Death Mask

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Hide-and-Go-Seek

Detective Kunzel was sitting at the counter in Hathaway’s, the 1950s-style diner with the pink Formica tabletops, forking up a breakfast of scrapple and fried eggs. The waitress had just come up to ask him if he wanted more apple butter when his cell phone played “Hang On Sloopy.”

“Kunzel,” he answered.

“Enjoying your breakfast, Detective?” whispered the harsh voice of Red Mask. “Could be your last, if you’re not careful. The condemned detective’s last meal.”

“What do you want, you murdering piece of shit?” Detective Kunzel demanded, and the elderly man sitting next to him turned and stared at him in alarm.

“It’s not what I want, is it? I’m getting what I want. I’m getting my revenge, in spades. No, Detective, I’m talking about what you want.”

“Go on,” said Detective Kunzel, putting down his fork. Suddenly he didn’t have an appetite anymore.

“You want me, don’t you? You want to see me handcuffed and locked up in a cell, and then hauled up in front of a court and sentenced to death. You want to see me in Mansfield, don’t you, with a needle in my arm?”

“Well, you got that right. But I’m not going to assume that you’re going to give yourself up.”

“I’m not. You think I’m a fool? But justice is justice, Detective. Justice should be fair, and I’m giving you the chance to come after me.”

“Why would you do that?” he asked Red Mask. He waved the waitress away and said, “No, thanks.”

“Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I feel like some sport, along with my revenge. Maybe killing all of these poor innocent folks is getting to be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.”

“So this is about what you want?”

“You don’t have to take me up on this, Detective. But it’s a onetime offer. After this, it’s back to the massacres. No rest for the wicked, remember. No mercy for the innocent, neither.”

“All right, then, Mr. Mask,” said Detective Kunzel. “What exactly do you propose?”

“You can find me at noon exactly, in the parking structure next to the Giley Building. Bring plenty of backup. You’re going to need it.”

With that, Red Mask cut off the connection. Detective Kunzel immediately punched out Lieutenant Booker’s number at headquarters.

They parked across the street from the Giley Building and climbed out of their car. Although it was nearly noon, the street was in shadow and unnaturally chilly.

“He couldn’t have picked anyplace grimmer, could he?” said Detective Bellman, looking up at the eight-story parking structure. It had been built in the late 1950s, and it was due for demolition as soon as the Giley Building itself was vacated. It was made of grimy concrete, with black streaks down the walls. The sides of each floor were open, but they were all covered with rusty steel mesh.

Three squad cars had already parked on Race Street, and twelve more would arrive in the next few minutes without sirens or lights. The CPD had cordoned off a six-block area between Elm and Vine Streets, from Seventh Street as far south as Third Street.

“Here comes the cavalry,” said Detective Kunzel, as two black SWAT vans appeared around the corner, followed closely by three metallic silver cars carrying FBI agents. Off to the northeast, they could hear the flackerflacker-flacker of a police helicopter. There were two police sharpshooters on board, but the helicopter crew had been instructed to stay well away unless Red Mask ventured out onto the parking structure’s flat roof.

Two FBI agents came over. One of them was tall and wide shouldered, with a jutting chin and black slicked-back hair like a young Jack Lord from the early seasons of Hawaii Five-O. The other was black, with a shaved head, and he had the steel-sprung walk of a man who gets up at 5:00 A.M. every day for a punishing workout.

“Agent Morrison, Agent Greene,” Detective Kunzel acknowledged them.

Special Agent Morrison looked up at the parking structure. “So what’s going down, Detective? Lieutenant Booker said that the unsub challenged you to meet him here.”

“That’s right. He pretty much told me that he was bored with killing defenseless people and wanted a little sport.”

“You say ‘he’ like he’s only one person.”

“I know. But I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who calls me up every time. And he’s adamant that he has no accomplice.”

Special Agent Morrison turned to Special Agent Greene. “Can you believe this? I’ve had to deal with so many schizos over the years who seriously believe that they’re two different people. But this is the first time I have ever come across two different people making out like there’s only one of them.”

“Could be twins,” Special Agent Greene suggested. “Sometimes they have this really highly developed synchronicity. You know — one of them bangs his thumb with a hammer and the other one says ‘Shit!’ ”

Detective Kunzel blew his nose. “Whatever the truth of it is, these guys are illogical, apparently motiveless, and it seems like they’re killing people just for the kicks. But remember what I told you when I first briefed you: however many Red Masks there are, they seem to be able to come and go without being seen, and they have no moral compunction about who they attack.”

“Okay, Detective. Thanks for that. Let’s hope we can wrap this one up for you.”

Two SWAT teams of ten officers each had climbed out of their vans and were gathering around the front of the parking structure. The entrance was low, with a huge concrete beam over it, bearing the letters G LEY BUI D G PAR ING. Immediately inside stood a red and white sentry box in which an attendant usually sat to collect parking fees. Then a concrete ramp curved up to the left, its surface shiny from years of use.

“Why do I have such a bad feeling about this?” asked Detective Bellman, as one of the SWAT teams started to jog up the ramp, their rubber-soled boots squeaking on the concrete. The other team split up and headed to the right — four toward the elevator and six toward the stairs.

“You’re beginning to sound like Mrs. Sawyer,” said Detective Kunzel. “ ‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’ There’s a logical explanation for this Red Mask character, believe me, whether he’s one perpetrator or two.” All the same, he couldn’t help thinking of Sissy’s last words to him, warning him to be careful: “the hunters could end up becoming the hunted.”

The SWAT team had reached the first parking level. One of them appeared behind the rusty mesh and shouted out, “First level clear!” Immediately, the two FBI agents took out their guns and followed them into the building and up the ramp.

“Are we going in?” asked Detective Bellman.

“No need. Not yet, anyhow. These guys know what they’re doing.”

“Level two clear!” they heard over Detective Bellman’s radio.

They waited two or three minutes. Then they heard, “Level three clear!”

“I don’t think Red Mask is even here,” said Detective Bellman. “He’s probably watching us from some office building across the street, laughing his goddamned nuts off.”

“Elevator — elevator has malfunctioned,” said a different voice over the radio. Then, “We’re immobilized halfway between the sixth and seventh floors.”

Detective Kunzel said, “Shit.”

A minute-long pause, then, “We need a technician to get us out of here. We’ve tried everything, but the emergency switch has been disconnected. All the goddamned wires have been cut.”

Another pause, and then, “The hatch is jammed. We can’t open it. We’re pretty much trapped.”

Detective Kunzel snapped, “He’s in there, Freddie! Red Mask is in there! Come on!”

They hurried across the street toward the parking structure. Before they could enter the building, though, Detective Kunzel’s cell phone rang.

“Kunzel. Is that you?”

“I’m waiting for you, Detective. I thought this was going to be our showdown.”

“I’ll meet you face-to-face any time you like. Just tell me where you are.”

“Sorry, Detective. You’ll have to come find me. High Noon. That’s the name of this story, isn’t it?”

Detectives Kunzel and Bellman entered the parking structure. It smelled of oil and dust and diseased concrete. Inhuman smells. But what surprised them was how silent it was — only the dripping of a sprinkler pipe and the soft flapping of a discarded newspaper.

“Which way?” asked Detective Bellman, crouching down low with his SIG Sauer automatic held in both hands.

“I don’t know. Let’s go up to level two and check it out.”

They climbed cautiously up the ramp until they reached the second level. There were no cars parked here except for a thirteen-year-old Buick station wagon covered in thick sandy-colored dust.

“Maybe we should try the stairs instead.”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t like this one little bit. Why is it so quiet? There are twenty SWAT guys in this building, and it’s like a fricking church.”

Detective Kunzel sniffed. “It could be they have Red Mask cornered, and they don’t want to make any sound in case they reveal their position.”

“You really believe that?”

“I don’t know what to believe. But we won’t find out unless we go up and take a look, will we?”

They walked across to the door that led to the stairwell. But as Detective Kunzel opened it, they heard scuffling and shouting from one of the levels up above them. Then a scream. They looked upward, between the dark concrete pillars, and then at each other.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Detective Kunzel. He had heard men scream before when they were shot, or stabbed, or had their arms broken, or when they were doused in blazing gasoline. But he had never heard a scream like this before. It had started off as a piercing, panicky falsetto, like somebody begging please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me, but now it descended into a wide, agonized howl.

There was a last shout of utter despair, and then it stopped.

Detective Kunzel unclipped his radio. “Control? This is Kunzel. What the hell’s going on? We’re inside the building and we can hear screaming from one of the upper floors.”

His radio made a blurting noise, and then he heard, “ — signal, can’t. have to pull back — ”

“Control? I can’t hear you! What’s happening up there?”

“ — see who’s — ”

The radio crackled and went dead. He shook it, and slapped it furiously in the palm of his hand, but it still didn’t work. “Goddamned piece of Chinese crap. Try yours.”

Detective Bellman tried his radio, too. He listened intently, but after a few moments he had to shake his head. “I think I can hear somebody shouting, but they’re much too faint.”

Detective Kunzel said, “Something’s gone shit shaped. We need to get up there, fast.”

“Hey — do you seriously think that’s a good idea? There are ten SWAT guys up there, and two FBI agents. You think they can’t handle a psycho like Red Mask? Or even two psychos like Red Mask?”

“Maybe it’s three psychos like Red Mask,” said Detective Kunzel. “But the point is, we won’t find out unless we go up there.”

All the same, he felt suddenly afraid. The Cincinnati SWAT teams were highly trained, and some of the best in the country. They were armed with Colt carbines and Glock automatic pistols and shotguns that fired tear gas, as well as flashbangs to deafen and blind any adversary and fifty-thousand-volt Tasers. But so far he had heard no radio reports of any arrests. No shots fired. Only that long, drawn-out scream, and then silence.

“We should call for more backup,” said Detective Bellman.

Detective Kunzel tried his radio again. Like Detective Bellman, he thought he could hear some tiny, far-away voices, as faint as flies, but it was impossible to make out what they were saying.

“Control,” he repeated. “Can you hear me, control?”

There was no response. Detective Bellman said, “Come on, man. We just can’t get a signal in here, that’s all. These walls — they must be six feet thick.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Detective Kunzel. He glanced upward again. “Let’s get back outside.”

They were less than halfway down the ramp, however, when they heard another scream, just as agonized as the first, but even higher, like the climactic note in some hideous opera. It echoed and echoed down through the tiers until it abruptly ended with a loud bang, which sounded more like a huge door slamming than a gunshot.

Detective Kunzel dragged out his gun again and started to run back upward, his belly joggling under his brown checkered shirt. Detective Bellman reluctantly ran after him.

When he reached the crest of the ramp, Detective Kunzel roared out, “CPD detectives! CPD detectives! What in the name of God is happening up there, you guys? SWAT commander! Can you hear me? Sergeant Rickwood! Kenneth! Special Agent Morrison!”

There was no answer, only a strange scraping noise, and then nothing.

Detective Kunzel said, “Jesus,” and hurried over to the stairs.

“Mike!” said Detective Bellman. “This is not a good idea!”

Detective Kunzel opened the door to the stairwell. He was panting and sweating. “People are being hurt up there, Freddie. What do you expect me to do?”

“Be serious, Mike. If the Red Masks have killed all of those SWAT guys and those two FBI agents, what do you think they’re going to do to us two mooks?”

“It’s our job to save people in danger, Freddie. To protect and serve.”

“Sure. But it’s not our job to commit suicide, is it? Who was the first person to tell me that you never rush headlong into any situation where you might get killed?”

“So what are we going to do, Freddie? Mosey back down to the street to round up some more backup, while even more of our people are being killed?”

“For Christ’s sake, Mike. You don’t know they’re being killed. You don’t have any idea what’s happening, do you?”

“What did it sound like, Freddie? People don’t scream like that unless they’re sure that they’re going to die. Don’t tell me you don’t remember that young guy on Walnut Street — the one who got crushed by that Metro bus? Now, I’m going up there, okay? And there’s nothing that you can do or say to stop me.”

With that, he seized hold of the handrail and started to heave himself up the staircase.

Detective Bellman hesitated, then he shouted, “I’m going for backup! Okay?”

“Okay! Okay! Do whatever you damn well like!”