Rook: Red Files

By Tom Watts

Go back to the beginning.

Dive into the gritty world of Rook, the Jack Peterson Novella. Find out how it all began.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Watts
• Release date: Apr 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386590224

Tom Watts

Living in the lower mainland of BC, I bide my time between work, spending time with family, and hitting the road on my motorcycle. Every now and then I find the time to write and I hope to continue to do so. Thank you for your support.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

July 1998

Seattle

Here’s the thing about being a cop. People, those being both victim and perp alike, think you’re going to be the one who’s in control, who has everything figured out. They see the uniform and the badge, but not the person underneath. A uniform doesn’t feel pain; a uniform isn’t frightened. A badge can look at a dead body with a distraction bordering on apathy. But there is flesh and bone underneath that uniform. There is a mind and a heart, both of which recoil in horror when confronted with the depravity of their fellow man. Such were the thoughts of Officer Jack Peterson as he regarded the body of the dead woman at his feet.

You okay, kid? Frank Stanley asked. He was smoking a Pall Mall while leaning casually against the side of the building. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and tapped the ash to the ground. Not your first one, is it?

Shaking his head no, Peterson swallowed a few times. The woman was in her early twenties but appeared older because of the drugs and her life on the streets. The human body is an amazing thing, a marvelous machine, but you have to take care of it. The woman looked like she had ridden some hard miles during her short time on the earth, whether by circumstance or choice. She was lying on her back, one arm tucked underneath her body, the other by her head. Her face was turned to the side, away from Peterson — as if ashamed — and her legs were open wide. Stanley, a twenty veteran with the Seattle Police Department, figured rape but they’d need to do a SANE kit to confirm. She had a knee length skirt, which was pushed up to her mid-thigh. Her underwear had been torn off and tossed to the side. Her leather jacket was tattered, probably during the assault, and her neon pink tube top had been ripped off, revealing small breasts.

Not my first, Peterson confirmed as he struggled to compose himself. He had been on the job for six months but only with Frank Stanley for the last couple weeks or so. Just never saw something this bad.

Stanley pushed himself off the wall. He flicked his cigarette far away from the scene, where it bounced on the pitted pavement and disappeared into one of the half dozen potholes that surrounded them. It was not an area of town city council was looking to beautify. Urban planners tended to focus on main thoroughfares, places where tourists were likely to be found. If a tourist found themselves in this alley, in this part of town, they were surely lost and in a serious heap of trouble.  

Coming to stand next to Peterson, the older officer looked down at the corpse. You’re right, kid. This is a bad one.

Peterson had tried to count the number of stab wounds but couldn’t. Where one stopped, another began, and it created a patchwork of violence on the woman’s body. He had never seen so much blood and the smell of it hung sickly in the air. It was the level of rage that he found shocking. The woman had not been simply killed; she had been brutalized. Oddly, her face was pristine and free of blood. Her dirty blonde hair had been brushed back from her cheeks, the strands tucked behind her ears. She had a simple face, pretty in a plain way, and her blue eyes were glazed over and dull. What had they last seen, Peterson found himself wondering.

What did the rummy say? Stanley asked. He recognize her?

No. But he was pretty freaked out. Peterson and Stanley had been the first units to arrive after the initial dispatch. They had received the call a half hour into their night shift, finding the dumpster diver, who had discovered the body leaning up against a nearby building, shaking like a leaf. He was a homeless guy named Diego; Peterson had dealt with him before. Diego was pretty harmless, just your run of the mill drunk and disorderly and for the most part non-violent. After discovering the body, he had run to a local pizza shop to use the phone. They had given him a hard time, drunk as he was, but had eventually ceded to him making a call. Peterson had interviewed him on the opposite side of the building, far away from the body of the dead woman. Diego was half in the bag but his story came through clear enough. He didn’t get a good look at the body, Peterson now told Stanley. But she didn’t look familiar. It was a big city but the street people had a tendency to form a loose community and generally knew one another by either name or reputation.

Hmm... his partner mused. They probably got her prints in the system. Stanley was a tall man with almost shock white gray hair. He had a gray mustache to match, which he would sometimes stroke unconsciously when in thought. Peterson had been happy when he’d been told Stanley would be his partner after his recruit training had ended. His relationship with his previous trainer had been a strained one and Stanley was generally well-liked around the force, known to be fair and honest.

Both men were dressed in the standard SPD uniform. Dark pants and a light blue shirt. From time to time, Peterson would fiddle with the silver badge affixed above his heart, as if in disbelief that it was real.

They had been waiting almost an hour for the Homicide Unit to come and take over the investigation. Peterson had passed the time by conducting rudimentary neighborhood inquiries. Rudimentary in that it wasn’t the type of neighborhood who would’ve noted a sex trade worker walking the streets. In this part of town, they were a dime a dozen, found virtually on every street corner. No one had noticed a hooker with a leather jacket and a skirt. Or, if they did, they weren’t talking. After finishing with his inquiries, Peterson had returned to maintain continuity over the scene with the older police officer. Periodically, Stanley would grumble about the detectives taking their sweet time.

Slipping his hands in his pockets, Stanley nodded towards the body. What do you see, kid?

See what?

Stanley gave a quick shake of his head. What do you think, numbnuts? About the scene, about the dead chick. Anything strike you as odd?

Peterson looked down at the corpse again. He didn’t want to look at it any more than he had to. That’s not really my job. A sudden queasiness had gripped him. The woman’s blood was sharp and tinny and mixed with the smell of nearby garbage it made him want to puke. What’s the difference? The detectives will be here any minute.

But the veteran officer was having none of it. He looked crossly at Peterson. You a cop or ain’t you? ’Cause if you’re not, I can always get someone else to ride with me. He nodded towards the body again. Now tell me what you see.

Stifling a sigh, Peterson bent down, careful not to touch the corpse. He let his eyes scan past her, taking in the scene. They were in a dead-end section of an alley that served as a rear access for three joined businesses. Judging from the smell of the dumpster a few feet away, one the places was probably a restaurant. The stench of greasy, rotten food, which had spent half the day baking in the summer sun, was enough to make Peterson’s guts flip. He looked back down at the girl, forcing his eyes to travel over her body. Obviously Stanley had noticed something himself or he wouldn’t have bothered with this little game. He went over the details again, the ripped clothing, the stab wounds. It all looked the same as before, just as horrible. She wasn’t any more or less dead than she had been before.

I don’t see anything, he concluded, standing up.

Stanley pinched his nose and shook his head. Look at her purse, dum-dum.

The woman’s purse was a few feet away from the body, turned over, contents strewn on the dirty pavement. It was chunky fake leather, obviously a knockoff, with huge tassels hanging from a thick rope shoulder strap. It bore the usual prostitute working kit. Condoms, lube, makeup, a change of clothes. The handful of needles that had spilled out were almost an industry standard.

Trying not to sound petulant, he repeated his earlier statement. I don’t see anything, Frank.

For a second it looked like Stanley wanted to slap him upside the head, but he fought the urge. Sighing deeply, he bent down at the knees and motioned his recruit to join him. Her money’s gone. You gotta ask yourself if robbery was a motive. He pointed at the purse. Drugs too, looks like.

So, she was raped and killed as an afterthought?

Who knows, kid, but look at her face and tell me what you see.

He did as instructed. Now focusing on the small details, he saw what Stanley was talking about almost immediately. Her hair, he offered, frowning. It’s like she was cleaned up after. Peterson had noticed it before but had immediately disregarded it.

Bravo, kid, Stanley said, clapping, knees popping as he stood. So, maybe we’re looking for someone that knew the girl, someone who cared enough about her to clean up her face after.

A voice called behind them. Or just some freak show that likes to clean his victims up after making them a pincushion. They both turned in the direction of the speaker. Standing in the mouth of the alleyway was a middle aged man wearing a faded brown suit. He was a fat man who Peterson thought looked like a cheap couch. It was the way the fabric hung from his clothing, too lose even though the man was bordering on the morbidly obese. He walked towards them, hands in his pockets. Studying them, ignoring the corpse at their feet, the man spoke directly to Stanley. Jeez, Frank. You almost sound like a detective again.

The man took the rest of the scene in a quick glance. On his right hip he wore a snub nose .38 in a leather holster. Stanley took care of the instructions. Kid, this is Lucas Martinez of Homicide. Martinez, this is Jack Peterson.

Peterson stuck a hand out, which Martinez took. His skin was clammy but the grip firm. So, you the new rook, hey? Martinez said, releasing his hand. He did so with a slight smile on his face, revealing a gold plated tooth where the canine should have been. Peterson nodded, still too early in his career to be anything but deferential. The detective was on the far side of forty with thick, black hair that was greased back tight on his head. Taking a sight of the dead girl, Martinez whistled. Somebody had fun. You guys figured anything out yet?

Only that we’ve been scratching our asses waiting for you to show up, Stanley said. Shouldn’t you be riding a double car?

Martinez chuckled. Shit, man, what can I say? Budget cuts, man. I couldn’t afford a partner even if I wanted one.

No one can stand working with you, so what’s the difference? Stanley offered. Martinez offered another gold plated smile at this but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Stanley filled Martinez on the details of their neighborhood inquiries, scant as they were, as well as the information they had gathered from Diego.

Martinez sucked on a tooth. Shit. This one is going on the garbage heap like the rest of ’em. Peterson hoped that he was talking about the file and not the dead woman at their feet, but he wasn’t quite sure. He turned to Stanley and Peterson. Well, let’s bag ’em and tag ’em. He pointed to each of them in turn. Which one is my exhibit bitch?

Clapping Peterson on the shoulder, Stanley said, Junior man prove.

CHAPTER TWO

As a rule, the worst jobs go to the most junior man on the watch. Need something fished out of the trash? Call on the new guy. The more experienced members hated doing traffic duty and it was often provided to the junior members on the team. Dressed up as a learning opportunity, these tasks were often volun-told. Of all these jobs, Peterson disliked being the exhibit bitch the most. In terms of boredom and all around degradation, the duty was right up there with scene security. It was made worse this time around with Martinez running the show. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in ordering Peterson around and with the man’s rank and service the younger officer had no choice but to suck it up and come to heel. 

First, Martinez started a basic recording of the scene, using a camera to snap off a couple quick shots. He jotted details in a leather-covered notebook, slipping it into his front pocket once he was satisfied he had captured what he needed. Then the real fun began. Martinez threw a pair of latex gloves at Peterson. Pointing to the various items, he told