The Shoestring Killer

December 27th, 2016

“You don’t see that every day.” Detective Walter Sanders said as he looked down and rested his hands on his waist.

"That’s for sure.” Jun Cho said as he snapped another picture with his digital camera.

"Helluva way to come away from his victory yesterday.” Sanders stood shaking his head.

Cho’s face scrunched in confusion. “Is he a fighter? He doesn’t look like it to me and he’s way too old to be in sports.” Cho’s attention went back to his camera.

-Click-.

-Click-.

"Nah, that’s Dave Larios. He’s one a’ those hot shot lawyer guys from Larios, Beale, and Webb. I take it you don’t know who Cal Stark is.”

Again Cho’s face hinted at ignorance.

"Caldwell Stark. The billionaire oil tycoon from Tribeca?”

The Asian man feigned comprehension, but it was a miserable attempt.

Walter didn’t feel like embarrassing the relatively new forensics tech for not knowing so he mustered on. “He killed, or should I say allegedly killed his wife last year. That was until yesterday when he was acquitted. The man you are snapping photos of got him off, scot-free.”

There was a creak of Cho’s knees as he rounded the body of Dave Larios, squatted again and aimed his lens for another shot. “Looks like his after party got a little out of hand.”

-Click-.

Walter wanted a smoke so bad his nicotine laced fingers itched. He was about to give Cho the finer details of the trial when he was interrupted by Mike Morris, one of the other on scene detectives.

"Hey, Sanders. Just got word.” Mike said, but didn't follow up with more information.

“Alright, out with it.” Walter waved his hands for Mike to continue but his mind was still dying for that smoke break.

“Oh, uh, yeah, Sloan is on his way. He said he needed to see this for himself.”

“Shit, is he bringing him also.” Walter’s craving for tobacco vaporized.

“Not sure, he wants to make sure it’s not a copy-cat.”

“I’d bet my bottom dollar it is. You honestly think the Shoestring Killer is at it again? It’s been twenty years. That’s a long fucking hiatus.”

“Dunno, maybe he was locked up for something else, and just got out.”

Mike was pulling out his notepad, not to actually scribble down some notes, but it seemed more of a ruse to look busy when Sloan arrived.

"Geezzus Christ. I hope not.” Walter huffed out, dug his hand into his pocket and wrangled his keys in anxious frustration.

“What should I do?” Mike said to the senior detective.

“Depends on how much time we got. What’s his ETA?”

“Ten. Fifteen tops.”

“Alright, well. Let’s not rush the forensics boys, but clear a path for them.” Walter turned around to see the body again, with Cho still busy flashing away. He took a moment to button his shirt to the top and tighten his tie to a stranglehold. He could feel his pulse beating against his collar now. In his mind Walter was hoping the scene below him was just a one-time thing, he didn’t want a repeat of 1996.

The pale form of Dave Larios laying on the floor of the luxurious apartment seemed almost surreal. There will be one for lying, mouth sewn up with string, another for fun, a casual fling, one for whoring, her holes now shut, and one will be innocent, the skin left untouched. He remembered reading the note for the first time all those years ago.

Dave Larios looked almost peaceful except for the silly expression on his face. However, this time it was not so silly, it was eerie to see it again. Dear God. He prayed again that it was a copy-cat.

The mouth of Dave Larios had been stitched closed by a single shoestring. The crisscross work of the stitching went beyond the natural corners of his mouth almost to his earlobes. It appeared to give Dave a crazed smile, similar to Jack Skellington from A Nightmare Before Christmas.

He hadn’t bothered to check the man’s pockets before, hoping that it was all a farce. But he knew that in a few moments Sloan would be here, and he would search for it. And his senses were screaming, knowing that it would be found. Another little note. Another little hint at victim number two. He should have retired two years ago when his thirty was up, but retiring then felt more like he was moving faster into the grave. Now, it was different. He didn’t want to do this dance again.

-***-

Weren't they just the pair Sanders thought. Sloan and Sherlock. Sloan's little pet. Sherlock walked with and air of cockiness about him that bordered on complete arrogance, and Sanders hated it. It may have been true, but when Sherlock spoke even though it was not that often; it was as if he was speaking to children who barely comprehend his words.

He wanted the cigarettes again now. The craving had returned, but he stayed to watch Sherlock work. The man hovered over the body. He leaned in. Gave a sniff here and there. Twisted his neck to view the scene from alternate angles.

The tall man moved his heavy coat aside and withdrew two pairs of metallic tweezers. He used one to lift up the pocket flap and with the second pulled what Sanders had known was there but dreaded to see. Sherlock inspected the paper. Then the writing on the surface, and gave the delicate paper a sensory sniff as well.

He placed the note into a plastic evidence bag and moved on. He dropped to the floor and examined the bottom of the dead man's shoes. With the tweezers he snagged what looked like dirt from the grooves in the sole. From what seemed like nowhere Sherlock had produced a test tube, he dropped the dirt and then from another pocket revealed a small vial of liquid which was added to the tube. The color changed from clear to light blue.

A stopper was placed on the tube and was handed over to Sloan to place into another evidence bag.

Sherlock although already standing seemed to stand taller now. "I've solved the case gentlemen. I shall explain. Follow along ... if you can."