Dead Ringers

By Tish Cook

Summertime in Chicago. The heat is on - in more ways than one. Homicide detectives Lora Cannan and Doug Pope catch a grizzly triple homicide.Three wealthy teenagers, strangled, almost decapitated by some kind of . . . something. Their bodies have been dumped in the South Side, where gangs, drugs, and drive-by shootings are the norm. But these teens don't belong there. They're from high-dollar upscale neighborhoods in the north end of the city.They reek money.
In the coming days more bodies are found, all teens from wealthy neighborhoods; all dumped in South Side locations. No evidence or DNA is left behind, no clues as to who is responsible.
Cops know a serial killer is at play. But in Lora's search to find the killer, she has no idea just how close that playground really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tish Cook
• Release date: Aug 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463619643

Tish Cook

Self-published author. Novels include: When You Speak My Name, The Parrot In the Parlor, Wednesdays At the Red Pepper Cafe. Also writes under pen name Hinds Beverley for her latest Chicago homicide detective Lora Cannan series.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The one-eyed monster lurched down the pitch-black alley, diesel fumes belching from its underbelly. Night was slowly giving way to a cloud-free dawn, shifting from tepid and damp to stifling and swampy as the sun ushered the sliver of moon away and began its daily arc over the city.

Thousands of flies, moths, and mosquitos danced feverishly in the narrow beam of the one-eyed monster while rats—some the size of a small dog—darted from one side of the alley to the other in search of an early morning meal. Not-so-distant freight trains, their whistles piercing the darkness, the weight of their cargo spawning small quakes under foot, lumbered past one another in the dark.

Melvin Cobb slumped in the sagging driver’s seat of the one-eyed monster, yawned and gripped the aging, cracked steering wheel with his calloused hands. Melvin was big, like an NFL lineman that had gone from firm to flabby, with a belly that sagged over the top of his grease-stained jeans. His dark eyes flicked from side to side, hoping to find a fat rat in mid-stride so he could veer over and try to take it out. It was about the only pleasure he had at this time of day.

But driving the one-eyed monster was better than hanging onto the back end of it. That was Tyrell Jackson’s job this week, standing on the small, grimy platform, holding onto the safety bar with gloved hands so he didn’t slip off, swatting at flies and mosquitos, breathing through his mouth in an effort to keep his breakfast down, waiting to find another overflowing trash can that needed to be dumped in with the rest of the putrid mass. And when the gaping cavity at the back would begin to overflow, Tyrell would press a button above the right rear tail light. Seconds later the one-eyed monster would growl and groan, and the whole mass would be shoved deep inside, like stuffing sausage into a casing. Then the ravenous hole would open again, waiting for more. And there was always more.

Next week Melvin and Tyrell would trade places, and Tyrell would be the rat hunter. Not the best job in the world, but it was a pay check. Unlike Melvin, Tyrell wasn’t planning a career in waste management. He’d enrolled in community college, and would start in the fall. Higher education, avoiding the gangs, jail, or a bullet to the back of his head were his main goals—not keeping track of today’s total rat kill.

Tyrell was tall and rangy, with broad shoulders, biceps the size of footballs, blonde-tipped spikes for hair, and a lean face full of stubble. The ladies found him irresistible, and Tyrell had a reputation for keeping them all satisfied.

The single headlamp lit a small swath of the right side of the alley. Melvin, his head bobbing to the beat coming from his ear buds, made a mental note to let the guys at the maintenance shop know. How could he go rat hunting with only one headlight?

In the back, Tyrell finished tossing the contents of an old, dented, rusty can in with the rest of the garbage, then hopped on his platform, grabbed the safety bar, and waved for Melvin to move on to the next gaggle of dented, rusty cans. The truck lurched briefly—something it did every time Melvin put his oversized, steel-toed shoe on the gas pedal—then crept along at a slow, steady pace.

Suddenly the truck stopped. Tyrell instinctively grabbed the safety bar with both hands. Damn, he said and steadied himself on the slippery platform. What’s he doin’ now? He waited a couple of seconds. He knew Melvin did that sometimes when he was bored. Stomp on the brakes . . . then hit the gas. Another one of Melvin’s games. When the truck didn’t move, Tyrell stuck his head out and waved. C’mon, man. ‘Nuf of this shit. Still, the truck idled in place, the smothering smell of diesel fumes hung in the dampness.

He jumped down off the platform and stomped toward the driver’s door in the darkness. What the fuck’s the problem, man? Always happens when I’m on back. It ain’t funny, man.

He hopped up on the driver’s side running board and looked in. Melvin was in the sagging driver’s seat staring out the windshield, his hands frozen to the steering wheel, sounds of rap music pounded out of his ear buds.

Don’t tell me this muthafucka’s broke down again, Tyrell said. His voice had a sour tone to it.

Melvin was staring at a large blob in front of the truck, half of it lit by the single headlight, the other half in darkness. He pulled the ear buds out, letting them fall to his lap. He jerked his chin toward the blob. Tell me that ain’t what I think it is.

Tyrell glanced at the blob, then back at Melvin. What the fuck you think it is? It’s garbage, man. C’mon. We got a route to finish. I got shit ta do t’day.

Melvin took a deep breath and swallowed hard. His voice shook. I ain’t so sure. You . . . you better check it.

Tyrell mumbled something about stuffing something up Melvin’s ass, hopped down and walked toward the blob. As he closed in on it, his eyes were drawn to two more dimly-lit blobs, each one lay about five feet from the other. Maybe they were just rolls of carpet, or the losers from one of many nightly dog fights. He’d seen almost everything while doing his job – refrigerators, bed bug-ridden mattresses, rusted barbeque grills, rotting food, dirty diapers, broken windows and doors, dead rats, clothes, shoes, beer bottles. But rarely had he seen anything like this. He hesitated for a few beats. His heart started to race. Best approach it with caution. He wished he had his Ruger with him right about now, would feel a lot safer.

His heart thumped, and a drizzle of sweat trickled down his back. He shuffled closer, scuffing the worn soles of his work boots on the alley’s rocky surface. He squinted; it was hard to see with only one beam of light. The closer he got, though, the more the shadows began to look less like a roll of carpet or a dead dog. Tyrell took one final step and stood over one of the blobs and looked down, then turned toward the truck and waved. Call the cops, man. Call the cops!

He finished vacuuming, cleaning and wiping down the front portion of the vehicle’s interior, then moved the sponge and bucket of industrial-strength cleaner to the second row and squeezed his tall frame inside. There he vacuumed again, picking up any and all debris. Finally he triple-wiped the entire floor before moving to the driver’s and passenger’s side. He was drenched with sweat and his body ached, but he couldn’t stop until it was done. His long legs were beginning to cramp from the close quarters, but he ignored the pain and focused on the cleanup. He chuckled when he got to the back row and saw a wet spot in one of the plastic-covered seats.

He spent the next half hour washing every inch of the exterior, even the undercarriage, wheels, brakes, and tires. He used high-intensity lights to be sure nothing had been missed. When he finished and was satisfied that all evidence had been washed down the drain, he went into the tiny office, pulled a tattered notebook from a bottom drawer of the aging oak desk, and laid it in front of him. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, grabbed a pen from the old, chipped coffee mug that sat near the corner of the desk, clicked it, and began to write . . . Finally. Everything worked like it was supposed to. I never thought I’d get to do three at one time. Little bastards. I knew they had money, but their plan was to rob me. The fun part was that they never saw it coming.

Chapter 2

Doug Pope nudged the unmarked out of the parking lot and onto East Fifty-First, then picked up speed. A couple of blocks later he turned onto South State. He glanced over at Lora, who was fanning herself with her hand.

A triple stack. What a way to get welcomed back.

She pushed the AIR button and sat back and stared out the passenger window at the passing scenery. The farther south and west they went away from the city, the more the gleam of downtown Chicago waned, the more dilapidated the structures became, the more depressing the landscape.

Long-abandoned buildings pressed into the crystal blue sky like tattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Ratty-looking car washes, empty lots with sun-faded, bullet-riddled For Sale signs, Mom and Pop grocery/liquor stores, paint peeling on every side, steel bars or heavy wire mesh covering every window and door, houses caving in, pigeons circling for no apparent reason, then landing in a flutter on their favorite sagging power lines. More than a hint of festering garbage hung in the air.

Lora Cannan and Doug Pope were headed for Washington Park, a community just south and west of downtown Chicago. Some sections of Washington Park were known as the ‘hood, where life could be hard, the sound of gunfire often sent bullets on deadly trajectories that routinely took the lives of innocents, gangs ruled, and life expectancy for some was well below the national average.

Nothing but the best for you, partner, Lora said as the cool air finally flowed from the vents. She looked over at him. That was a nice welcome back this morning, huh?

He grinned. Yeah, who knew I was missed so much by so many?

Eight months.

Yeah.

Too much or too little?

He shrugged a bit as he flipped on his turn signal and changed lanes. It was different. You and me, we’re Homicide. Those guys, they only got two things on their mind—well, maybe three. He let out a sly grin. First, find the perp and bring them in alive, or . . . He shrugged. Dust them before they dust you. He raised a brow. Bet you can guess what number three is."

She stared straight ahead. So, it was intense?

He cocked his head. You still stuck on number three? I can give you a hint if you need one.

She leaned over and turned the fan on full blast. I get it. Bet your wife enjoyed it when you got home.

Hot to trot.

So it was intense.

The sex? Hell, yeah.

She took in a deep breath and blew it out, then held his gaze for a few seconds.

Doug nodded. Oh, that. Yeah. Talk about an adrenaline rush. I think I’d been there only about two days when we got a call. There was this guy, Jeffrey Glass. Bad fucker . . . sliced his girlfriend, now his ex. Put her in the hospital.

What a peach.

Yeah. Got nipped, then bonded out. Somewhere along the line he thought it was okay to skip his court date.

Go figure.

Real pillar of the community. Ten of us headed out. We were jacked. It took three days but we found him. In the attic at his brother’s house.

He cleared his throat. He resisted a little.

She looked over at him. I’m sure he did.

He shook his head slowly. You know, if he’d just come down when we asked. And we asked very nicely.

No doubt.

He braked at a stoplight.

She adjusted the vent again, this time directing the air onto her arms. Would you do it again?

He squinted and flipped the sun visor down. I don’t know. It’s kind of like being on the fire department. You sit around drinking coffee and bullshittin’, playing games on your phone. Then, WHAM, you get the call and everybody goes into high gear. You can just smell it. I see why some guys would never want to do anything else. It’s definitely a rush.

"So that’s a yes."

The light turned green. He glanced both ways, then lifted his foot from the brake and accelerated. Let’s just say the F.A.U. is part of my résumé now.

So the guys were good?

Most of ‘em have been there a long time and know the drill. Yeah. Great guys, but they’re all business when it counts. Some are strung as tight as a hooker’s G-string. It didn’t take much to get them ready to rumble. To tell you the truth, I kind of liked the rush. It’s like a hound on a scent. Always sniffing, looking. It’s a hectic pace until you find the runner. Then the real shit happens.

They were quiet for a couple of blocks. Bright sunlight flooded in. She squinted and lowered her visor, then pulled a few stray hairs behind her ears.

Doug glanced over at her. So you’ve been back for what. Couple of months?

She nodded. Yeah. Thanks for helping out.

You’ve thanked me already. I didn’t do that much.

Yeah you did. Just a phone call or a text, ‘hi, bye’ was good enough. I knew you were busy.

So, you’re all better now.

She sank back in the seat and took another deep breath, swiped at her bangs. Pretty much. The scars are starting to get lighter and I’m down to just a couple of extra-strength ibuprofen a day.

I hear they’ve got a good medical Marijuana clinic in the loop.

She let out a laugh. Yeah, right.

He braked again, this time for a slower car in front. His voice got serious, which didn’t happen very often. We almost lost you.

She pulled at her bangs again. I know.

Thank God Kane was there.

I know.

He glanced over at her. Don’t do that again.

A thin smile crossed her face. I don’t plan to.

I hope you cross running in a thunder storm off your list.

Already have.

They rode on quietly for a couple more beats. His voice brightened. I can’t believe you’re actually getting married.

She turned to face him. Me either.

He flipped on his signal again and passed the slower car. It’s about time.

A bigger smile erupted. Yes it is. In her early forties, Lora Cannan was somewhere just south of five feet six inches tall with a head full of thick auburn hair that cascaded over her shoulders, deep blue eyes, and freckled face.

You know, it just seems like yesterday I was bouncing you on my knee, putting that Gloc in your tiny little hand, showing you how to shoot the bad guys and the right way to drink a boilermaker. He sniffed and wiped away fake tears.

She rolled her eyes. You’re so full of shit. First off, I was drinking that stuff way before they stuck me with you.

He raised a brow. Ah, but the Gloc. Remember, I taught you how to hold it. You looked so cute with your tiny little holster hanging on your tiny little belt.

If you don’t knock it off, I’ll show you just how good I am with my tiny little Gloc. She made a pistol shape with her thumb and finger and pulled an invisible trigger. Doug Pope, or Padre to his fellow detectives, had been Lora’s partner for almost nine years. He was seven years older and ten inches taller than her, with sparkling eyes and neatly-trimmed thinning brown hair that was shot through with more than a few strands of gray. He cleared his throat again as they turned onto West Fifty-Seventh. Ah, I see we’re fashionably late, as usual.

Flashing red and blue lights, a couple of Medical Examiner and CSI vehicles, a cluster of onlookers, and several local news vans clogged the street, told them they were at the right place. He nudged the unmarked up next to a sagging chain link fence. As they got out of the car, a big, brown, angry-sounding and angry-looking dog charged toward them from behind the sagging chain link fence. With menacing black eyes, barking, growling, showing off his nasty-looking pearly whites, the hair up on his back, he screeched to a halt, daring them to come into his territory. His wasn’t the only bark that could be heard. The area was crawling with dogs. The sagging chain link fence didn’t look all that secure, and Doug instinctively put his hand on his hip holster. During his years on the force, he’d tangled with pearly whites before.

Well, hello, big boy, Lora said softly. What a handsome lad.

The dog put away his pearly whites and wagged his tail, which wagged pretty much the entire back half of his body. His eyes had lost most of their menace; his bark, though still loud, was less angry.

Doug shook his head. I don’t know how you do it.

She shrugged. You know I speak dog.

And cat.

She cocked her head. I’m bilingual.

He stopped in mid-stride. Gees, Boom Boom. I . . . I had no idea. He did an exaggerated slap to his chest and raised his eyebrows. Does Kane know about this? On the eve of your wedding?

She held his gaze. You’re hopeless.

It’s good to be back. The grin filled his face.

That’s debatable. Let’s go see what we’ve got here.

Twenty feet away a tall, barrel-chested uniformed officer with deep-set brown eyes and a two-day-old beard stood guard by a yellow strip of crime scene tape that stretched across a long, narrow, trash-filled alley. One end of the tape had been tied to a decaying wooden gate at the back of somebody’s property; the other end was tied off around a weathered, insect-eaten power pole. The officer occasionally flexed his biceps, which looked like they could shred his shirt sleeves, and held up his hands or adjusted his stance in order to stop curiosity-seekers from ducking under, or hopping over.

Damn, it’s hot, Lora said. She wished she’d opted for cotton slacks instead of wrinkle-free polyester this morning. Her legs were already beginning to feel like boiled Polish sausages, and the tan poly suit jacket she wore over a navy sleeveless blouse had to go. She stepped back to the unmarked, shrugged off the jacket and dropped it on the front seat. She reached into her pant pocket for an elastic band and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Stray hair blown by a hot damp west breeze tickled the sides of her face. She could feel the fuzz fest coming on. Her silky, ponytail wouldn’t be silky much longer.

Lora flashed her badge and looked at the uniformed officer. What’ve we got?

Three vics. Trash guys found ‘em early this morning, the uni said. Sweat crept from under his cap and drizzled down his temples. He swiped at his cheeks and the sides of his neck with his hands.

Apparently they didn’t get a chance to finish their route, Pope said with a distinct sniff. His eyes were drawn to a grizzly scene. Three bodies lay in an alley about thirty feet away.

Lora fumbled in her other pant pocket for her jar of Vicks, opened it and smeared a dab on her upper lip and into her