What Have You Done Page 2

  “Sorry I’m late,” Don said.

  Sean dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “How’s your mom?”

  “She fell asleep last night watching TV. When she woke up, she didn’t know where she was. Started panicking. Wouldn’t listen to the nurses, so they called me.”

  “This is happening more and more.”

  “I know. I might need to move her closer to me if this keeps up. I can’t run to Doylestown every time she gets confused. It’s getting to be too much.” Don pointed to the sheet covering Mr. Scully. “Find anything?”

  “Not really. Victim was seventy-two. Owned the store pretty much all his life. We sent a unit to pick up his wife and bring her to the coroner’s office for an ID.”

  Don bent down and pulled the sheet back to take a look. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Might as well go straight for the dental records. He doesn’t have much of a face left.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be forced entry. UPS guy came to deliver a package this morning and called it in. We’re guessing the owner knew his assailant. The store closes at eight, and we’re figuring time of death to be around midnight.”

  “Forensics get any prints?”

  “More than they can handle. Between the front door, the glass counter, the shelves, and the back door, they’ll have their work cut out for them. This is a stationery store two weeks before Easter. The guy was busy.”

  Don pointed to a closed-circuit camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling behind the counter. “Any video?”

  Sean shook his head. “Camera feeds to a computer in the back. The CPU tower is gone. We also checked and found the registers had no cash. Same with the safe. But we got credit card receipts and checks.”

  “CPU tower? Who uses a CPU tower anymore?”

  “Like I said, he was seventy-two.”

  Sean walked through the store while Don poked around behind the counter. Other than the murder itself, nothing had really been disturbed. The greeting cards were still in all of their slots next to the glass statues and music boxes, which remained behind their cases. Easter egg cutouts hung from the ceiling and gently swayed in a breeze he couldn’t feel. There was simply no sign of a struggle. “They didn’t take the checks and credit card receipts because they’re traceable. Cutter’s too smart for that.”

  “You think it was Cutter?” Don asked. He was flipping through an invoice schedule that had been next to the register.

  “You don’t?”

  “Could be anyone.”

  One of the forensic techs walked by, carrying a duffel bag of equipment. Sean peeked into the bag as he passed. There were spray bottles with liquid inside, plastic cases with tape over the tops, and a box of latex gloves. Forensics. That part of the investigation was always so foreign to him. His brother, Liam, worked Forensics. He was the smart one in the family.

  “It’s Cutter,” Sean said when the tech was gone. “He’s been terrorizing these shop owners for years, and now he’s killing old men two blocks from city hall. He’s getting bold, and when he gets bold, he gets dangerous. It was him.”

  “You’re probably right,” Don replied. “It fits his MO, but let’s keep digging to be sure. You’ve been up this guy’s ass for two years now, and you haven’t been able to make anything stick. We get a witness, and suddenly the witness disappears. We get someone to agree to testify, and then at the last second, they change their mind. If this was him, we need to find something that he can’t squirm out of.”

  Sean waited for Don as he retreated from behind the back counter. They walked toward the front of the store. Greeting cards full of well-wishes and celebration surrounded them. Stuffed animals, ceramic dolls, happiness. Happiness among tragedy. Sean’s mind clouded with images of what might’ve taken place between Cutter and Alexander Scully. “He beat the guy’s face right off of him.”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “Came in to collect his street tax. That would explain the unforced entry. Maybe the old man was short. Maybe this wasn’t the first time. I mean, how much money can a stationery store make these days? I know it’s Easter, but he can’t be pulling in that much cash. Cutter doesn’t care about excuses. He beat the old man until he was unrecognizable. Made him an example to the other stores in the city. It was him. Had to be. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  “Then we’ll get him,” Don said. “But it’s gotta be by the book. We can’t let him walk on a technicality.”

  “We won’t.”

  The two EMTs came into the store, one of them carrying the folded body bag under his arm. They waved to Sean and Don, who waved back and watched them as they stopped in front of the victim and spread the bag out next to the white sheet. The haunting image of Alexander Scully’s brutalized face burned into Sean’s memory. No way was this a mundane homicide. This one would leave scars.

  3

  Raul Montenez hurried into the lobby of the Tiger Hotel, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of doughnuts in the other. He glanced through the scratched and dirty bulletproof glass of the cashier’s booth and saw his boss, Mr. Guzio, dozing in his chair. The small, overweight man looked as if he’d been sleeping for days. His shirt was soiled and untucked from his pants, the top three buttons unfastened, revealing tufts of black chest hair. He was bald but for sideburns that had grown out. His fingers were ten sausages. A grumble of a snore could be heard through the microphone that had been left on. Even when he slept, his hatred was palpable.

  The foyer—most of the day’s work for Raul—was littered with empty beer bottles, assorted papers, plastic cups, and a variety of discarded condom wrappers. Cigarette butts were strewn across the black linoleum floor. The already-stained carpet held new spots of mystery. It was going to be another long shift.

  “You’re late,” Guzio snapped. His eyes remained shut, his arms crossed and resting on his oversized gut.

  “Good morning, Mr. Guzio. I’m sorry. The bus was running behind. Can you buzz me in, please?”

  Guzio opened his eyes and lifted his head, acknowledging the skinny immigrant. “The bus is late a lot,” he snarled.

  “Yes. It is late a lot.”

  “I can find others more willing to get here on time if you don’t think this job is worth it.”

  “It was not my fault, sir. The bus was late. When the bus is late, I’m late.”

  “What bus do you take?”

  “The thirty-two.”

  Guzio struggled to get up from his chair. “I think I’m going to call over to SEPTA and confirm if bus thirty-two was running behind this morning. And if it was, I’m going to give them some crap for sending my help in past due every day.”

  “That’s fine. You can call. If you can get them to fix the problem, I’d appreciate it.”

  “But if they tell me it was running on time, well then, you and me are gonna have a word about that.” The greasy man reached under the counter and pressed the release button on the locked door. “Get to work.”

  “Gracias.”

  Raul slipped through the door and put down his coffee and donuts, rushing to begin his day.

  “We still haven’t heard from B11,” Guzio called over his shoulder. “If he ain’t down here by the time you finish the first floor, go up and tell him to hit the road. He’s already pushing close to checkout time, and this ain’t no Marriott. I gotta get these rooms clean before four o’clock. I got a business to run.”

  Raul pulled a mop and bucket from the broom closet and stood them against the wall with the rest of the things he’d need for the day. “Yes. No problem. If he’s not down when I finish this floor, I’ll tell him to get out.”

  Two hours of sweeping, dusting, polishing, and mopping had elapsed, and the first floor was finally presentable enough for the upcoming night’s customers. The truth of the matter was these patrons wouldn’t care if the hotel was clean or if there were piles of cow manure filling the place. The folks who came in were there for one thing and one thing only. Keeping a prese
ntable lobby meant very little. But Raul was told to clean it all up, so he did. Every day.

  He took the last trash bag out the disengaged emergency exit to throw in the dumpster. When he came back in, Guzio was standing in the doorway to his booth.

  “Our guy in B11 ain’t out yet,” he said. “Go get him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The book says his name’s Johnny Cash. Real funny. Says there’re two occupants. I want ’em both out.”

  Fictitious names were common in the hotel sex business, but this one escaped Raul. “I’ll tell Mr. Cash to get out now.”

  “You do that. And hurry. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a patient man.”

  Raul made his way up the stairs toward B11. The entire floor was eerily quiet. The sun was shining through a lone window at the end of the hall, and he could see tiny dust particles floating in the air. His steps were muted by the carpet beneath him, and he was suddenly reminded of just how isolated he really was.

  When Raul got to the door, he waited, staring at the numbers that were once carefully nailed into place and now hung crooked, reading like the beginning of a website address instead of a room marker: B//. The old steel door was peeling flakes of beige paint. Its gold knob was scratched from years of drunken customers blindly stabbing at the keyhole.

  He raised his hand to knock, then paused. It dawned on him that he had no idea who was sleeping—or waiting—inside the room. This was not the type of hotel that had DO NOT DISTURB signs to post. One never knew what was going on beyond the many closed doors, and given the clientele the Tiger attracted, chances were good he’d be disturbing something. The idea that the guest had stayed the entire night was in itself strange. The hotel was a by-the-hour establishment, and most guests paid accordingly. Anyone staying the night paid triple and usually had something to hide. Raul’s uneasiness grew.

  “Mr. Cash, you have to leave now,” he called, pounding on the door three times. Paint flakes fell to the carpet. He could feel his breath grow shallow. “Checkout time has passed. You have to leave.”

  There was no answer. He cupped his ear to the door and listened for movement inside, but couldn’t hear anything.

  “B11, you check out now. It’s morning. You have to go.”

  Still no movement, no sound.

  With his eyes on the door and apprehension about him, Raul slowly pulled a large chrome ring from the waist of his jeans and began flipping through the many keys fastened around it. His hands shook as he passed the numbers, one after the other, until he came upon the master key. “This is your last chance, Mr. Cash. I’m coming in now. You have to leave.”

  Raul put the key in the lock and turned. “I’m coming,” he called, his voice betraying him by cracking. He could feel his face grow hotter as he pushed his way inside.

  The same sunlight that was streaming through the hallway window filled the window inside B11. Part of the interstate was framed in the glass, showing cars speeding by on the curved road, then disappearing around the bend toward the city. In the foreground, Raul discovered what was waiting for him.

  The woman’s body was limp, hung from an extension cord that had been pulled through exposed piping in the ceiling and tied off at the bed. She did not rock or sway but was completely still. There was blood. So much blood. On her legs and feet and down to the floor below. She was naked, her hair shaved with little precision. Her head was tilted to the side, eyes, red and swollen, staring out into nothing. The tip of her tongue escaped through the side of her mouth. She was looking his way, but above and past him. She had been beautiful once. Now there was only the butchery.

  “No!” Raul screamed as he fell back out of the room and onto the filthy carpet in the hallway. More flakes of peeling paint fell on top of him as his foot hit the steel door. He blessed himself over and over as tears welled in his eyes and fear overtook him. The devil had come to the Tiger Hotel and left a most gruesome death in his wake. He would never forget this scene, despite the alcohol and the drugs and the sleepless night that would lie ahead. He would remember every detail, every sound, and every scent.

  4

  Sean sat in the back of an unmarked police van with the rest of the raid team and stared out the small square window, surveying his surroundings while going over the plan in his head one final time. They were parked in an alleyway across the street from a two-story row home. From what he could see, the area was quiet. The houses on the block, like many on the north side, were dilapidated and falling apart. Roofs were caving in. Foundations were crumbling. Windows were covered with sheets or trash bags instead of curtains, their glass panes little pocks of taped-up cardboard. This wasn’t supposed to be the type of neighborhood where a wealthy street king would take up residence, but what better place for such a man to keep hidden? Cutter Washington was smart and adept at hiding in plain sight. He knew all the rules and over time had learned police procedures and response times. He was a pro, and he knew every nook and cranny in the city. It was time to take him down.

  It didn’t happen often, but sometimes luck took a second to smile on the Homicide Division of the Philadelphia Police Department. A couple of college kids from Penn had come to Center City earlier that night and closed a bar on Market Street. When they got outside, they had started walking around the city, randomly snapping pictures on their phones to try to take in the sights and make general asses of themselves to post to social media. One such photograph—of a young man hanging upside down off the street sign marking the way to Independence Hall—had inadvertently caught Cutter in the background, leaving out the back of the stationery store at the same time Alexander Scully was murdered. The kids didn’t think anything of it until they saw the story on the morning news and immediately called 911. Their picture, and Cutter’s partial print at the scene, was the evidence they needed to get a warrant.

  Don closed the case file and tossed it to the side. “Okay, let’s go through this one last time.”

  The sergeant sitting across from Sean nodded. “Right.”

  “We get to the porch, knock once, then bust in. Be aware that this is the suspect’s girlfriend’s house and she has two young kids.”

  “Got it,” the sergeant replied.

  “Are you set with the uniformed unit out back?”

  “Yeah, we’re set. He’s in position now. Anyone comes out the back door and he’s got ’em.”

  “Good.”

  Sean pulled himself away from the window. “This guy’s no amateur,” he said. “This isn’t the first time he’s been involved with a murder, and it isn’t the first time the police have come calling, so be careful. We might bust down that door, and he gives up without a fight, or he might try to run. Or he might try and kill us. Be open for any possibility.”

  Everyone agreed.

  Sean looked out onto the neighborhood one final time. He hated raids. Too many opportunities for things to go wrong. “Okay, radio the unit around back that we’re moving out. Let’s do this.”

  The team opened the rear doors, hopped from the van, and scurried across the street with weapons drawn. There were six of them all together with one officer at the back of the house. A lone dog barked somewhere in the distance.

  With hand signals and silent confirmations, they spread out on either side of the walkway and ran up the steps leading to the entrance. The men pressed themselves against the house, flanking the entrance, their blue Philadelphia Police Department jackets hiding bulletproof vests. Sean motioned one final time to the others, then pounded on the front door. “Police! Open up!”

  He counted to three, then turned and kicked at the door, sending it flying back on its hinges as the team stormed in.

  “Police!”

  “Police!”

  “Come out where we can see you! Come out with your hands raised in the air! We are armed! Cutter Washington, come out now!”

  The men broke off in their sweep pattern. The sergeant and three of his officers shuffled through each room on the first
floor while Sean and Don took the stairs, Sean first and his partner covering him in the rear.

  The house was unnervingly quiet. No one stirred. No children shouted for their mother, nor were there questions as to who might be trespassing. There was no movement of any kind except for the team slipping through each room one floor below.

  As Sean and Don crested the top of the stairs, they heard the sudden movement of feet thumping and scurrying about. Sean gripped his Beretta and rushed down the narrow corridor toward the closed door at the end of the hall. “Police! Come out slowly with your hands up!”

  The bedroom door flew open, and a woman burst through, running full speed toward the detectives, her hands flailing about, screaming. She was large, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and came at them quickly, the multicolored curlers in her hair bouncing with each step she took. The detectives couldn’t tell what she was saying, but as she continued forward, Sean could see movement from inside the bedroom behind her. He raised his weapon. “Lady, get down!”

  The woman ignored him and continued charging. As she got closer, they could hear what she was saying. She was screaming profanities and threats, one after the other. Don pushed Sean to the side and unholstered his Taser. When she got close enough, he shot her in the chest. In one prolonged movement, the woman stopped, grabbed at the wires that were protruding from her skin, then fell to the floor, flopping on the ground as she gasped for breath and rolled into a fetal position. Don disengaged the wires from the Taser and kept moving. “Come on,” he said. “In the bedroom.”

  “Cutter, get those hands up!” Sean screamed.

  As Sean made it to the end of the hall, he kicked at the bedroom door to keep it open. Drapes swayed in a breeze brought in by the only window in the room. Their suspect was gone.