The Game Begins

By Bob Haider

A body is discovered in a vacant lot in Chicago and the city's top homicide detective is assigned to investigate.  In this psychological thriller, a devious killer personally challenges Lt. Barton.  The killer meticulously organizes his thoughts with analytical precision around his elaborate plans and reviews every minute detail a thousand times in the solitary darkness of his residence...

The reddish-orange glow of a lighted cigarette emanated from the dark living room, a glow that brightened with each drag and alternately waned with each exhale.  An ashtray overflowed with a dozen discarded butts while the smell of cigarette smoke permeated the living quarters of the high-rise condominium on Chicago's lakefront locally known as the Gold Coast.  The lights were off not because of any power failure but by choice of the occupant.  Tonight, as he did every night, he sat alone in the darkness.  The only sound was that of a howling northerly wind lapping at the windows as it whipped around Chicago's skyscrapers that sent the city's wind chill spiraling downward into single digits…

In a tale of cold-blooded murder, Lt. Barton and his partner Sgt. Steve Crawford track a ruthless killer who attempts to stay several moves ahead of them and elude the police with his meticulous murder plans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Haider
• Release date: Dec 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215054147

Bob Haider

The Game Begins is Bob's third novel having also written Pictures on the Wall, his initial novel on political courage, and Whispers in the Night about retribution on a criminal empire.  Additionally, he is the author of numerous short stories including The Adventures of Ben & Bob series…the exploits of two modern day knights as they crisscross the globe confronting intrigue and danger in their fight against crime. Raised in Downers Grove, Illinois, Bob is a graduate of the University of Oklahoma and lives in Glenview, Illinois with his long-time companion, Mary Ellen.

Book preview

Prologue

Chicago, Illinois

Alan Holt trembled.  Despite a howling February wind that stung his face with the sharpness of icy daggers, the shirt beneath his coat was soaked in nervous, terrified sweat as he eyed the gun leveled at his chest.

Through the darkness he saw the faint outline of his assailant’s goatee and thick-rimmed eyeglasses, as recognition slowly registered in Alan’s eyes.  He swallowed hard, the terror gripping his throat in a stranglehold that restricted his voice to a stammer.  I...I...saw you...in...the bar!

His assailant flashed a haughty, sickly smile as he casually removed a wig, his eyeglasses, and peeled off the goatee.  The enigmatic man stepped forward within the soft pale of a streetlight that cast a sinister, shadowy veil across his face.

I don’t think being seen will be any problem at all, he smirked in self-assured arrogance, as he raised his weapon higher.

In a microsecond the barrel emitted a yellow-white flash but before Alan Holt’s brain could register color, his limp body fell to the frozen turf of the vacant lot.

Chapter 1

Disbelief flashed across Sharon Barton’s sleepy face as the illuminated numerals of a clock radio stared at her in the pre-dawn darkness.  Her husband was bent over the side of the bed tying his shoes, as she said groggily, I didn’t think you were serious.  You shouldn’t start running all of a sudden.  You need to ease into jogging by taking long walks.

I’m not gonna sprint through the neighborhood, Cy Barton answered.  I’m just gonna jog.

This from a man whose idea of exercise up to now has been turning the ignition key, she shook her head.  Suit yourself, but you’d better bundle up.  It’s cold out there.

No problem, he said, as he headed downstairs.  The six-foot, two-inch Barton hadn’t paid attention to his weight until a recent physical exam.  He was astounded when the nurse continuously moved the metal square to the right past the two hundred thirty-pound mark, two forty, and two fifty until the scale finally balanced at two hundred, fifty-five pounds.  He vowed he would shed twenty-five pounds—-quickly.

Fifteen minutes later Sharon was in the kitchen making coffee when Cy hobbled into the house.  What happened? she asked with pointed sarcasm.

Hamstring, he answered grasping the back of his thigh as he pulled out a chair and clumsily sat down.

You’d better go soak yourself in a hot bath.

Cy repeatedly shook his head.  I don’t want to move right now, he replied, as he rubbed the back of his leg.  What are you doing up?

Couldn’t get back to sleep...thanks for that, Sharon smirked.

Oh, sorry, Sweetie, he replied in the affectionate way he often addressed his wife.  Is the coffee ready yet?

Sharon was already on her way toward him with a cup.  Maybe this’ll wake you up, make you realize you’re not twenty-five years old anymore.

I don’t need coffee for that.  I have you to remind me, he smiled weakly, as he took the cup and quickly sipped the steaming brew.

The intrusion of a ringing telephone surprised them, but as the wife of a husband in the homicide division, Sharon didn’t wonder why a call came at such an early hour, as she reached for the phone.  Hello?

I’m sorry about the hour, Sharon.  Is Cy there?

Oh, hello Steve, yes, the walking wounded is sitting right here, she said, as she handed Cy the phone.

What is it, Crawford? he barked into the phone.

Well, good morning to you too, lieutenant.  What was that about the walking wounded?

Nothin’, he cut him off abruptly.  What’s up?

Barton listened, as his partner Sergeant Steve Crawford relayed the details of what he knew thus far.

Would you mind swinging by the house to pick me up?  Barton asked.

Not at all, Crawford answered.  What’s the matter, car on the fritz?

It’s not the car.

Oh, well, I’ll be there in twenty.

That’s fine.  I need to shower and shave.

Cy handed the phone back to Sharon as he struggled to his feet.  I’ve got to go in.

Yeah, I gathered that, she said, as she watched her husband arise out of his chair move gingerly down the hallway and slowly ascend the stairs...all the while shaking her head at him.

Chapter 2

As Steve Crawford arrived, Lieutenant Barton limped out of the house down the front walk and climbed into the passenger’s seat.

What the hell happened to you?

My ass hurts!  What’s it to you? Barton snapped, as he buckled his seat belt.  Let’s get going.

After a couple of years partnering with Barton, Crawford knew when not to engage in small talk, as he eased the car from the curb and headed toward their destination.

Over the past ten years, Chicago averaged more than seven hundred murders per annum.  Last year’s figure was down to six hundred and thirty, of which only three hundred forty-five were cleared—-a paltry Fifty-four percent—-which happened to be the average percentage cleared during the past ten years on Chicago murder cases and was thus the benchmark for each area office.  Barton once surmised if he were in business and accurate to only fifty-four percent of a shipping forecast, he’d be out of a job the first quarter.  But in homicide beat 54% and city hall would stay off your ass.  Slip below fifty-four percent and you might see a new commander in your Area Headquarters not to mention a freeze on promotions.

Barton noted they were heading away from Lake Michigan where a bright orange sun was just now peaking above the horizon.  When the duo arrived at the scene, they were greeted by the revolving lights of a police car.

Looks, like we’re in the right place, Crawford commented.

You have a helluva sense of observation, Crawford, Barton deadpanned.  I guess I’ve taught you well.

Nah, we learned to recognize the revolving lights of a police car in Homicide 101.

As Crawford eased the car to a stop, he saw the yellow police tape was in place.  Homicide 102, Lieutenant, he said, as he flipped off the ignition, the crime scene is cordoned off.

This is pretty far out, said Barton, referring to the location just inside the western boundary of their area office.

Chicago is divided into twenty-five police districts, and those districts are organized into larger units called areas.  Each area has five districts and each of the five area offices has a homicide division.  Lieutenant Barton and Sergeant Crawford operated out of Area 3 which comprised the 18th, 19th, 20th, 23rd, and 24th districts.

Area 3 stretches from Lake Michigan on the East to the north branch of the Chicago River on the West, from Navy Pier on the southern edge of district eighteen, to the boundary of the city of Evanston at the northern most point of district twenty-four.

As they exited the car, they stepped into the icy Chicago wind.  Though the temperature was 31 degrees, the wind chill made it feel like five.  Lake Michigan which generally warmed the city in the winter didn’t help in this wind.

As they walked across a vacant lot, the frozen turf crackled beneath their feet with each step they took.  The coroner, Brad Langley, was at the scene attending to his preliminary examination when Barton’s long-time colleague looked up and saw the limping Barton approach.

What happened to you, lieutenant?

Nothin’, he barked.  What have you got, Brad? asked Barton, as he gazed down at the lifeless body and saw frozen blood on the victim’s clothes.

One body, male Caucasian, Brad stated the obvious.  Shot once in the forehead at close range.  There’s an exit wound in the back of his head, so we don’t have a bullet for ballistics unless you can find it somewhere around here.

As Brad was speaking, Barton eyed the lifeless body and the stubs that had once been hands.

Was he tortured? Barton asked.

No, Brad answered immediately, there’d be more blood if that were the case.  The victim’s fingers and thumbs were cutoff after he was dead.

As Barton and Crawford scanned the general area around the body for the severed digits, Brad pointed out, The killer took those with him.

A knot formed in Barton’s gut whenever human trophies were involved.  You’re sure the fingers were severed after he was killed? Barton asked.

Yeah, there’s blood here, Brad pointed, as there always would be when a limb or digit is severed from the body, but, if this guy had been alive at the time his fingers were removed, they’d be pulsating and spurting a helluva lot more blood than what’s here.

Okay, Barton nodded in acknowledgement, and turned to one of the officers at the scene.  How was the body discovered?

The officer motioned to a man seated in the back of a police car with his dog.  Guy was walking his dog.  Says he takes his dog to this vacant lot all the time.  When he saw the body, he immediately phoned it in, the officer shivered, as he crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders in a feeble attempt at protection from the wind.

Cold, said Barton matter-of-factly without sympathy.

Almost as frigid as my ex-wife, the officer commented.

Barton ignored the officer’s feeble attempt at humor.

As Barton bent down for a closer look at the body, a sharp pain knifed through him.  Damn! he yelled out, as he grabbed for the back of his thigh and grimaced.

Crawford reached out to assist him but Barton waved him away.

Steve glanced toward Brad Langley, shrugged his shoulders, and offered, The best I can figure is he woke up on the wrong side of his ass this morning.

I’m not amused, Crawford! said Barton, as he slowly got down on one knee, and asked, Has the victim been checked for robbery?

Yes, sir, the officer replied.  There’s no wallet, no ID of any kind.

Barton viewed the corpse and examined the wound—-a small wound in the forehead which did virtually no damage to the victim’s facial features.

Well, I doubt the killer was trying to cover the victim’s identity by taking his ID and his fingers or he would have done more to his face, murmured Barton, as he looked at the ground around the victim’s hands.

Looks like marks left by a knife as if the killer was chopping carrots, said Barton, as he arose slowly out of his crouch and winced.  I want everything checked from the tags on his coat and slacks to those on his underwear.  Maybe we can find out where they were purchased and see if anyone recognizes him.

Crawford scribbled in a small notebook.

As Barton got to his feet, he stared at the body on the frozen dirt, the victim’s eyes staring lifelessly into a now bright February sky.  The crusty, lieutenant had seen more than his share of dead bodies in his twenty-five years in homicide and though he couldn’t help this man, maybe he could find the one who did this to him.

Noticing the length of time Barton stared at the corpse, Crawford coaxed him, lieutenant?

"54% closure is fucking pathetic! Barton thought, as he wondered if he and Crawford would beat those percentages on this case.  He always wondered about those percentages on every new case that came their way.  Without looking up, he mused, A person wakes up in the morning, wipes the sleep from his eyes, has his morning coffee, and goes about his day.  A murder victim never knows the finality of everything he does."

Steve Crawford shifted uneasily from one foot to another not knowing quite how to respond.

When I see the young ones, I wonder how much more time a murder victim would’ve had—-if the son of a bitch who killed him hadn’t done so.  How much time was taken from this man?

Crawford was seeing a side of Barton he hadn’t experienced during their time as partners.  Barton hadn’t spoken like this at any previous crime scene, and Crawford thought it might be because of his sister who was gravely ill.  Perhaps her mortality, everyone’s mortality, was on his mind.

Barton caught himself ruminating and abruptly snapped out of it.  Let’s talk to the guy who found the body.

An officer gestured to the man to exit the squad car as Barton and Crawford approached.

I’m Lieutenant Barton, he said, showing his badge, and this is Sergeant Crawford.  We understand you found the body.  What’s your name?

My name Hadeous Madeo, he answered in a thick Eastern European accent.

That’s quite an accent.  Where are you from, originally?

Serbia.

You’re on holiday?

No.  Live now in Chicago.

And what do you do, Mr. Madeo?

I teach the English.  I teach the immigrants from Serbia and other Europeans who come to America.  I teach them the English.

Crawford glanced away to hide a grin.

I see, said Barton.  You must live nearby if you were walking your dog on such a cold morning.

Hadeous Madeo turned and pointed.  I live, small apartment, there.  I here come, walk dog.  Dog finds body.

Did you see anyone, Mr. Madeo?

No.  I see body only.

Do you recognize the victim? asked Crawford.

Re...cognize? he repeated slowly.

Is the victim someone from your neighborhood, someone you’ve seen before?  He is someone from your apartment building perhaps? Barton clarified.

He shook his head, No.  May go now?

Do we have his address and phone number? Barton asked the officer.

Yes, sir, the officer replied.

Very well, you may go, Mr. Madeo.

As Hadeous Madeo departed, Crawford asked, What do you make of it, lieutenant?

This was no simple robbery, Barton shook his head, his face reflecting a look of grave concern.  It takes time to sever fingers and that’s something your run of the mill thief wouldn’t take the time to do.

Chapter 3

Barton and Crawford spent the remainder of the morning canvassing the vicinity, while every thirty minutes or so they jumped into their car to warm their bones.  By the time they were heading back to the Area 3 office on Belmont Avenue it was noon, and Barton instructed Crawford to slow down.

Turn in there, he pointed.

Crawford shook his head.  I thought you said last week you were going on a diet?

Never mind, they’ve got a special on double cheeseburgers.  Go through the drive through.  We’ll eat back at the Area.

You know, if you didn’t eat this stuff, you wouldn’t need to diet in the first place.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

When they arrived at Area 3, Barton dove into his double cheeseburger with the zest of someone granted special dispensation from the dieting gods, while he noticed Crawford was eating a salad.  You ever chomp down on anything of any substance?

I’ll take that to mean meat—-yeah, sometimes for dinner, said Crawford.

It doesn’t really matter what you eat, said Barton.

Oh?

Yeah, it’s all in the genes.  Whatever your parents had, you’ll likely have.  It’s passed down from one generation to the next.  Not much you can do about that.  If your parents have poor hearing and eyesight, you’ll likely suffer the same problems.

So, you’ve been reading those medical journals again, hey, Lieutenant?

Don’t get me started on those medical boys.  They’re always changing their minds about something.  Take water for example.  They said drink eight glasses of water a day, and then they do a one eighty and say that’s too much and causes water intoxication of the kidneys.  You watch, someday they’ll say too much salad and not enough meat is bad for you.

Mind if I ask what your cholesterol level is, lieutenant?

Barton smiled widely.  It’s down each of the last three years...from 218 to 209, down to 203, and now at 197.

Bewildered, Crawford shook his head.

Like I said, Kid, it’s in the genes.

As Barton finished his lunch, he abruptly changed gears.  We’ll get a picture of the victim to every patrolman until we find someone who’s seen him.

Checks on the victim’s clothes came up empty as the labels were carried by nearly every department store in Chicago, while police officers in the field canvassed the bars, restaurants, and apartment buildings and also came up empty.

It was nearly five o’clock when an officer carrying an 8 1/2 by 11-inch manila envelope approached.

This came by messenger marked to your attention, lieutenant.

Barton took it and noticed the absence of any return address.  He grabbed a letter opener from his desk, cut through the flap, and turned the envelope upside down.

Out spilled several fingers and a couple of thumbs.

Shit! gasped Crawford, as he jumped to his feet.

Go, Crawford! yelled Barton, as he raced from his desk in the hope of grabbing the messenger before he was out of the building.

Ruthy, Barton yelled to a female officer.  Get the lab boys up here, now!

On the sidewalk across the street from the Area 3 Headquarters, Michael O’Keefe stood in a doorway and watched Sergeant Crawford rush out of the building.  O’Keefe smiled knowingly as he turned and casually walked down the sidewalk chuckling as he went.

When Crawford returned to his desk, he gestured with a quick shake of his head he’d been unsuccessful in catching whoever delivered the envelope.

Chapter 4

As Barton stared at the bloody digits on his desk, a previous case from many years ago came to mind which also involved severed fingers.  On that case he contacted Trevor Dorsch, the professor as he was called.  It was a monogram acquired after developing an expertise on organized crime.  Barton was a detective then in his first year in homicide.  They met at Salvatore’s restaurant on Chestnut Street just east of Michigan Avenue, and though it was years ago Barton recalled their meeting very clearly...

When Barton arrived at Salvatorie’s steak house, he went to the bar and ordered a beer.  It was early and the Saturday night dinner rush had not yet arrived, but the scent of savory charcoaled steaks already permeated the restaurant and bar area.  The setting reminded him of a jazz club, a perception enhanced by a low ceiling, subdued lighting, and several speakers strategically placed that emitted the soothing sound of soft jazz.

When Trevor Dorsch arrived, he greeted Barton by saying, I assume besides the dinner the drinks are on you.

Aren’t they always?

Trevor motioned to the bartender, Vodka rocks...and a couple of blue cheese olives.

Trevor Dorsch was in his forties then.  He was prematurely bald on top so he let the hair on the sides grow out until it touched his shoulders.  To Barton’s eye it appeared to be a desperate attempt to hold onto his youth, and consequently Trevor achieved the reverse—-he looked comical, and in fact appeared older than his years.

The bartender approached with Trevor’s drink, which he grabbed immediately and took a gulp.

Oh, these always taste so much better when someone else is buying.

When Trevor heard a Sinatra song through an overhead speaker, he commented.  Fitting I picked this place for us to meet, if you’re seeking information on The Outfit.  Here’s to organized crime, may it rise from the ashes once again in some form or another so I can become even wealthier.

Barton didn’t join him in the toast, but replied, Organized crime is capitalism’s greatest curse.  Perhaps you’ll be writing another book soon but for now...,

Yeah, I’ve made a lot of money writing about the mob.  People are fascinated with stories about organized crime.  They eat that shit up as fast as I can write them.  By the way, I’ve never asked.  You ever read my books?

I have a vested interest in staying informed.  I’ve read ’em all, professor.

Well, I’ve made a few bucks off you, haven’t I? he laughed heartily.

Barton shook his head, Library card.

Fuckin’ libraries, they get ’em at a huge discount, you know.

Look, what I want to know is—-has anyone in the mob tried to send a message recently?

What kind of a message?

Severed fingers, Barton stipulated.

Without hesitation Trevor Dorsch shook his head.  Nah, there’s no message in severed fingers per se.  Fingers are for pain.  The mob separates some poor slob from his digits when they want information or if they want him to suffer after he’s committed some unpardonable sin—-like skimming something for himself.  Only after the victim has suffered do they kill him, but the cutting always comes first, said Trevor, as he took another sip of his drink and continued.

I hear it’s excruciatingly painful and the sadistic ones make a monstrous game of it.  One mobster ordered each finger cut a knuckle at a time to inflict maximum pain.  You only have two knuckles on a thumb but the fingers have three...one knuckle just above the nail, then one in the middle and another knuckle where the finger meets the hand.  Brutal, said the professor, as he emptied his glass and waved to the bartender for another...

Barton returned from his remembrance and a deep concern washed over him.  He’d felt something in his gut since he first arrived at the murder scene this morning.  As the day progressed that feeling gnawed at him, and as he continued to stare at the severed fingers, he knew the worst-case scenario was a reality—-and it didn’t involve the Chicago Outfit.

Barton realized he was still holding the envelope, and though emptied of its macabre contents he looked inside and within the bubble wrapped lining saw what appeared to be a sheet of paper.

Rather than trying to slide the paper out, he grabbed a pair of scissors from his desk drawer, carefully cut along the four edges and when the envelope was completely separated from itself, he lifted off the top of the envelope.

Son of a bitch, Barton uttered, as three words scrawled in dried blood stared up at him...

The Game Begins

Chapter 5

Barton and Crawford sat down with Dr. Kathleen Robinson, the Departmental Psychiatrist who at five feet, one inch was miniaturized by Barton and Crawford...as well as every male in the department.  The diminutive Dr. Robinson divorced and the mother of two teenagers had years ago forgone the vanity of coloring her hair.  Consequently, she appeared to be a grandmother in waiting...that is as soon as one of her daughters got married and obliged her with a grandchild.

Still vibrant beneath the graying facade, she garnered the respect of Lt. Barton not only because she was astute but because she possessed a quality he much admired—-she was hard working.  Additionally, she related her knowledge of the human mind and its workings in layman’s terms, which Barton and his colleagues greatly appreciated.

We wanted to see you regarding a case, Barton began, in fact it’s only about twelve hours old.

Yes, I’ve read through the information you provided sparse as it is, she said, as she patted a thin manila folder on her desk, but I would like one clarification so I’m sure I fully understand the situation.

Certainly, Barton nodded.

Are you positive the severing of the fingers occurred after the victim was deceased?

Yes, per the coroner, Brad Langley.

Then you were right in calling me, as she pulled off her reading glasses and gazed at Barton through pale green eyes.  It was a habit of hers that Barton observed over the years.  Whenever Doctor Robinson was about to make a point, she removed her glasses, which she seemed to use more as a prop than a reading aid.

As the note implies, this is not the end of it.  For the time being let’s call your killer a man since most serial killers are males.

A serial killer! said Crawford, as he abruptly sat up in his chair.  You think he’s killed before?

I’d say there’s a very good chance he has killed before but even if this victim was his first, he’ll kill again and again until you catch him.  In my opinion there’s no question you’ve got a psychopath on your hands.