100 Theme Challenge #70

Sequel of #50, #51, #52, #54, #60, #68 and #69.

70. Lace

Part VIII

Nothing wrapped in lace in this one

Jack wasn't surprised to get another call in the middle of the night on a second murder, possibly by the same killer. He already had tracked down some traces of similar murders in Detroit and other few small cities of Illinois, but he never hit twice at the same place. Something kept the killer in this city.

"Hey, Gary." No matter what time they met, his partner was always in a good mood, the total opposite of him who was dreaming of gin at 5 in the morning.

"Good morning to you too. Ready for some human gruesomeness?"

"Always," Jack replied, lighting his cigarette. He slowly exhaled as they passed under the yellow banners and approached the crime scene.

"Well, this smells lovely," Gary joked and they saw the body lying against the dumpster of the alley. The scene was almost identical to the first crime scene, even the victims looked alike. Jack carefully took the card from his hand, struggling to get it out of his post mortem grip.

"Same sport team… What does the killer have against it?" He put it in a bag to bring back to the office. The hand had been still a bit warm, the murder had occurred only a mere hour or two ago.

"Same way of killing, the neck slashed and the insides spilled like a dreadful decoration. The man has brown eyes and good regular features, same than the last victim…"

"James Davis," Jack finished for Gary. "Who found the victim?"

"We don't know. Someone called the police about an hour ago, but there was nobody when we arrived on the scene," one of the police officers answered, shifting uncomfortably beside the victim. He was a rookie who hadn't seen much blood yet, and Jack refrained from smirking. Chicago didn't have the prettiest and most clean crime scenes, to say the least.

"I see. Did you find any identification on him?"

"Yes. His name is- was… I mean…-" the same officer stuttered.

"Just get on with it, son," Gary interrupted him.

"Scott Thompson, sirs."

"All right. Let's go back to the office to sort this out."

.

Scott Thompson was working as a waiter at a famous restaurant in Downtown, Chez Petri, and in the interrogations Jack had, his coworkers didn't observe any odd action or behavior from him, he acted normal at his job.

"I know he had some problems with one of the customers some weeks ago," Doris Merges admitted, one of his closest friends.

"What kind of problems?" Jack asked.

"Well, he said sometimes there were some weird customers at his restaurant, they would try to talk sweet to him, but that one followed him home one night. I remember because he called me the same night. He said that-… that he was home alone and asked me to come over, he seemed frightened. What was more weird was the change the next week – that was about two weeks ago. He told me he'd been afraid for nothing and that the customer was really nice in the end, if without any social abilities."

"And you didn't dwell on it?"

"Why would I? He said it was fine, so I thought it was. I never imagined him being murdered." She began to tear a bit, and Jack recoiled in annoyance.

A stalker a few weeks before his death? It might be a coincidence, but Jack didn't believe in such things. It was something else, something of importance right there. Why would the victim call in fear his friend to tell her later he was having a false impression? What happened for things to change so fast?

"Are you sure you're telling me everything about Mister Thompson, Miss Merges?" He asked more rudely that he wanted to. The nice-looking blonde girl blinked at him.

"I told you everything of importance. I'd like to go mourn my friend in peace now." He released her even though he knew something was off about her statement. She kept something from him, and he didn't like it one bit, because they were still at a dead end with this.

"So?" Gary asked, the phone receptor niched between his neck and shoulder as he waited for someone on the other end of the line.

"Nothing. I got nothing." Jack groaned in frustration. His eyes took in the stack of papers on his desk, dangling dangerously at each movement he made, and he groaned again as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He needed a drink.

(What is 100TC?)