He quickly triangulated the open door, his eyes latching on to the overturned wheelchair in the open foyer area. He heard Ransom’s voice, calling the two uniform officers for assistance, and telling them to call for more cars.
The District Two officers were there in less than twenty seconds, their guns drawn as they followed Reed and Ransom into the house, working as a unit to sweep the rooms on the lower floor. Nothing seemed out of place, except the overturned wheelchair. But that wasn’t much of a surprise was it? They already knew Draper was dead.
“Detectives,” one of the officers called. “Over here. There’s a light on in the basement.”
“I’ll take the second floor,” Ransom said, moving toward the staircase, and Reed nodded, walking to where one of the officers had opened the basement door. A dim glow shone from downstairs, coming from one of the rooms beyond. “Cincinnati Police!” Reed yelled, before nodding to the officer. Reed went first, sweeping his weapon around the corner before stepping into the large open area, devoid of anything other than an old, musty-looking couch, and a couple of cardboard boxes in the corner. The light was coming from a room to the back.
His pulse jumped, heartbeat swooshing loudly in his ears. He looked behind him at the officer and the man nodded, indicating he had the rear. “Cincinnati Police!” Reed called once more. With a gasp of breath, he swept the open door, lowering his weapon, as his eyes went wide.
The room was empty, at least of human life.
But . . . he stepped forward. “Oh Jesus,” he choked.
Holy mother of God.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“I’ve never seen anything like it outside of horror movies,” his sergeant muttered, shaking his head as he looked around the smallish space. “It’s a fucking kill room.”
That was as good a name as any, Reed figured, looking around with revulsion at the table stained with thick dried blood and old stains, to the trays of torture implements of which he didn’t even want to imagine their usage, to the chains and hooks on the walls, and the barred cage built in to the wall in the corner.
People had suffered there. Unimaginably.
One being Gordon Draper himself if the semi-recent pool of congealed blood was any indication.
Reed had been there for almost forty minutes and he still didn’t feel desensitized, cold dread reverberating through him at the thought of the things that had gone on in this dim, dank room of horrors.
“Gordon Draper used this, huh?” Sergeant Valenti asked, leaning over and peering at the dusty tray of tools.
“He had to have,” Reed said. “It was his house.”
“How’d he get up and down the stairs?” Sergeant Valenti asked.
“Maybe he didn’t so much anymore.” Reed thought back to the photos of the man he’d looked at when he’d first visited this house, the photos of a different Gordon Draper. Strong and standing. “He wasn’t always disabled.” And according to the layer of dust on surrounding objects, the room hadn’t been used in some time.
“You think it was Charles Hartsman who made mincemeat of Draper?” his sergeant asked, pointing to the third set of footprints on the floor, the ones that had been there when Reed arrived.
“It had to be him. I believe he impersonated the man. And it would explain the different MO.”
“Motive?” his sergeant asked.
Reed blew out a slow breath. “I don’t know. No fucking idea.”
His sergeant looked up, narrowed his eyes, and peered at him. “You all right, Davies? Does this bring up a conflict of interest? I could recuse you from this case.”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “No, it doesn’t. The fact that Charles Hartsman may be involved, absolutely will not affect my professionalism on this job. I give you my word, Sergeant.”
His sergeant studied him for another moment. “All right. We can’t really afford to lose you anyway. You know this case inside out. But don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t, sir.” They didn’t have indisputable proof that Charles Hartsman actually was involved at this point. But Reed knew he was. Inside his gut, he knew.
As the sergeant stood looking around at the walls and ceiling, Reed allowed his gaze to follow the third set of prints, a sort of drag mark next to them that Reed assumed must be where Gordon Draper’s feet had trailed along the floor.
At first it had appeared that the footprints led directly to the autopsy-type metal table in the center of the room, and then they overlapped as