Death of the Black Widow Read online

  Back in that apartment, beneath the grime and filth of captivity, he’d known she was an attractive girl. He’d seen glimpses of it. But now it was undeniable.

  She radiated beauty.

  As Walter watched her, he realized he wasn’t alone—half the men and several of the women in the restaurant were watching her, too. Stealing glances whenever they could, unable to help themselves.

  If she was aware, she didn’t acknowledge it. She looked at the man across from her as if he were the only other person in the room. Walter could see her foot resting against his under the table.

  The man raised his hand, signaled their waiter. He twitched his fingers, signing the air with an invisible pen.

  The waiter nodded, disappeared for a moment, and returned with their check in a black leather case.

  The man paid with a credit card. Then the two of them stood and started for the door.

  The back of her red dress was cut low, revealing the small of her back. Those who had been stealing looks gave up the pretense and simply stared as she walked by, moving with the grace and fluidity of water in tall, elegant red heels.

  Her companion held the door for her as the two of them stepped out onto the sidewalk. He then slipped his hand down her bare back and pulled her closer for a kiss, right there in front of that large picture window as if to show all those watching that she belonged to him.

  Walter had never been a jealous man, but in that moment he hated that guy. Every ounce of his being wanted to be him. He wanted to know the feel of her lips, the taste of her breath. He wanted to feel her body pressed against him in that slinky dress.

  Watching her return the man’s kiss instead of rebuffing him might have been worse. She stood on the tips of her toes to meet his lips, eyes closed, leaning into him. Her hand drifted down his chest, to the growing bulge in his jeans. She turned and led him by the hand, west, toward Oakton.

  Walter realized he was gripping the edge of the bench seat tight enough to turn his fingers white. The woman beside him noticed. She was watching him. Watching him watch them.

  “Maybe it’s best you go home and sleep it off, Detective.”

  But when he stood on drunken legs and started down the sidewalk, Walter had no intention of going home. Though he cursed himself for leaving his gun there.

  Chapter

  10

  Walter found them in an alley about three blocks from the restaurant. He’d lost sight of the pair on the sidewalk and would’ve almost missed them in the alley if not for hearing the man’s voice from behind a dumpster about ten feet back. He spoke too low for Walter to make out exactly what he said, but when he grunted, the sound echoed off the surrounding brick. This was followed by a soft exhalation and a gasp.

  Walter paused at the mouth of the alley and listened.

  He pictured Amy pressed up against the wall, her dress hitched up, underwear pushed aside. Standing on one leg with the other curled around this other man who wasn’t him. Walter imagined the scene so vividly he didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he opened them and found that he’d closed the distance to that dumpster by more than half. Rushed breathing inched through the silence, and when Walter closed his eyes again he heard her whispers at his ear, felt her breath slipping over his face and neck.

  “What the fuck?”

  Walter’s eyes snapped open. The man was standing there. His belt was undone, but he’d hitched his pants up. He’d come out from behind the dumpster and was glaring at Walter. “What the fuck?”

  Behind the man, the red dress was pooled on the ground, a single red pump lying on top.

  Walter caught a glimpse of a bare leg as the girl silently edged deeper into the shadows. In his mind, he saw her tucked between the sink and toilet in that bathroom all those years ago. He remembered—

  The man slammed Walter in the center of his stomach with the heel of his palm.

  Walter felt the air rush from his lungs and he stumbled backward, tried to keep his footing, but tripped and landed hard on the asphalt.

  “You drunk piece of shit. This is how you get your rocks off? Perving around in alleys?”

  He took three hurried steps and kicked Walter in the side, caught him just below the ribs. Walter pulled his knees up and twisted to the right, tried to get his badge out of his back pocket, but another blow came. A third after that.

  Amy, tell him to stop, he thought.

  She didn’t. She had to be watching, but she didn’t say a word, didn’t make a sound.

  The man was shouting now. He kicked him again and again. Ribs, kidneys, thigh, shoulder. The blows came so fast and hard Walter only managed to block a handful. It was the kick to his chin that hurt most, that one sent his world to black.

  Chapter

  11

  “Jesus, what the hell happened to you?” Lynn Crowley set down her mug of coffee and stood from her desk. She crossed the small, crowded room that served as her office outside Evidence and got a better look at Walter through the barred window.

  He wanted to tell the evidence clerk to lower her voice, not because he was worried others might hear—Detroit PD stored evidence in the basement of headquarters on Beaubien Street—but because despite the handful of aspirin he’d swallowed when he finally made it back to his apartment, damn near every sound he’d heard since waking this morning seemed to amplify and rattle around in his head.

  When he’d come to in the alley, he’d been alone. It took a moment before he realized where he was and exactly why he was drooling on the pavement. Then the pain came. Nearly every inch of his body ached, numbed only by the copious amounts of alcohol still working through his system. Albeit only in fuzzy pieces, he remembered what had happened—leaving the bar, sitting outside the restaurant, following—

  Could it have really been her?

  He wanted it to be Amy, and he supposed that made it less likely. He’d been looking for her for a very long time, and he’d seen her before—in line at the grocery store, next to him in traffic, sitting at the DMV, walking along the sidewalk—but the moment he’d get close, he’d realize it wasn’t her; it never was. Always just some cheap facsimile.

  But last night? That was her.

  Walter figured he’d been unconscious for about ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. He’d seen it was a little after midnight when he’d stumbled out of the alley back onto the sidewalk. He’d taken a beating, no doubt about that, but nothing seemed to be broken, and moving seemed to help with the pain, like working a strained muscle. He’d shuffled back to his building, managed to get his key into the lock, and dropped onto his couch after the aspirin.

  The clanging of his alarm clock woke him at five thirty, and after a tenuous shower, several bandages, and more aspirin, he’d made his way into Detroit PD with a black eye, a cut under his chin, and a bruise the size of Delaware wrapped around his torso.

  From behind her barred window, Crowley snapped her fingers in Walter’s face. “Walter, you with me?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Got jumped on my way home from Mig’s last night.”

  “Bastards did a number on you.” Crowley reached through the bars and gently turned Walter’s chin from side to side to get a better look. “Nothing a little time won’t cure, but still, ouch.”

  Walter fished a scrap of paper from his pocket and slid it through the window to her.

  She read aloud the case number, tapped the paper with the tip of her finger, and narrowed her eyes for a moment. “Hmm. Detective Weeden, tenement building in Forest Park, rape vic, right?”

  “I don’t know how you do that.”

  She shrugged. “Date and badge are in the case number. The rest isn’t so hard. Give me a second.”

  She turned and disappeared into the large evidence room behind her office and came back a few minutes later with a battered file box, a clipboard resting on top. She buzzed her outer door open and handed the box to Walter, nodding at a small table behind him. “Can’t leave my sight, but you can go through it right there. Just remember—”

  “Everything that comes out of the box goes back into the box. Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,” he finished for her.

  He scribbled his name, badge number, and date on the clipboard, handed it back to her, then took the box over to the table.

  At one point, the lid had been secured with tape, but after years of opening and resealing, the tape was peeled back and gummed up with so much dust it did nothing but dangle from the sides like ratty pigtails.

  There wasn’t much in the box.

  The lamp, wrapped in plastic, took up most of the space. He carefully removed it and set it aside. Underneath were bags containing the handcuffs, the ropes from the bed, an envelope of photographs, and several swatches of material cut from the mattress. The dried blood had taken on a dark rust color over the years, the rest of the cloth stained yellow. There were also small tubes containing Q-tips with blood samples and a fingerprint card for Alvin Schalk.

  At the bottom of the box was a copy of Detective Weeden’s typed report. Walter fished it out and scanned the text. He lowered his sore body into a worn wooden chair and read it a second time, much slower. None of it made sense.

  Chapter

  12

  The paper was stiff and crinkled in Walter’s hand. The initial report was dated Tuesday, February 18, 1986—a little over six and a half years ago.

  The body of Alvin Schalk (31, unmarried) was found dead of apparent blunt force trauma to the head by officers Herbert Nadler and Walter O’Brien in response to a neighbor’s noise complaint. Schalk’s body was on the floor of apartment 2D in a tenement building at 186 Rivard in Forest Park. The apartment was not leased in Schalk’s name. It should have been vacant. A lamp found next to the body is the suspected weapon.

  An asterisk next to that entry led to a handwritten note in the margin stating that Schalk’s blood, hair, and skin from his scalp had been found on the base of the lamp.

  A young white female (Amy Archer), discovered nude in the bathroom, admitted to delivering the fatal blow. Evidence (handcuffs) pointed to her having been restrained earlier. She claimed Schalk, an employee of Detroit Metro Taxi, abducted her with the use of his taxi and held her captive for at least two weeks. She appeared to be in shock and was unable to provide exact dates, only that he had picked her up near Eastern Market and drugged her. Signs of apparent sexual assault were visible both on her person and on the bed where additional restraints (rope) were found.

  All that was fairly clear, nothing Walter didn’t already know. It was the additional notes that confused him.

  ADDENDUM—2/18/86: While in transit to Detroit General Hospital, murder suspect Amy Archer escaped police custody and fled. BOLO issued—white female, short blond hair, green eyes, approximate age 15–18, 5'6" in height. Last seen wearing red sweatpants, Detroit Lions T-shirt, white tennis shoes, near the intersection of Wilmont and 18th.

  Weeden’s physical description was all wrong. There was a photograph attached, but Amy’s face was blurry. Probably one they had taken back at the apartment where she was found. It was impossible to make out the details in the photo, but Walter remembered her vividly—she’d had shoulder-length brown hair, not short blond. Gray eyes, not green. And her age—Walter was certain she was twentysomething, no chance she was in her teens.

  How did Weeden get something as basic as her vitals wrong? Had he even actually issued any BOLO? Walter didn’t remember seeing it; that’s why he…

  Walter turned the page.

  ADDENDUM—2/18/86: Transporting officer, Walter O’Brien, was given a microcassette recorder in the event Archer said anything useful during transport. Upon playback of the tape, only O’Brien can be heard speaking, most likely due to poor placement of the recorder or because Archer was in the back of the patrol car. See attached report from O’Brien for details of their conversation.

  ADDENDUM—2/18/86: Schalk’s cab located behind Carmine’s Drugstore on 49th, substantially vandalized. All windows shattered. Plexiglas between the driver and passenger compartments cracked and left on the floor of the front passenger seat. Due to extended exposure to the elements, no retrievable prints found inside. Per store employees, the car had been there for nearly three weeks. Nobody phoned it in. Bad neighborhood. Cars routinely abandoned in this lot, and the tow company comes on the first Tuesday of the month.

  ADDENDUM—2/18/86: Interview with Schalk’s dispatcher (Ralph Kanton) at Detroit Metro Taxi. Schalk last reported to work on 1/31/86, called in a fare pickup at 653 Orleans Street (Eastern Market area—possibly AA) at 9:46 p.m. Absence noted two hours later, dispatch unable to reach him on radio. Kanton claims he phoned Schalk’s disappearance in to Detroit PD, but I was unable to find a record at the watch desk. The cab was reported stolen on 2/1/86. Per the dispatcher, Schalk had a history of substance abuse and sometimes disappeared for days at a time. He’d been reprimanded twice (copies attached), and a third would mean termination. They’d phoned his home several times without response. Two coworkers stopped at his residence (83 Cambridge Drive, Detroit MI 48214), but both reported nobody home / no answer at door (copies of dispatcher notes attached).

  ADDENDUM—2/18/86: Search warrant for Alvin Schalk residence issued by Judge Harold Shummer and served by Detective Weeden (badge 8674), four uniforms, and five members of SWAT. No answer at door, breached by SWAT. Two-bedroom single-family dwelling. Nobody found in or around home. Spoiled food in kitchen. No evidence of additional abductions in or around premises. Presumed criminal activity appears contained to the Forest Park apartment. Nothing useful learned from neighbors—usual fodder—quiet guy, kept to himself. Last seen sometime in January, exact date unknown.

  ADDENDUM—2/19/86: Per Officer Herbert Nadler, resident in apartment 2E of 186 Rivard Street stated, “he [Schalk] had a girl in there.” Despite attempts to speak to resident of 2E, they are not answering the door. Neighbors in 2A and 2C had no recollection of anyone entering or leaving 2D in more than a month, both thought the apartment had been empty but admitted to hearing sounds in there (“an animal in pain”). Resident of 2B states seeing an unknown female (Black, mid-twenties) leave 2D on at least one occasion the previous week, approximately 2/10, but could not provide specifics.

  ADDENDUM—2/21/86: All fingerprints located in 2D match Schalk. Prints on lamp too smudged to be useful. No other prints discovered. Apartment possibly wiped down recently?

  ADDENDUM—2/22/86: Five “Amy Archers” found in the Detroit area; all five accounted for, none matching description of our missing “Amy Archer.” BOLO amended and extended to all Wayne County.

  ADDENDUM—2/23/86: Autopsy completed on Alvin Schalk (attached). COD = blunt force trauma to occipital bone/cranium. Additional unrelated/abnormal findings (see report).

  ADDENDUM—2/27/86: Analysis on blood found on mattress: Type B, male, not female. Schalk also Type B. Either Schalk’s blood or possible unknown male victim?

  ADDENDUM—3/2/86: Amy Archer BOLO extended statewide.

  That was the last of Weeden’s notes. If Amy Archer had ever been found, there was no record of it here.

  Walter scanned the attached copies of the reports from Schalk’s dispatcher—the missing cab, the abandoned job, the reprimands. Nothing useful there, not really. They painted a familiar picture of a man Walter had seen a thousand times in his six years on the force. Someone going through the motions to survive.

  The autopsy report was five pages long and included a sketch of Schalk’s body with details of the fatal wound noted near the skull. A paragraph on the third page was circled with a large question mark next to it. Autopsy revealed that Schalk’s left arm was riddled with cancer and blood clots, which the medical examiner noted as extraordinarily unusual to only present in a single arm, but there it was. Nothing further.

  Neither the microcassette recorder nor the tape were in the box.

  Walter flipped back to Weeden’s description of Archer: White female, short blond hair, green eyes, approximate age 15–18, 5'6" in height. Last seen wearing red sweatpants, Detroit Lions T-shirt, white tennis shoes, near the intersection of Wilmont and 18th.

  Aside from that first call, he’d never worked with Weeden again. Was he a sloppy cop? Did he mix Amy Archer up with another victim? That seemed ridiculous, but the alternative was that he’d intentionally included the wrong description, which made no sense, either.

  Something else was missing.

  Walter went through the box a second time to be sure, then looked up at Crowley’s window. “Hey, Lynn?”

  She was reading a paperback. “Yeah?”

  “Weeden found two bodies in a freezer on this case. Down in the basement. I don’t see anything on that here. Any idea where that file might be?”

  She picked up the scrap of paper with the case number and flicked the edge. “I didn’t see anything else back there but I can look again. Do you want to wait?”

  “Sure.”

  She twisted off her stool and started toward the evidence room when her phone rang. She reached back and scooped up the receiver. “Evidence.”

  Her head bobbed. She looked over at Walter and nodded. “I’ll let him know.”

  When she hung up, she said, “Captain’s looking for you.”

  Chapter

  13

  Walter took the elevator up to the third floor. When the doors opened on the Homicide Division bullpen, unfamiliar eyes landed on him from the dozen metal desks stuffed into the space, placed anywhere they could find room. There were several grunts, a couple of quick one-liners about the eye, muffled laughs. A wadded sheet of paper bounced off the wall a few inches from his head. His new coworkers, same as the old. Newbie rookie all over again.