Watchers of the Night
Autor:in
Charlene Parris
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Chapter 1
Detective Adam “Knight” Solberg tossed his badge, wallet and keys onto his desk before sitting down, his swivel chair squawking in protest as he dropped into its familiar embrace. He turned to face a corkboard wall decorated with paper. Each sheet described an assignment currently under investigation and there were too many for his liking.
The phone on his desk rang. Adam tapped the speaker button. “Solberg.”
“When the hell are you going to get down here?” a gruff voice demanded.
Adam smiled. “Old man, have you forgotten I have a job to protect your sorry butt from criminals?”
The caller laughed. “Don’t I know it. You remind me every time I see you.” His voice quieted. “Seriously though, son. Is everything okay?”
He caught the change in his dad’s voice. “Remember the serial killer case I talked about? Our forensics team found more clues that make me want to puke. When I catch the bastard—”
“Don’t stress. You will.” A short pause on the phone. “Are you coming by the club later?”
The Chariots of Chrome Motorcycle Club was Adam’s one spot of solace. Consisting of active and retired law enforcement officers, it felt like a second home to him. His dad, Magnus, had been the club leader for several years now, but every time Adam went in, he wasn’t treated like a son; he was a valued member of the pack, and he appreciated Dad’s insistence on that.
“Let me see how things are going first. I’m waiting to hear back from Forensics on the DNA results.”
“That could take a while,” Dad said.
“I don’t think so. Ever since Cornwall joined the forensics team with the Investigative Services Unit, we’ve been getting results back in half the time. I’ll call you later.”
Adam dropped the phone in the cradle. As much as he wanted to call the ISU to check on their progress, he knew it would sound like nagging. If they had their best team on it, he could get results back within a few hours.
Maybe he should go to the club after all. He needed to surround himself with friends and clear his head for a bit before diving back into the criminal cesspool.
Hanging out with Dad and the guys had been the right decision. Adam had gone back to work feeling refreshed and determined to nail down his killer. Forensics had come through with a name and address, and the perp was now cooling his heels in jail.
It was three in the morning, and home—and his king-size bed—never looked more inviting. He managed to wolf down a snack and strip off his clothing before falling naked onto the cool, smooth sheets.
However, dreamland was rudely interrupted by his cell phone. Yawning, he grabbed it and looked at the screen—it was eleven o’clock in the morning, and someone was buzzing from the lobby. It must be a mistake. He put the phone down, but it buzzed again almost immediately, and a tendril of adrenaline sparked through him when he answered. “Who is it?”
“Adam, it’s Bruiser, open the damn door!”
He hit “0” on his phone, the adrenaline now turning to icy fingers of fear. What on earth would bring Dad’s best friend here?
Now alert, he quickly pulled on a pair of sweatpants, hurried to the front door and swung it open. A couple of minutes later, the elevator pinged, and Bruiser jogged toward him. Adam immediately noticed the white bandage on his friend’s arm, and sensed something wasn’t right. “What the hell’s wrong?”
Bruiser’s dark brown skin had paled to an ashen gray. “I—I don’t...” He placed his large hand over his face.
“Come in.” He closed the door behind them. “What’s going on?” A prickling of dread raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“My God, my God,” Bruiser repeated. He wrapped his arms around his chest and rocked on his feet.
“Talk to me.” When the big man didn’t answer, Adam grabbed his friend’s muscular arms, shaking him. “What is it?”
Haunted brown eyes looked at him. “There was a fire at the club.”
Adam processed the information as he stared at Bruiser. “And?” He shook the Black man harder. “What?”
“Your dad got me and Dawg out, but...” he sank to his knees, his body shaking as he cried. “He’s dead, Adam. I am so freaking sorry.”
“Who’s dead?” His gut twisted with agony, but he needed to hear the words. He knelt in front of his friend, holding on to a tiny light of hope, feeling it start to sputter within him as Bruiser kept shaking his head. “Dammit, Bruiser, who died?”
When Bruiser finally looked at him, Adam’s heart sank. “I’m sorry, we tried, but...” He fought to catch his breath. “We couldn’t save him. I couldn’t get your dad out.”
Bruiser’s quiet sobbing cut through Adam, confirming the impossible.
It wasn’t true. Adam wouldn’t—he couldn’t—believe it.
He had lost his best friend, his mentor.
He’d lost his father.
It was midafternoon when Forensic Investigator Cynthia Cornwall stepped out of the van and into organized chaos. Police cars, fire trucks and ambulances created a barricade around the Chariots of Chrome Motorcycle Club. Firefighters aimed their hoses at the smoking husk, water arcing with precision into smoldering hot spots.
A large crowd had gathered beyond the barrier. Some had their cell phones out, filming the action, while others talked and pointed at the building. A few stood off to one side, inconsolably wailing in grief. Two men were arguing with some police officers, one in particular trying to shove his way through. A muscular dark-skinned man finally wrapped his arms around his companion, lifted him up and walked toward a nearby police van. She watched as the man slumped against the side of the vehicle, his expression twisted in anguish.
She caught all of this with one glance, her mind processing the human reaction to the catastrophe. Now she took her time, letting her gaze linger over the scene. She’d been told during the ride here that active and retired law enforcement members who had formed the club had been in the building at the time of the fire.
Cynthia looked over what was left of the structure. Previously, it had been a variety store with apartments above. The MC members had gutted and renovated the building, adding their Chariots of Chrome insignia above the door. That was all gone now.
It must have been one hell of a fire. The thick metal supports that held up the clubhouse were actually warped. Heaps of black ash and charred wood lay in messy piles around the destroyed building. However, she also noticed that a chain link fence bordering the property had been blown apart.
This had been an explosion.
She would have to locate the fire marshal and discuss his findings.
“Ready to go?” Her forensics partner, Daniel Oostermann, stood nearby, waiting.
“Yeah.” She wasn’t, not really. People dying in fires hit a particular sensitive spot for her.
Despite the shouting, Cynthia could still hear crying. It hurt to hear the suffering. All she could do was mentally prepare herself and put her best effort toward finding some answers.
The marshal stood by his van. “Cornwall,” she introduced herself, displaying her badge. “Can you give me a rundown of what happened?”
He took off his helmet and wiped his face with a towel. “Damn, it was terrifying. That fire burned so hot we didn’t dare get too close.”
“Did the building contain material to make it burn like that?”
“It was a stone and wooden building with a metal structure, and it hasn’t rained for a while, but it shouldn’t have burned like that.” His expression was grim. “I found traces of an accelerant.”
That would explain the force of the blast and the condition of the building. “Any evidence of bomb material?”
“What? I—I don’t know. I didn’t see anything to suggest that.”
“Any concerns of a gas leak, or other volatile substance?”
“No, everything’s clear.”
She nodded, her mind already processing several possibilities. “Thank you, Marshal.”
She and Daniel got dressed in protective gear, then followed the marshal to the back of the building. “The men are still hosing down the charred wood as a precaution,” he explained. “The back area is clear, but we need to be careful.”
“Understood.”
The area was covered in soaked debris and the mangled remains of motorcycles. Cynthia stood near the rear of the building and looked out across the small parking lot to the six foot high chain link fence. Most of the barrier had been completely destroyed, the rest hanging on by single links. “Do you know how far the explosion reached?”
“It hit a couple of houses beyond the fence. Broken windows, scorched grass.”
“Did you find the point of origin?”
The marshal led them inside. “According to the scorch marks, the fire started here.” He pointed to the left. “This area is just inside the back door.”
She studied the cement floor. The burns were wide and deep. As she looked around, she noticed several skeletal remains surrounded by small heaps of ash. The flashback of a screaming child hit her hard, and Cynthia swallowed the lump of helpless anguish that threatened to overcome her. She kept her trembling hands busy by pretending to go through her pockets.
She believed the fire had only one purpose—completely obliterate any evidence that might be found. However, nothing could be entirely destroyed, as long as one looked in the right place.
“Any idea how many victims were in the building when it exploded?” Daniel asked.
“Witnesses think about seven or eight. One man escaped with cuts and bruises, three went to the hospital with extensive burns over most of their bodies.”
“Is the man with the minor injuries still here?”
The marshal nodded. “Yeah, a tall Black man named Bruiser, retired cop.”
Which meant there were at least three victims left in the clubhouse.
She took a couple of deep breaths to reassure herself and let her brain and its logical thought process take over. “Right. Better get to work.” She pulled on a pair of plastic gloves.
There was little left of the building’s original shape—almost everything had been reduced to cinders.
Cynthia worked closest to the origin of the blast, using a powerful flashlight to better see what was around her, while Daniel moved farther into the building. They had agreed to inspect the clubhouse together in order to speed up the examination. As the only two forensic investigators at the precinct, priorities shifted on a constant basis—on the odd occasion that two current investigations were in progress, they would each take one, but she and Daniel would consult with each other, acting as sounding boards to solve discrepancies. Thankfully, the physical work involving the serial killer case had been finished last night, with only the final reports to write up.
She pulled out a brush and started sifting through the debris, her gaze sharp as she looked everything over. She wouldn’t ignore anything, no matter how tiny or insignificant.
There were several streaks of what looked like white powder emanating from the centre of the blast, and she collected a sample. Something small glinted beneath her flashlight. Using a pair of tweezers, Cynthia picked up the object to inspect it more closely. A ball bearing. She placed it in the plastic bag attached to her hip and looked for others. Soon, she had found about a half dozen of them. During an explosion, these metal bearings would turn bodies into Swiss cheese—not a pleasant thought.
She carefully took off one glove and pulled out her cell phone. A couple of taps, and the map of the building appeared. Lining up the front and rear doors to the image, the picture gave her a good idea how the building looked before it was destroyed.
In the area she stood in, the picture showed a long counter to her left, with a fridge at the other end. To her right were images of tables and chairs. Near the front doors, a staircase led to second-and third-floor units. Six large windows in total on the ground floor. A good-sized space, roomy enough for several friends to hang out and socialize.
And hopefully small enough to find the crucial evidence they needed.
“I found ball bearings,” she announced.
Daniel swore. “This was deliberate.”
“But why attack a motorcycle club?”
“I’ve heard the Chariots of Chrome make their presence known within the nearby neighborhoods.” Daniel picked something up—it looked like a ring—and dropped it into his plastic bag.
“You mean they still patrolled?”
“Yep, something like Neighborhood Watch. Everyone felt safe with them around. And if there was any trouble, they’d handle it.”
Cynthia frowned. “They’re allowed to do that?”
“Within reason. I’m sure they would call the police for official backup, but these weren’t the type of retired officers to ignore something bad happening on their turf.”
Which possibly meant some form of retaliation.
She kept looking and found several pieces of very thin copper wire. And there, under a pile of blackened wood, was the cracked face of a watch.
She studied it carefully. She didn’t recognize the interior mechanism, nor the faint detail of a symbol above it.
She put it in a plastic bag, and continued her investigation, working in sections. She discovered a cuff link near the front door, in the shape of skulled figure riding a motorcycle. Nearby were charred human bones, and she took a moment to steady herself before examining them.
Judging by their position, she surmised that the victim had crawled toward the exit, but the dense smoke or fire had become too overwhelming. She placed neon markers around the body and continued her search, fighting the emotions that threatened to flood her mind with painful memories. She couldn’t locate the other cuff link.
“I found three bodies,” Daniel announced. He worked fast, but his attention to detail sometimes suffered as a result. She would have to keep her eyes open for more clues.
His markers indicated that these victims had been closest to the back door and the blast radius. They didn’t stand a chance. Fighting back the sadness, she asked in a strained voice, “Any identification?”
“Well, this guy’s wallet survived, so we have positive ID. Someone wore expensive shades.” He shook an evidence bag with a pair of twisted frames tucked inside. “The third victim owned this.” He held up another bag.
It contained a fob watch, not something a person saw every day. “There’s one body near the front door,” she told him. “And I found a unique cuff link. We should be able to get an ID on it.”
“So, what do you think happened?”
Cynthia put her thoughts carefully together. “Someone brought a bomb in here, with a watch as its timer.” She held up the object in question. “The marshal said he found traces of an accelerant. That makes me think it was beside the bomb when it detonated, but I can’t be sure. However, if the victims arrived at the clubhouse before the perp could finish, then they didn’t have a chance of spreading the accelerant around the building. Looking at the building’s layout, the only place to hide the bomb was in the counter that extended the length of the wall.”
“That explanation holds up.”
“These three got hit first and I believe died instantly.”
Daniel cocked a brow.
“A timed bomb with ball bearings, plus accelerant? At that close range?”
He nodded, watching her.
She faced the front door, using her imagination to give her a better grasp of the circumstances. “As for the other men, the victim near the front door rescued the survivors, then tried to get out, but couldn’t. The smoke or the flames got to him first.”
“Sounds like a good summary. Now all we have to do is figure out why.”
“I saw something on the watch, but I want to analyze it further at the lab first.”
“Theory?”
Cynthia opened her mouth, then closed it. “Not yet. I want to be sure on this one. Let’s finish up.”
They carefully collected the human remains, making sure that everything was bagged and marked in proper sequence. A few more critical pieces of evidence were located, because she had kept her gaze focused to spot anything that Daniel might have missed. Two gold teeth, more ball bearings, some smudged with a dark substance that could be the victims’ blood and a warped belt buckle. And in a far corner, underneath rubble and the remains of an office chair, a small metal safe in surprisingly good condition.
She also located the second cuff link, which she carefully placed in a bag beside the first.
“I’m not sure how we can properly seal off the area,” Daniel stated as they headed out the back door.
“We can place tarp over everything then set up the tents,” she said. As they approached the front of the building, she noticed that the crowd had grown substantially. “I’ll ask the officer in charge to help us.”
With all evidence secured, she stripped off her forensic gear and walked over to the largest group of officers while Daniel waited at their van. The men were talking amongst themselves, and she felt the anger and frustration from this distance.
“Excuse me.” When they all turned as one to look at her, she asked, “Could some of you help us to secure the scene? We need to place tarp and forensic tents over the area.”
“Have you found any answers?”
Cynthia looked at the officer who asked the question, keeping her expression and emotions neutral. “We found evidence that should help move the case forward.”
“Listen, our friends were murdered in there,” the officer growled. “If someone wants revenge, they’ve picked the wrong men to mess with.”
Others voiced their agreement, raising the tension.
“Until that’s proven, I need to preserve the crime scene. Are you going to help or not?”
He looked her over. “You’re a bit mouthy for a forensic specialist.”
“I’m the one who finds the answers, so yes, I can get as mouthy as I want.” She knew raw emotions could grab anyone at any moment. She had learned to keep hers behind a thick wall a long time ago—it was the only way she could continue working this job.
The officer who challenged her stepped forward, but a second officer who stood behind him grabbed his shoulder. “Quit it, Spade,” he said. “She’s doing her job. Come on.”
“My colleague will help you.” She pointed at Daniel, who had watched from the van.
The men left, leaving her to tune in to another confrontation. The man she had seen earlier stood face-to-face with Captain Gregory Boucher. “I have to be on this case!” The man yelled. “My dad was in there!”
“All the more reason for you to stay away, Solberg,” the captain retorted. “You’re too close to this.”
Cynthia recognized the name—Adam Solberg was the detective who had been hunting the serial killer. He had found excellent clues relating to the criminal’s MO, which had helped her find the fingerprints the officers had initially missed. He had been thorough, leaving virtually no stone unturned. He had the work ethic of an experienced, older detective.
So it was a shock to see that Solberg was younger than she expected, actually closer to her age. And Solberg was hot. His face had traces of classic Nordic features combined with smooth, tanned skin. His rich brown hair was cut a little too short for her liking, but the early evening sun picked up its golden highlights. The blue chambray shirt with rolled-up sleeves couldn’t hide the muscles that stretched taut as the detective gestured angrily at the captain.
Cynthia turned around and fiddled with her cell phone, praying that no one had seen her face. Dammit, she was in the middle of a very important investigation. Why the hell was her brain taking time to discover the fineness that was Detective Solberg?
“So what am I supposed to do? Wait until you decide what information you can feed me?” Detective Solberg asked.
“Keep it civil,” the captain warned.
She looked over her shoulder. Detective Solberg’s expressions of grief and anger were very visible, but he fought to regain some semblance of control over his emotions. So, his father was a victim. She had no idea if he was one of the survivors.
However, she understood his reactions better than anyone.
Cynthia took a few slow steps back until she hid behind a police vehicle. She wanted to watch and listen without being seen.
“I have every right to know what happened in there,” Detective Solberg growled.
“We all do. In case you’ve forgotten, your dad was a friend of mine too.”
“And you just told me you’d be involved.” Solberg stabbed a finger into Captain Boucher’s chest.
The Black man who had remained with him grabbed his friend’s arm and pulled him away. “Stop it, Adam,” he said. “You’re embarrassing yourself in front of everyone.”
“Bruiser, I don’t care!” He shook himself free and glared at the captain. “I expect to be informed on everything that’s going on. If you and your team find out anything—anything—I want to know.”
“That’s my call, Solberg,” the captain said.
The detective’s hands bunched into fists, and Cynthia held her breath. Solberg wouldn’t dare hit a high-ranking officer.
Captain Boucher glanced down at the detective’s hands, as if wondering the same thing. “Solberg, I’m putting you on an extended leave of absence. Starting now.”
She didn’t have to see Solberg’s expression to imagine his reaction. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Get the hell out of here before I decide to arrest you for obstruction.”
Silence. Detective Solberg had moved closer to the captain, his body vibrating with rage until, with a snort of disdain, he turned on his heel and stomped off, his friend following behind.
Detectives and officers usually bore the brunt from victims’ families. While she rarely had to deal with the aftermath—the accusations, the judgment, the demand for answers—she witnessed it. And Cynthia had just seen an almost mirrored version of the scene from her own life that played out too often for her liking. Cynthia knew what it felt like to be ignored, to be pushed down the priority ladder, to be slotted into a cold case file.
It had been over ten years, but the pain and anguish were still fresh. She grabbed her chest as grief threatened to break through the wall she had built around her heart.
It had taken her that much time to find a sense of closure. Cynthia decided that Detective Adam Solberg would not wait that long.
