody in this station has been just waiting for an opportunity to knock the lights out of that scumbag; including you. I basically just granted their wish. So instead of giving me the third degree, you should be thanking me of a job well done.”

“Thanking you, Ha! Are you even listening to yourself?” Chandler laughed off Mike’s words and shook his head. “This isn’t a comedy skit! This is serious! You broke the rules! My rules! You think you could just waltz in here and do whatever the hell you want; I don’t think so!”

Mike rolled his eyes, exerting a deep breath. He had been down this road before; breaking the rules under Chandler’s command, enduring the hopeless lecture and receiving childish punishment for his “misbehavior.” Nothing good never came out of it, except the fact that Mike got time away from all the insanity; one of which he would be happy to miss.

“So what’s my punishment now, huh? “Two week suspension?” “A month?” “A year?” Mike joked.

Chandler raised his eyebrows, chuckling loudly. A similar smirk formed on his face as he lay back in his chair, staring at Mike.

“I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Having free time to lie around and sulk.”

“Well it beats hanging around here, getting these lame ass cases that even a rookie would tell you to go to hell. A little here, a little there, it’s a joke. So I popped Pauley. So what! You want me to apologize?! Please! It was either going to be him or somebody in this station; possibly you, if you would have got in my way.”

Mike spoke the words slyly, enraging the chief. Chandler’s temper expanded like a balloon ready to pop. But instead of completely attacking Mike as he normally did, he took a breath and gave a reasonable response.

“Look, you’re a good cop Mike and a damn good detective. But you’re lashing out, throwing away your reputation on scum like Pauley. You are drowning yourself and you don’t seem to care.”

Chandler stood and walked toward his window to open the blinds. The rain was still heavy with large droplets trickling down the window pane. Mike rotated his hips in the chair, semi-crossing his legs.

“That’s not what I’m doing, okay.”

“Then what is it then Mike?! Spare the embarrassment, alright! Too many damn times I’ve given you a slap on the wrist only for you to screw up again and again and again. And I am tired of it! Boy, you are lucky that I knew your father. Because if it were anybody else, you ass would be grass; heading for the unemployment line! Each day, you are smearing his name with your actions, without a care in the world, only for yourself.”

Chandler’s choice words sunk into Mike’s very core, replenishing the image of his father inside his head. His father, Martin was a well-loved officer who had kept the streets clean for nearly two decades. He dedicated himself to his job and the people of his home. Everyone admired him and tried their best to live up to his name. Mike loved his father deeply and would never do anything to hurt his legacy. Arrogance was now lost as regret was soon to replace Mike’s emotions. He lowered his eyes, uncrossing his arms and placing them in his lap.

“Fine” Mike sighed “I get it.”

“I’ll try to do better.”

“It’s not about that Mike. This isn’t kindergarten. It’s not like I’m asking you to make a B the next time on a math test. I’m telling you to get it together. There is no trying, only success. You got that. I don’t want to hear no more from you. You understand. Get it together and get it together fast!”

Chandler pointed his finger toward Mike to make sure it stuck. The single digit is smudged with cigar ash, creeping under the nail. Mike lifted his head to look at Chandler dead in the eye. He thought of something clever to say but stifled.

“It won’t happen again.” Mike promised.

“Well that’s good to hear detective; for your sake at least.” Because if it does, you won’t be suspended again. You’ll be without a badge… Understood?”

Mike looked away and nodded a silent yes. He had been tapping his foot since he sat down. His legs were now numb, compelling him to leave instantly. Starting for the exit, he was soon stopped by Chandler.

“Wait a sec, I got something for you.”

Chandler opened his cabinet drawer. Mike turned to see him holding a file in his right hand. The word “URGENT” was displayed in big red letters on the front with Mike’s name written in black letters in the left hand corner. He hesitantly stepped forward to take the file from Chandler. The folder was thick with white papers, bound by a cream colored rubber band. Mike removed the rubber band from the file, placing it in his jacket pocket.

“What’s this?” He asked.

“It’s your new case. There’s something going on in Missouri.”

“What kind of something?” Mike leaned against the file cabinet and flipped open the front folder.

Chandler raised his right arm to place it on top of the cabinet. He breathed in a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“Well local police discovered two boys last night by a creek near a small town. The coroners said that they were strangled to death with some kind of thick rope and thrown into the creek. The names were Timmy Mason and Reese Simpers.”

This was nothing out of the ordinary to Mike. Cases like these were a dime a dozen, seemingly always ending the same way as any other.

“This is just a double homicide.” Mike assumed.

“Well, not exactly.” Chandler replied. “If you read a little further, it gets a little…. strange.”

“Strange?” Mike probed.

“Both of their hearts were carved out and they had brands burned into their hands and feet.”

“OK, that is weird.” Although not yet convinced, Mike was intrigued. He flipped through the files, gaining a sense of deja vu as if the case had already crossed his path. Seeing the gruesome display of what used to be two vibrant young boys, Mike was impaled with sadness and remorse. No older than twelve or thirteen; it was a great shame that their lives had been extinguished so soon and so violently.

“My god, they’re young.”

“I know. It’s tragic.” Mike closed the file and tucked it under his arm. “So what does have to do with me?”

Mike waited for an answer from Chandler who was hesitant to reply. He walked over to his desk and pull out a fresh new cigar from his bottom drawer, revealing a green lighter from his right breast pocket. He lit the cigar and inhaled a great puff of smoke.

“Chandler, I asked you a question. What does this have to do with me?”

Mike was impatient. He refused leave without a solid answer.

“One of the boys, Simpers, had a note in his pocket. I was told that your name was written on that note.”

Chandler was right. It was a weird situation. Much more than Mike had expected.

“My name?” Mike said puzzled. “How would either of those boys even know me?”

Chandler shrugged his shoulders and scratched the back of his head. His hair was thin with only a few strands barely covering his large cranium. He often slicked it back due to pure laziness and a high tolerance for personal grooming.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” The chief answered.

Mike removed the file from under his arm and placed it on the cabinet. “No thanks.” He retorted. Mike was desperate for some action but he didn’t want his first case that he’d had in months to be something completely off the scales of reality.

“No” He had said. “No” and that was going to be the end of it. Inches from the door; in one swift motion, Mike would exit the potent room. He placed his hand on the doorknob, twisting it slightly. The door seeped open fresh air that drifted in from the outside. Mike welcomed this scent and was finally able to breathe properly.

“Come on Mike. You have to.” Chandler pleaded.

Mike paused, his hand still on the doorknob, feeling the weight of Chandler’s words. He turned back to face the chief, his expression a mix of determination and resignation. “Fine, I’ll take the case. But don’t expect me to buy into any of this supernatural nonsense. I’ll investigate it like any other homicide.”

Chandler nodded, his face showing a mixture of relief and concern. “Good. Just find out what happened and bring whoever did this to justice. And Mike, be careful out there. This case might be more dangerous than it seems.”

With a firm nod, Mike exited Chandler’s office, the weight of the new case heavy on his shoulders. As he walked back to his desk, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that lingered in his mind. Something about this case didn’t sit right with him, but he pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Sitting down at his desk, Mike opened the file once more, determined to start piecing together the puzzle of Timmy Mason and Reese Simpers’ deaths. Little did he know, this case would take him down a dark and twisted path, testing his skills as a detective and pushing him to the edge of his sanity. But for now, all he could do was take it one step at a time and unravel the mystery that lay before him.

As night fell, the day swiftly passed, the clock soon striking 10:45 PM against the brick wall. Finally, Mike’s shift ended. Rising from his seat, he stretched, his neck popping like bubble wrap, his bones crackling in his spine. Tidying his desk, he gathered his jacket, keys, and the beige file containing his new case. Exiting the station, his footsteps echoed in the stairwell, the cold metal railing soothing his swollen hand.

Outside, his 1968 cherry RS Camaro awaited, its black suede interior gleaming under a layer of dust. With a roar, he pulled out of the lot, cruising past closing shops and streetlights until he reached his apartment building. Climbing to the third floor, he entered apartment 146 A, greeted by the cobalt blue decor and dirt brown carpet that covered the hardwood floors.

After shedding his shoes and jacket, Mike grabbed a beer from the fridge and heated up some fried rice. Settling into his worn recliner, he ate ravenously, washing down the chalky taste with sips of beer. Turning on the TV, he flipped through channels until settling on the world news, where Sarah Chance reported on the “Horror at Raider’s Grove,” stirring old memories between them. Exhausted, he switched to late-night sports, burping loudly as he sank into the chair.

As the clock ticked past midnight, Mike dozed off, the Chinese food tumbling to the floor as his snores drowned out the TV. Comfortable in his semi-conscious state, he slept until 3:18 AM, when the phone’s ring jolted him awake. Groggy, he answered to the sound of a distressed woman, her words nearly lost in the static. Just before the call ended, she screamed, “Raider’s Grove!” leaving Mike bewildered in the silence.