I asked as I stepped inside. Ellie moved back and pointed toward the room. “In there. It’s all in there.”
Her voice was even, like she was commenting on the weather. Behind me, Mrs. Parker tried to peek inside. I turned and said, “Ma’am, go back into your apartment. We’ll handle it from here.”
She nodded and hurried off. I heard her lock click twice. I stepped into the room and stopped cold.
Three men were lying on the floor in the middle of the room. All three were tied up. Hands behind their backs, ankles bound together.
Heavy copper wire. Several layers of gray duct tape over that. Their faces were badly beaten.
One had a broken nose, blood dried on his chin and chest. Another had bruising all over the left side of his face, one eye swollen shut. The third was unconscious, head thrown back, drool running from his mouth.
The furniture was overturned. Table on its side, chairs broken. Broken dishes crunched under my shoes. On the wallpaper above the couch were dark stains—blood, maybe more than blood.
The window was open, curtain blowing in the night air. The room was cold. In the corner, Ellie sat on a stool.
Smoking. She held the cigarette like a man might, between thumb and forefinger. “Are they alive?” I asked, kneeling to check the pulse of the nearest one.
Alive. Breathing. The second one too. The third was out cold, but breathing in a wet, whistling way.
Ellie nodded. “Alive. For now.”
She flicked ash right onto the floor. “I told you, I was waiting for you. Call an ambulance. And get more people here.”
“There were supposed to be four of them, but one never showed. He still might.” Four? I looked around, trying to make sense of it.
“What did you do? Who are these men?” She took a drag and blew out smoke. “Animals. That’s who they are, Officer.”
“And I got tired of putting up with them.” One of the men started coming around. He groaned, tried to move, but the bindings held.
He opened his eyes, saw me, and began making muffled sounds through the tape over his mouth. His eyes were wild—pure animal fear. Ellie looked at him, and I saw her face change.
A second earlier it had been blank. Now it was hate. The kind of concentrated hate that makes your skin crawl.
She leaned toward him. “Be quiet. Just be quiet, Steve. Your turn isn’t over yet.”
I grabbed my radio and called for backup. Needed an ambulance, another unit, a detective. Right away.
The desk asked what we had. I didn’t know how to answer. I said, “Three injured parties, assault, one in custody. Need instructions.”
Ellie stubbed out her cigarette and pulled another from the pack on the windowsill. Her hands didn’t shake. Not even a little.
While we waited for backup, I tried to get control of the scene. “Ellie, sit right there and don’t move.” She obediently moved to the couch.
Lit a third cigarette. Looked out the window. I took out my notebook and pen.
My hands were shaking. I’ll admit that. In all my years on the job, I had never seen anything like it. Three men on the floor.
I looked them over more carefully. The first—around 30, solid build. Athletic jacket, jeans, imported sneakers.
Tattoos on his arms. Prison ink visible through his torn shirt—career criminal. The second was younger, maybe 25.
Thin, freckled. Dressed cheaper:
