(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' by Michael A Diaz Page B

wake up, his eyes rough and red rimmed from lack of sleep, feeling like he had sandpaper in them. He stifled yawn, thinking about some coffee, turning the idea down as soon as he thought about it. The last thing he needed now was more coffee.
    Two weeks had passed since Dunbar’s murder and they were still on square one. Nothing, absolutely nothing: no suspects, no weapon, and no motive from any one that was close or had known Dunbar. The man had no girlfriends outside his marriage and so there were no other men angry with Dunbar over a woman and wanting revenge. The other murders in Chicago continued as they always do, Turner thought, part of his mind following Holt’s small talk while the rest of it was centered on Dunbar’s case. It pissed the hell of him when he couldn’t solve a murder or at least work on it ‘right’, concentrating on one case at a time, but murders didn’t wait and they kept piling up, one after the other. Just like the one lying on the table now. The man had been beaten to death in a drunken brawl, so at least the cause of death for this one seemed to be pretty clear. They had witnesses and a suspect and even now Thompson was working on him at the station.
    “This one is pretty much…over with”, Holt said, stopping for a moment to snatch a cigarette from the pack laying on a table. He walked a few steps away from the body on the stainless steel table and lighted the cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply, eyes taking the naked figure of the dead man. The autopsy was completed and the obvious cause of death was several blows to the head and face with a blunt object.
    “Good…now all we need is a confession from the perpetrator at the station and we can go home soon”, Turner said, closing his eyes for a second. He was tired and hungry after all the events of the day, but hopefully, it would be over soon, he told himself. He opened his eyes and stifled a yawn with his fist and turned his head around as a noise coming from the door reached him. His eyes fixed on the man coming in, the look on his face and his gut jumped, his senses telling him that the reason Thompson was there had nothing to do with the stiff laying on the table. The man’s face was set in hard lines, the look in his eyes grim and Turner knew that his hopes of the day being over soon had just evaporated again. Thompson walked fast, approaching the table and stopping, his eyes fixed on Turner and despite the cold outside, sweat ran down his face.
    “We have…another one”, he said softly, his voice almost a whisper in the confines of the autopsy room, his hand wiping at the perspiration running down his face in rivulets.
    “What the hell are you…talking about now”, Turner asked quietly, his mind knowing well what had happened even before Thompson said it. Another cop was dead.
    “It just came in”, Thompson said. His face was pale and his eyes were haunted. He shook his head like a man wanting to dispel bad thoughts and continued talking.
    “Police officer named Pete…Pete Moore. Somebody just took his head off…exactly like Dunbar”. His voice was barely above a whisper and Turner had to strain his ears to catch what was being said.
    For one long second, Turner remained still, his body frozen in place and then his eyes turned cold, hard, his lips moving in a snarl of rage. For one long moment his face was contorted by an inner fury, disappearing as fast as it had come. His shoulders slumped, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes narrowing.
    “Where?” he asked then, quietly, a thousand thoughts running wild in his head. He felt the wild thud of his heart beating on his chest, taking air deep into his lungs to control himself
    “Some bar’s parking lot…downtown. Looks like the killer was waiting outside.”
    “Damn it…damn it all to hell”, Turner said, feeling the adrenalin jolt and the anger building in him again, pushing the cobwebs from his brain. His hand reached for his overcoat, shrugging