Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Carlos looked at the woman on the floor—the same one he’d stopped from tumbling down the stairs. She didn’t move, and he had no idea how long she would be out. He left her where she was and nudged the apartment door open with his foot. The Dreamers’ apartment door eased open.
Carlos listened first, then took stock of what he saw and what he could smell. The lingering odor of Elysium intermingled with other things, like the musty undertone of a bathroom that needed to be cleaned, as well as the same musty odor that had clung to the woman the first day he saw her.
Whatever the relationship was between her and the bare-chested guy from the other day, he wasn’t going to judge. But he was going to do his job.
He announced himself without yelling, so as not to startle anyone. “Chicago PD.”
The woman had run out, clearly in distress. Covered in blood.
When no one called back, Carlos continued. Gun in his hands, tucked against his chest and pointed down to the left. He could fire in a swift movement, but meeting an innocent person head on wouldn’t land them in his sights before he had a moment to assess the situation first.
The first room on the left had a bare mattress, a twin with more stains than clean spots and a thin purple fleece blanket. Two open empty pizza boxes.
On the right, the narrow kitchen stretched away from him, with a small, cloudy window at the end, the glass yellowed by greasy smoke.
Containers, cups and bowls, and trash littered the counters, and an open trash bag on the floor under the window had spilled some from being overfilled, inviting flies to the party.
He kept going down the hall, found the bathroom, and cleared it—without looking too closely. Past that was another room, a bedroom he supposed.
The living room had a battered recliner, currently occupied, and a folding camp chair.
A small table that could serve as a TV tray.
On the wall was a flat screen similar to his, with wires hanging down going to nothing.
It probably wasn’t even connected to the internet, and he was honestly surprised they hadn’t sold it.
But that wasn’t what got his attention about the room.
The occupied recliner made Carlos pause. Bite his lip. Let out a breath.
Not good.
But the man in the chair wasn’t going anywhere soon. Not in that condition. One that looked remarkably similar to Doctor Splitfield’s at the museum.
Carlos went back to the hall—grabbing a scarf from a hook by the door, the only thing hanging there, on his way out. The woman still lay unconscious.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Dispatch.
He reported the body and asked for assistance, officers who could take control of the scene, given he wasn’t supposed to be working right now.
He hadn’t technically been cleared back to work until his next shift, two days from now.
As soon as he’d relayed all the information, he used the scarf to secure the woman to the stair railing so she didn’t run as soon as she woke up.
If she did that, she’d either hurt herself badly or disappear and they’d never get answers as to what happened.
He was tempted to stand here and draw conclusions about what had happened. Instead, he went back into the apartment. As he walked down the hall, he called the detective working the Shrine murder case.
“Wallace.”
“It’s Officer Ryson,” he said. “If you aren’t in the middle of something, I’ve got a scene you’re going to want to look at.”
“Switch to video?”
“’Preciate it.” He switched the call to video and flipped the camera. “Friend of mine lives over on Constantine Drive, in the Bradford Residences. Third floor, couple of Dreamers.”
“This is one of those?”
“Unclear. Smacks more of the Shrine murder.” He zoomed in on the man’s hands, a single nail piercing the skin of the back of his hand, driven into the arms of the recliner.
His mouth was closed, so the tongue thing was unknown and not something Carlos was going to be looking into. He’d need gloves, for starters.
“I see that. So you know the guy?”
“Not personal. Seen him once, talked to him briefly, but mostly he just made threats. The woman who lives here was covered in blood. She’s secured in the hall.
” Carlos figured that as soon as she woke up, he’d hear all about it.
But it was possible she’d stay silent and work her way out of the scarf. “I should check on her.”
“Do that. Take another sweep,” Detective Wallace said. “See if you can locate the phone they were using for the Elysium app. And text me the address.”
“Copy that.”
“See you in a few.”
The call ended, and Carlos stowed his phone, going back to the hallway.
The woman’s eyes were closed, but she began to stir.
Footsteps up the stairs drew his attention, and one glance down confirmed backup was on its way up. He holstered his weapon and pulled his badge, sliding it on his belt, and waited.
The two men who came to the third floor were both Caucasian, one with red hair and the other blond. Not men he’d seen around the precinct.
“Hey.” Carlos lifted both hands for a second. “Officer Ryson with the Twelfth Precinct.”
“Mirason.” The blond guy held out his hand and they shook. “This is Zimmerman.”
Carlos shook the hand of the redhead. “Nice to meet you guys.” He took a breath and began, “Deceased inside. She ran out. No idea if she is involved, or just found him. Both are Dreamers. Or were in his case. Detective Wallace from the Twelfth is on his way, because he’s working the Shrine case, and at face value this seems to be connected. ”
“Got it.” Mirason nodded. “We’ll call for an ambulance for her, and get the info relayed up the chain.”
“Thanks. I’m on medical leave for another day. Got a dose of that compound from today, right in the face.”
Zimmerman said, “Whoo-ee that was a bad one. People going crazy.” He lifted his arm to show Carlos three scratches in a row. “Got caught by a lady’s nails.”
“It was bad.” Carlos nodded. “I need to do another sweep of the apartment before the detective gets here. He ordered me to look for the phone.”
Mirason motioned to the unconscious woman. “Well, she ain’t hiding it.” Then lifted his chin. “I’ll go with you. Zimmerman, call for medical and let the sergeant know there’s a body connected to a case at the Twelfth.”
“Got it.” Zimmerman stood over the woman and grabbed his radio.
Carlos stepped into the apartment while Zimmerman spoke with Dispatch. After putting on a pair of gloves that the officer handed him, he started with the recliner. “Could be down the crack of the chair.” He shone a flashlight underneath.
Zimmerman eased his hands down the sides of the seat. “Nothing. Thankfully.”
Carlos did a circuit of the room, then went into the bedroom.
A similar mattress and blanket setup, which made him wonder who had used the other room.
Maybe these two slept separately? The mattress in here was a double.
Carlos tugged it away from the wall, and a cell phone wedged between the mattress and the wall tumbled to lie flat on the floor.
He called out, “Got it!”
The phone illuminated when he pressed the power button—unlocked and with the Elysium app open.
Zimmerman appeared at the door.
“No PIN or lock on the phone.”
“That’s pretty normal. Phones with the app get passed around, unregistered and untraceable, just so junkies can get their high.” Zimmerman shook his head. “You ever try it?”
“Elysium? No, I haven’t.”
“My brother did it in college. Wrecked him for two months. He ended up dropping out and losing his scholarship.”
Carlos looked at the screen, and his head swam. The world around him seemed to rotate, spinning while he remained stationary. On the screen the app showed him an image of a shadowy figure.
You know him. You know he will kill you.
Carlos heard the words in his head and knew they were true. He could see the figure in his mind. Knew the threats he had been making.
There was no other option but to capture him. Question him. Kill him. Justice demanded that he answer for his crimes.
Carlos saw the nails in his mind. Held them in his hand.
The man sat in a chair, as if he had done nothing wrong. He drank from a glass and when he looked at Carlos, he sneered. Evil looked at Carlos through those hooded eyes.
You will die.
Pain tore through his shoulder.
Carlos cried out, his face smashed against the floor. A knee in his back pinning him to the ground.
“Officer Ryson!” Zimmerman’s voice rang with authority and a threat. Plus, a smidge of fear and concern.
The guy had no idea what was happening. Unfortunately, Carlos didn’t either.
“I’m good.”
“Unlikely.” Zimmerman didn’t let go.
“Dude.” Carlos didn’t try to move. “I’m good. Let me sit up.”
Zimmerman didn’t let him go right away but did so incrementally.
“Carlos?” Eliana stood at the doorway, concern on her face.
“I’m good, Lia.” He ducked his head and pushed off the floor slowly, just so he could sit up. “What happened?”
Zimmerman had his hands on his belt. “I’d like an answer to that as well.” He shook his head.
“I heard yelling from the hall,” Eliana said. “The other cop couldn’t come in here, because the woman is awake. So I came in.”
Yeah, the guy wouldn’t have liked that.
Zimmerman shook his head. “Who are you?”
She indicated her uniform. “I work security at the Shrine and I live in the building.”
Carlos winced. “She’s with me.” He decided to give standing up a try and braced his hand on the wall. “The app did a number on me, is my guess.”
“But you don’t take Elysium. Which is the only way that would’ve happened.” Zimmerman shrugged. “I looked at it, and nothing happened.”
Carlos wanted to shake his head to agree with the guy, but was pretty sure he would either throw up or fall over if he messed with his equilibrium like that. “I have never in my life taken Elysium.”
“I can vouch for that,” Eliana said.
“You’ve been with him his whole life?” Zimmerman said. “Every moment?”
She lifted her chin. “Most of it, yeah.”
Zimmerman pressed his lips together and looked at Carlos. “A doctor can check you out. You need to make a statement to the detective when he gets here, and I’ll be filing a report with your sergeant.”
Carlos didn’t want to go back to the hospital, but he also didn’t have the energy to argue.
“You should do that.” He nodded. “I’m guessing the compound from earlier might’ve had Elysium in it.
Or it was Elysium.” He pushed out a breath, trying to tamp down the rising nausea. “The app wanted me to kill you.”
“Yeah,” Zimmerman said. “I noticed.”
And just like the Dreamer, the murder would have resembled the doctor’s death at the Shrine.