how far down those stone teeth descended into the great maw. Even if he managed to survive the initial plunge, and the falls quickly met up with an underground river, he would most likely drown before reaching the surface.
Of course, he could also throw someone else into the void. Then listen to how long the screams echoed.
Detective Czarcik returned home after a long workout. Aside from the obvious physiological benefits, heavy lifting cleared his head. When he first read about antioxidants, how they purged free radicals from the body, he found the perfect analogy in weightlifting. The intense physical exertion forced all the nonsense from his mind, leaving him in a state of almost euphoric clarity.
Today’s workout wasn’t great. He had focused on his chest, shoulders, and triceps, a typical routine designed to maximize complementary muscle groups. During a set of military presses, he felt a tweak in his rotator cuff. But he persevered and subconsciously put too much stress on the surrounding tendons, resulting in a dull ache that remained long after he left the gym.
Czarcik never worked out with a trainer. Not only was it completely unnecessary, but he had no interest in the casual companionship one provided. Although he would never admit it, even to himself, he was also secretly terrified that someone would tell him that a man his age shouldn’t be lifting such an obscene amount of weight. But in his mind, this was the price he paid to maintain his physique, considering his lifestyle and bad habits.
His alarm wailed for nearly half a minute before Czarcik punched in the code. He dropped his gym bag on the floor by the front door and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. He rarely showered at the gym; the combination of rampant fungus and uncircumcised Russian men was simply too much to bear.
Czarcik’s West Loop condo overlooked the Kennedy Expressway. A strange place to live, especially for a cop. Most of the units were owned by either young professionals who wanted to ride the real estate boom as the area developed or empty nesters looking for a cost-effective way back into the city now that their suburban homes, absent of children, felt like mausoleums.
Neighbors were irrelevant to Czarcik since he rarely spoke to them. He simply enjoyed watching the traffic from his bedroom window, captivated as the arteries of the city swelled and contracted at regular interludes.
After drying off and throwing on a clean white T-shirt, Czarcik headed into his office. Most people would have used it for the master bedroom, as it was the larger of the condo’s two bedrooms. But Czarcik only needed a bed and a nightstand for sleep, so there was no reason to squander space that could be put to better use.
While his space at the station was stark and minimal, his home office looked as if it could have been built by an ambitious set designer making a movie about a rogue detective.
Crime scene photos, ranging from the unassuming (forest clearings and coastlines) to the ultragraphic (on a rusty stove, a pot of boiling water held a woman’s breast), covered almost every inch of wall space. Occasionally these were interrupted by maps dotted with push pins connected by strings.
Case files were strewn not just across the heavy wooden L-shaped desk but all over the floor. Some of the scattered papers were decorated in yellow highlighter, others sported random words and circles in permanent marker. Most had illegible notes in the margins.
There were all the accoutrements of any modern office (a color printer, scanner, cable modem) and one anachronistic touch: a huge brass ashtray, its bottom permanently scarred and stained a sickly gray from decades of use. Perched on the rim was a bald eagle. Regal. Poised to kill or defend.
One item that seemed completely out of place was a small fishbowl that sat at the far end of the desk’s L, as if Czarcik had purposely placed it as far away from himself as possible. The glass was filthy and the bowl filled halfway up with a thick, black sludge.
The aquarium had been a gift, given to Czarcik during one of the last cases to which he was officially assigned. It was bequeathed to him by ten-year-old Hailey McDonald, whose sister Vanessa had been the final victim of a serial killer colloquially known as Bad Ronald for his still-not-understood penchant for targeting unrelated victims with the surname McDonald.
Czarcik had uncovered the evidence that eventually led to Bad Ronald’s capture.