J. A. Konrath - Shaken (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries)

1989, June 23

T his guy isnt a killer, Dalton thinks. Hes a butcher.

Dalton isnt repulsed by the spectacle, or even slightly disturbed. He stays detached and professional, even as he snaps a picture of Brotsky tearing at the prostitutes body with some kind of three-pronged garden tool.

Theres a lot of blood.

Dalton wonders if he should have brought color film. But theres something classic, something pure, about shooting in black and white. It makes real life even more realistic.

Dalton opens the f-stop on the lens, adjusting for the setting sun. Hes standing in the backyard of Brotskys house, and his subject has been gracious enough to leave the blinds open. From his spot on the lawn, Dalton has a clear view into Brotskys living room, where the carnage is taking place. Though Brotsky has a high fence and plenty of foliage on his property, hes still taking a big risk. There are neighbors on either side, and the back gate leading to the alley is unlocked. Anyone could walk by.

Its not a smart way to conduct a murder.

Dalton has watched Brotsky kill two hookers in this fashion, and surely there have been others. Yet the Chicago Police Department hasnt come knocking on Brotskys door yet. Brotsky has been incredibly lucky so far.

But luck runs out.

At least Brotsky has the sense to put a tarp down, Dalton thinks.

He snaps another photo. Brotskys naked barrel chest is slick with gore, and the look on his unshaven face is somewhere between frenzy and ecstasy as he works the garden tool. Hes not a tall man, but hes thick, with big muscles under a layer of hard fat. Brotsky sweats a lot, and his balding head gives off a glare which Dalton offsets by using a filter on his lens.

Brotsky sets down the garden tool and picks up a cleaver.

Yeah, this guy is nuts.

Truth told, Dalton has done worse to people, at least as far as suffering goes. If the price is right, Dalton will drag someones death out for hours, even days. But Dalton gets no pleasure from the task. Killing is simply his business.

Brotsky is killing to meet baser needs. Sex. Power. Blood lust. Hunger, Dalton muses, taking a shot of Brotsky with his mouth full of something moist.

If Brotsky sticks to his MO, hell dismember the girl, wrap up her parts in plastic bags, and then take her severed head into the shower with him. When Brotsky returns, hell be squeaky clean, and the head will be gone. Then hell load the bags into his car and haul them to the dump site.

Dalton guesses it will be another eleven minutes. He waits patiently, taking occasional snapshots, wondering what Brotsky does with the heads. Dalton isnt bothered by the heat or the humidity, even though its close to ninety degrees and hes wearing a suit and tie. Unlike Brotsky, Dalton doesnt sweat. Dalton has pores. He just never feels the need to use them.

Exactly eleven minutes and nine seconds later, Brotsky walks out his back door, dressed in shorts, sandals, and a wrinkled blue Hawaiian shirt. Hes lugging several black plastic garbage bags. The man is painfully unaware, and doesnt even bother looking around. He walks right past Dalton, whos hiding behind the girth of an ancient oak tree, gun in hand.

The hit man falls into step behind the butcher, his soft-soled shoes silent on the walkway. He trails Brotsky, close as a shadow, for several steps before jamming the Ruger against the fat mans back. Brotsky stops cold.

This is a gun, Victor Brotsky. Try to run and Ill fire. The bullet will blow your heart out the front of your chest. Neither of us wants that to happen. Do you understand?

Yes, Brotsky says. Can I put down these bags? Theyre heavy.

Brotsky doesnt seem frightened, or even surprised. Dalton is impressed. Perhaps the man is more of a pro than Dalton had guessed.

No. Were going to walk, slowly, out to the alley. My car is parked there. Youre going to put the pieces of the hooker in the trunk.

Brotsky does as hes told. Daltons black 1989 Eldorado Roadster is parked alongside Brotskys garage. The car isnt as anonymous as Dalton would prefer, but he needs to keep up appearances. The wiseguys he works for like Caddys, and driving the latest model somewhat compensates for the fact that Dalton isnt Italian.

Trunks open. Put the bags inside and take out the red folder.

Brotsky hefts the bags into the trunk, and they land with a solid thump. The alley smells like garbage, and the summer heat makes the odor cling. Dalton moves the gun from the mans back to his neck.

Take the folder, Dalton says.

The light from the trunk is sufficient. Brotsky opens the folder, begins to page through several eight-by-ten photos of his two previous victims. He lingers on one that shows him grinning, holding up a severed leg. Its Daltons personal favorite. Black and white really is the only way to go.

Im a schoolteacher, Brotsky says with the barest trace of a Russian accent. I dont have much money.