The Redcap Case Files

By L. Lane

Detective Christopher Coyle, a member of Chicago’s finest, is back from suspension. He was awakened in the dead of night and given the most sinister case of his career. To make matters worse, he was partnered to the often-mysterious and off-putting Constable Ignatius Abernathy.

Needless to say, Chris regrets many things, especially getting out of bed and answering his phone. To make matters worse, he can’t shake the feeling that there is someone following him. One thing is for certain: Coyle’s meticulous documentation of his first encounter with the supernatural and uncanny will leave you questioning what’s real and what’s fantasy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532052897

L. Lane

L. Lane is a Chicago native and resides in a small town in northwest Illinois. He is the eldest son of seven children between two sets of parents. He is a 6-year veteran of the Army and Illinois National Guard. He is also completing the psychology program at the University of Phoenix. L. Lane a husband and a father of two wonderful children. He also volunteers his time In the CASA/GAL (Court Appointed Special Advocate/ Guardian Ad Litem) program for abused and neglected children.

Book preview

ONE

Date: 23 JULY

Time: 0233

Location: Home (Taylor St.)

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THE DAY STARTED OFF shitty, and that was before I realized it wasn’t Sunday anymore. I hate Mondays. Nothing good ever happens on Mondays. I usually have Mondays’ off for precisely that reason or rather I did, before I got suspended. My Lieutenant didn’t like my attitude. He told me I was insubordinate. I gave no fucks. I saved a little girl’s life and put a monster in the ground, but that’s not the story you’re here to hear. The chances are that if you opened this case file, you are here to read about him.

I never should’ve answered my phone. I should’ve turned it off, but I’d forgotten. Ride of the Valkyries blared from my cell phone and damned near gave me a heart attack.

"Are you gonna answer that?" Brandy half groveled.

"No, I like this song," I grumbled.

"Dammit Chris! Some of us have to work in the morning!" She yelled as she hit me with a pillow.

I looked at my phone. It was some expensive touch screen LED flashing gizmo that Brandy had given me for my birthday. I didn’t like it, but my mama always said, "Never turn down anything free."

The screen was flashing and vibrating. The Caller ID told me it was Sergeant Phillip Edwards on the other line. If I were smart I would’ve pushed ignore, hell I should’ve pushed ignore, but something about this phone call drew me in. I mean it felt like destiny was waiting on the other line.

I answered it. I wish I hadn’t, but I did. The phone hissed and static poured in from the other end. It was raining, or maybe he was standing under a bridge.

"Ray’s Pizza bus, Home of the Hotdog Pizza. What can I do ya’ for?"

I should’ve known how bad it was when Edwards didn’t crack back. There was a moment of silence as the receiver hissed when he spoke.

"Coyle, 27th and Polk." He started in with his grizzled voice.

Jesus! That’s like five blocks away! I blurted out.

Yeah, I know…you got an hour. He demanded.

I thought I was suspended, last I checked. The phone disconnected.

Usually, Sergeant Edwards calls to chew my ass for mistakes or give me cases, but it was going on nearly a month since he called me. I was a pariah; I was blacklisted for not playing ball like all the other second-grade detectives in my precinct. Hell, my career was only held by the threads of my name, my father’s name: Christopher William Coyle. It was the only thing he left me. He walked out on me and my mom, and he’d done it on a goddamned Monday. Go figure.

The crime scene was only five blocks away, and Brandy had rolled over and gone back to sleep. So, I did what any reasonable adult male would do, I laid back down and rubbed my Ol’ ladies ass. Doing that every day before I get out of bed represented the closest thing I have to a regular ritual. When you sign on to date a Chinese girl from little china on the west side of Chicago you shouldn’t expect her to have an ass, but Brandy’s ass was perfect, and I say that as an expert.

Chris if you don’t get your hand off my ass you’re gonna lose it. Brandy grumbled at me. I guess she wasn’t asleep.

C’mon babe, how about one for the road? I joked.

She rolled over and glowered at me but my God it was hard to take her anger seriously when she looked at me. She was beautiful. Long silky black hair, high cheekbones, full pouty lips I could kiss for the rest of my life. Besides, like me, Brandy was in law enforcement, but she worked for the ATF also known as Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms Enforcement Agency. She was good too, scary good. Brandy was fast-tracking her way to a director slot. She understood the job on a fundamental level.

Dammit Chris! Would you just go to work! I don’t wanna’ see your ass skulking around here tomorrow talking about how bored you are. It’s been almost a month, and the bills aren’t gonna pay themselves.

Why would I care about bills? I said as I sat up. Hell, I got a hot asian sugar mama who buys me anything I want. She laughed. I love the way she giggled and snorted lightly at the end, especially when it was unexpected.

"Hot asian sugar mama my ass! Go to work. She demanded. Starting things you can’t finish as usual…"

What Brandy wants brandy gets. I got up and threw on a pair of jeans and a black Batman T-shirt.

It was dark and my room and much like my life at the moment, was a mess. Brandy was the neat freak.

We had a truce: As long as I left her side of the room unblemished, she would overlook the sty considered to be my portion. I tripped over something and stubbed my big toe. I swore something unintelligible and monosyllabic; it hurt like a mother…

I told you to clean up your stuff! Brandy blurted out,

"Oh my God! Are we starting this again? like, right now?" I called out.

She sighed in response and went back to pretending to be sleep.

I padded to my living room and plopped myself down on my expensive leather couch. The dog, Brandy’s dog, also known as my mortal enemy, best known as Jimmy, the Pomeranian ‘Pulverizer’, was sleeping there with a huge bone tucked into his front paws. He has a dog bed, but he refused to sleep on it. The little bastard thought he was a Saudi prince or something. But I tolerated him because he barks when people show up uninvited, and I hate people even more. I searched the floor for my shoes and grabbed a pair of vintage Air Jordan 12’s. The red and white suede ones. I slid my foot in the left shoe and damn near had a heart attack. My foot smashed into something that felt vaguely like dog shit.

I know it couldn’t have been dog shit because that’s just impossible… We had a truce. It was tenuous at times but upheld. I didn’t touch his shit, he stayed out of my way, barked occasionally and we didn’t have problems. Yet upon closer observation, it was dog shit. A fresh turd stewing in my Air Jordan’s.

"I’m gonna kill this damn dog!" I roared at the top of my lungs.

Jimmy barked as if he was saying, "Yeah, I shitted in your shoes, come at me brah!"

"Jimmy, the room… Now! Brandy called back. "I’ll buy you another pair tomorrow. Love you lots. K thanks bye!" She said in a sing-song voice before slamming the door and just narrowly clipping Jimmy as he trolloped into the room and hopped on the bed… My bed.

Did I mention I hate Mondays?

TWO

Time: 0301

Location: 27th and Polk. St (Crime Scene)

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THEY HAD YELLOW TAPED rolled out, and lights were blaring when I arrived on the 27th block of Polk on Chicago’s West Side. It was 3 o’clock in the morning, and people were walking around like it was 6 o’clock in the goddamned evening.

Somebody should tell these people to go to sleep, but it shouldn’t be the police. The people in this neighborhood don’t trust us. Hell, black people don’t trust the police in general. I’m not sure if it’s the authority figure or the years of oppression, but when they see the boys in blue, they either clam up or break out running. That was especially true here. It turns out the scene was right on my uncle Vicks block. I spent a lot of time here as a kid. Aw shit whatever it is, it must’ve been bad. I just hope it wasn’t a family member. My cousin Gerald’s got a skewed view of how the world works, but he’s a good guy, I mean he smokes a little recreational bud, but he isn’t a thug. I’d hate for him to be caught up in this. We were thick as thieves and twice as nice.

I sat in my truck for a moment. I needed to gather my thoughts because once I was back in the show, there wouldn’t be time for me to stop and think. I took in a deep whiff of my cars air freshener. Black Magic. It went well with my 2002 black Chevy Tahoe, a 13-year-old monster that lumbered through the city. I called him Stein, Short for Frankenstein.

He got his name because he had parts from all over the place. It started as a project car I picked up in college. I bought it from a junkyard for a class project. Me and two of my friends worked on it, and my friends let me keep it.

I just added parts to keep the beast alive. What resulted was a black Tahoe with rust spots. I leaned over and reached into the glove compartment box for my sidearm, a Sig-Sauer P320. It was a fiberglass marvel, green and black. I had to pay extra for that. It wasn’t service issued, and Brandy went all out for it. Sergeant Phillips gave me a ton a shit about it, but he let me carry it as long as it was well maintained and not too flashy.

I got out of my truck and took in the first impression of the scene. All of the leading media outlets were here. It couldn’t be that hard for them to reach the area fast considering it was off of expressway 290. People were crowding the area muttering and chattering. It was mostly stuff about how it was probably another cop shooting. That’s the new craze these days. How many cops can you peg with the title of being crooked or discharging their service weapons without just cause? It was bullshit, but it was a part of the job.

I rubbernecked for a bit, doing what jaded detectives do. I looked, listened and took notes. The crime scene was an empty lot on the side of a red brick apartment building across the street from a park. The neighborhood kids used it to play football, and occasionally the tenants of the building parked their cars there.

The people all looked like herded cattle except for one random guy. A white male, between the height of 5’11 to 6’0 feet tall, skinny, not like a fitness fanatic but more like a sickly thin man or swimmer. He had Short blonde hair with brown eyes. Hawkish features that were borderline feminine. His eyes were puffy like he had been crying recently. I mentally noted his features. White guys don’t just come to this side of town, and definitely not at 3 a.m. This guy didn’t look homeless. He was dressed like a typical white guy in a white striped polo and periwinkle pink shorts.

I walked over to the police tape casually, trying to not attract attention to myself, but that was hard when you’re 6’2, black and built like a tank. I wasn’t ashamed of it either. I’m about 220-something pounds of Grade-A smartass. I reached the next row of yellow tape only to be met with Thing one and Thing two, freaking rookies’ fresh out of the academy and still wet behind the ears. They looked at me like I was one person from the area. Technically, I was one person from the neighborhood. I could see it all over their faces. I was an animal to them, one to be herded and locked up. Hell, a black man walking around at 3 a.m. I needed to be put down for the safety of others. They didn’t say that, of course. They couldn’t say it, but their eyes told the story their mouths wouldn’t.

I don’t like racist cops, and I damn sure don’t want racist trigger-happy rookie cops on my crime scene, or anyone’s crime scene for that matter. It’s bad for business.

"Sir you’re gonna have to stay behind the tape," Thing one on the left said. He had a New York accent.

I stood at the tape and crossed my arms then glowered. I just wanted to see how squirrely they were. Thing two placed his hand on the stock of his sidearm. Then glanced over at Thing one.

You think you’re gonna need that officer? I asked casually.

Thing one repeated himself, this time louder. He said it loud enough so his superior could see him doing his job, and mostly to cover his ass. Here at the CPD, we’re all about covering our asses.

Sir! You need to get behind the line like everyone else! He repeated.

I raised my hands to protest a little more and I guess Thing two caught a glance at my sidearm and all hell broke loose.

"Gun!" He yelled frantically.

With the reflexes of an academy trigger happy officer, Thing one drew his sidearm and pointed at me.

"Hands in the air now!"

I obliged him. When a trigger-happy racist cop points a gun at you, you do whatever the hell he tells you.

"Easy there officer, you don’t wanna’ make this kind of mistake a few weeks out of the academy."

He cocked his head to the side slightly in confusion.

"Sir, just get down on the ground…Now!" Thing one barked.

He was gonna’ kill me. I could see his finger was hovering over the trigger. He was looking for a reason to end me.

What the hell is going on over here? Sergeant Edwards barked quietly. He didn’t want to make a scene.

"He’s got a gun!" Thing two barked back.

Idiot! Of course, he has a gun, he’s a fucking cop! The officer in charge noted.

What? I didn’t see a badge sir, Thing one pointed out.

That’s because I have his badge! Edwards swore. "You’re making a scene in front of the civilians and the news. Jesus, we don’t need any more bad press. Holster your weapons you dumbasses!"

Most of the time Sergeant Edwards and I don’t see eye to eye. He’s 290 pounds of surly black man with a side order of balding pate and muscle pains. To top all of that off, he was wearing a brown polyester suit as if it were the 90’s. He reminded me of an extra from Beverly hills cop. He was my dad’s old partner, and he looked out for me, but most of the time he’s an asshole with a heart of gold. He’d had a clean-shaven head today, but he was sporting a 5 o’clock shadow and his beard hair was speckled with flecks of grey and white. If you stood close to him, you could smell his aftershave. I think he was wearing brut tonight.

It’s a real bloodbath over there, Edwards mumbled.

He pulled a pack of Marlboro reds out of his jacket pocket. He tapped the bottom three times then casually pulled a cigarette out with his lips. He lit the cigarette and took a drag so long I thought he would finish it in one pull.

"That bad huh?" I asked.

Kid, you have no idea. He said as smoke poured out of his mouth like fog creeping over a bank on a crisp summer morning.

"Listen, word came down from the top for you to be the lead in this case. Honestly, I thought it was bullshit, just the boys upstairs looking for a person to railroad when this one goes south." He stated in a matter of fact tone.

I figured, I noted casually.

"Chris, whatever you do remember to cover your ass." That was always Sergeant Edwards’s motto. "Cover ye’ ass!" It was the only commandment, and it was a damn good one. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gold badge.

"Here you got a new badge," Edwards noted.

‘Wait a minute… my badge is silver." I pointed out.

"This is your new badge. Congratulations, you just got promoted," The Sarge joked. Then he tossed it to me

By now I thought my life was taking a turn for the better, but the things that happened next would balance the scales…

THREE

Time:0323

Location: 27th and Polk St. (Crime Scene)

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"HEY YOU! YEAH, YOU! Come here, rookie." I pointed at thing one.

Me? He mouthed silently, gesturing at himself as though equal parts surprised, confused, and stupid.

Yeah you! I said. "Get your ass over here!" I insisted.


He shuffled over to me. "Yes…detective." He groveled emphasizing the words as if he still couldn’t believe it.

New York, right?

Yeah, how’d you know? He asked skeptically.

It’s all over you like a bad stink. I snapped back.

Listen detective, if you don’t have anything useful to say- His voice trailed off as he gestured for the yellow tape and his spot.

What’s your name officer? I asked evenly.

It’s McGill, Roy McGill he confessed, but it felt rehearsed like he wasn’t telling me everything. I stuck a pin in that one for later.

"Well officer McGill Listen closely, I want you and Thing Two over there-" I gestured over to the other officer who was holding the line steady with him.

Who? he asked with an honest to goodness look of confusion on his face. This guy was a prankster’s wet dream.

"Listen, you and your partner are going to canvas the area and question people. Then I want you to detain that man over there." I tilted my head toward the white guy in the crowd.

"That guy? Why? He hasn’t done anything." McGill protested.

"Jesus McGill! Did you learn anything at the academy?" I drawled.

"Yeah, but that guy isn’t breaking the law," he replied obtusely.

Uh-huh…anything seemed odd or off about that guy? Anything at all? I asked. McGill paused for a moment, as he took quick glances at the guy without staring too long. "He’s middle-aged, clean-shaven respectable height; he’s wearing a polo shirt. He’s recently been crying." McGill noted.

The kid was sharp and dull at the same time. Good… Now, what else stands out about ’em? I prompted.

"He’s tall-ish?" He replied.

What else? I let my impatience slip into my tone.

He’s the only white guy standing in a crowd full of black people? He said in a questioning voice.

"Exactly!" I smiled.

"That’s racist," he noted with the expression of a man who knew the ice was thin.

"Call it a hunch, racist is so… 90’s" I rebuffed.

"I don’t think the States Attorney will like us detaining people based on hunches…Sir, I mean detective" He noted with a dash of resurrected attitude. "Of all the bullshit I could’ve-" McGill started.

"What’s that Officer?" I said.

"Nothing…I got it. Detain the guy." He quipped

"Make sure you do it all without shooting anyone!" I jabbed at his already delicate ego. Freaking rookies…

Now that that was taken cared off; I could check out the crime scene. It’s my least favorite part of the job. Seeing dead bodies is a buzzkill. I’m not trying to seem like an asshole or insensitive, but death is a scary thing. It’s a nasty business, and anyone that tells you otherwise is lying or crazy.

I walked over to the crime scene, flashing my shiny new badge to every officer I passed. I was greeted with the traditional fanfare: A detective on the scene moved aside, another one surrendered evidence and the occasional demand for people to "stop polluting my crime scene with your clown-like footprints." Right away it hit me, It was hard.

The putrid smell of bowel movements and copper (that’s the blood) hung in the air. You never get used to it, the smell of death I mean, even when you think you should have. Tonight it was unusually heavy, as was the reason for it. Approximately 13 feet up was the body of a white woman nailed to the wall. There was Arterial blood spatter all over the walls where she hung. It was strewn about like the wet dream of a starving artist.

Ugh… there was a shit ton of blood, looks like all she had. The human body holds approximately 10 pints give or take the hydration levels that day and she must have gotten her 8 cups of water. I walked over to our unit’s workstation and pulled a pair of blue latex, then put them on.

Officers were standing around and trampling my crime scene and if there’s one thing I hate, its people fucking up my crime scene. I raised my hands up in a commanding, not-to-be-fucked-with gesture and raised my not-to-be-fucked-with outside voice. "Alright… Everyone who isn’t a lead detective or CSU, fuck off."

In a matter of moments, disgruntled officers were out of my way and holy shit I wish they hadn’t left.

I still remember to this day, the frozen look of terror in her glassed over eyes. The poor girl died with her eyes open. She was crucified and hung upside down. She was alive during the assault, and the sick fuck made sure she could see everything. Fountains of scarlet blood had spewed from a long gash on her abdomen. Her intestines had slid out. I got a little closer. No, they were pulled out, slowly and meticulously.

You could tell by the way the cut-line of the wound changed from a horizontal incision to torn flesh that the injury was stretched to accommodate the action that followed. The smell was terrible; it felt cruel and off-putting. She didn’t die on an empty stomach. Her hands and legs had railroad spikes driven into them. Where the hell do you find railroad spikes lying around? A possible clue, maybe. What’s the likelihood of tracking down railroad spikes?"

"This is by far the worst I’ve seen yet." I heard a man with a watered-down scottish accent telling a CSU tech.

What the hell is a scotsman doing on my Crime scene?

"Hey you! …Sir." I started.

Who said the CPD has no manners? The man turned around and faced me. First impression time, I scanned him. He was about 5’11, thin but fit like a runner. Green eyes, clean shaven, blonde hair cut in a hipster’s wind-blown high and tight. If he weren’t wearing an Armani black suit with a matching vest, I’d swear he’d just run a marathon… and liked it.

Me? Are you referring to me? He said as he pointed to himself.

Yes I am, I added as I got in his face.

"I am Constable Harper Ignatius Abernathy of the Scotland Yard and Interpol Joint Task Force. Why are you at my crime scene sir?" He asked with a faux-puzzled expression on his face.

"Yeah Well, I’m Detective First Grade Christopher W. Coyle, and I was wondering the same goddamn thing about you?" He was naming names and dropping titles, so I did the same thing.

"Ah, so you’re Detective Coyle. Somehow, I expected him to be…. White and shorter." He stated as he walked over to me.

I couldn’t tell if that was an insult or an observation, so I returned with a broadside of my own.

Well, I thought everyone at the yard wore handlebar mustaches and a monocle. I rebuffed.

I admit it wasn’t my best work, but if he wasn’t gonna’ use a filter than neither would I.

Let me see your credentials." He pulled out his badge and a bundle of papers, secured with a single hemp string. I glared at him for a second.

"What?" He asked.

You just walk around with your paperwork tied up in bundles? He didn’t respond he just patiently waited for me to vet him.

He was legit, well his paperwork was anyway. There wasn’t much I could do about Interpol, especially considering the first crimes took place in Scotland, according to his documents.

"So… Constable Abernathy, what can you tell me about the perp?" He looked at me and sized me up then sighed.

"I assume you mean perpetrator." I shrugged as I walked over to the body, trying to avoid the pools of blood.

"This is the latest in a string of serial sexual assault murders." Abernathy said as he stood next to me.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another crème folder, also rolled up, then handed it over.

"How many times has this happened before?" I asked.

"In four years, it’s happened 16 times."

"Are you serious right now?" I stammered out.

"You still haven’t caught this son ova bitch?"

"It’s not for lack of trying," Abernathy swore.

"Every time we close in on him he jumps to another country and lays low for a few months, then starts the process again."

So, is his M.O. is always the same?"

His eyes widened. "I assume you mean Modus Operandi?" Abernathy corrected.

"Listen constable, if you need a translator I can have the Sergeant set up something so that you can keep up. I drawled.

"That won’t be necessary, I’m very familiar with American dialect, I just find it to be… rudimentary."

"Well, I’m sure as hell ain’t gonna slow the bus for you to catch up!" I prodded again.

He nodded then continued unperturbed. That’s good, he has a thick skin, he’s gonna’ need that to work a case in the windy city.

"The Perp, He started as he emphasized the word. Has been to 10 countries, Scotland, Greece, Italy, Russia, North Africa, Egypt, Japan, Mongolia, Australia and here, we don’t know when the actual crimes began. He has no preference of race; all of the victims are females between 12-55 years old. Healthy women all found like this." Abernathy ended as he gestured up to the girl hanging upside down.

"What do we know about this one right here?" I gestured with my head to the girl.

"So far nothing, Your department’s CSU couldn’t find a purse or a wallet of any kind. Strange, I can’t believe a woman of her stature, would be walking around an area like this, especially without identification or protection."

"White woman you mean?" I interrupted.

"According to a couple of other officers, this is a predominantly African American area with a speckling of Latino neighborhoods." Abernathy continued as if I hadn’t spoken,

"So, what we see is what we get," I said evenly.

It was hard, but I took in her grisly appearance. I mean, her intestines were a hard thing to overlook, but I had too. I kept telling myself it’s a part of the process, the process for getting this girl justice. She deserved that much. Some man…no, some animal carved her up like she was a thanksgiving turkey, then stripped her down to her underwear and stapled her to the wall. No human could do this. This harrowing act wreaked of both sexual deviance and anger. He wanted to show the world. He’d needed to embarrass her. It was personal. She’d offended the offender. Even more sickening, he wanted to make sure she saw everything he did to her, so he made her keep her eyes open, this combined with her hanging from 13 feet up allowed me to eliminate the possibility of the assailant being a woman. That was important. It narrowed down the suspect pool considerably.

"So, what do you think?" Abernathy asked.

I cut him off with a chop of my hand. It was time for me to do my thing. The constable got it because he backed off. I pulled out my notepad and took notes. I started with her eyes; they were Ice blue, blue as a cold spring. Her hair was red, cut short in a bob or at least I assume it was before she was hung upside down. Now gravity just had it hanging loosely and covered in now drying streaks of blood. She was wearing a garnet brooch around her neck. Streaks of scarlet stained her chest and more just kept on coming. Her bra and panties were some pearl white number out of the spring catalog from last year. Before anyone makes assumptions, I only knew that because Brandy wanted me to drop half a stack on the same pair. I of course did, but I’m rambling again.

Her hands were nailed into the red bricks. How in the hell did anyone do this without drawing attention to themselves? She was about 110 to 120 pounds, in great shape. She was built solid with lean sculpted muscles. Not a hooker unless crossfit had become more of a trend than I expected. I glanced over at her left hand. Tan line on her finger. Hello! Now we’re getting somewhere, either recently divorced or out on the town for extra curricular activities.

Based on everything I saw. I made my first deductions: 1. This woman was middle age, Soccer-mom maybe. I mean she was