Blood Men: A Thriller

“What do you want?” I ask.

“We know who killed your wife,” he says, and my body instantly freezes. “For the right price we can tell you.”

“What?”

“Nothing in this world is free,” he says. “I got something here to show you, it’ll prove what I’m saying,” he says.

I take another step forward, a voice in my head yelling at me that this is a mistake, that I’m being lured closer. I take a step sideways, away from the car, and the barrel of a shotgun appears in the open window and fires.





chapter thirty-one


It’s a matter of priorities. If one of the bank tellers was an inside man, they’ll know soon enough. Schroder is confident a series of interviews will get them some answers before the day is out. Hell, maybe the whole thing will be over before Christmas Day even begins.

He drives back to Kingsly’s house with Landry and drops him off. The plan is for Landry to get started on the interviews while Schroder goes back out to the prison. The trip there earlier didn’t net them much. They found medication in Hunter’s cell. The warden said he was given two pills to take every day. Adding up the pills they found suggests he stopped taking his meds the day of the robbery. Instead of flushing them, he was saving them. Maybe, Schroder thinks, Hunter was planning on building a stockpile to take the whole lot at once.

When he gets back to the prison, Theodore Tate is already waiting for him. Tate used to be a cop until a few years ago, when he turned private investigator, and after both those things he became a criminal. The visiting room is empty except for Schroder and Tate and one prison guard against the far wall, hardly paying any attention. It’s been a few months since he last saw Tate. He hasn’t changed much, except his hair is shorter and he’s lost a bit of weight.

“Thanks for doing this, Tate,” he says, sitting down opposite him.

“I was surprised you called,” Tate says. “I mean, in the beginning I was. I thought you were calling to check up on me, to see how I was doing. It was a surprise, a nice one even. Then it turns out you wanted something.”

“Look, Tate, I’ve been meaning to come and see you for some time now,” he says, and even though he means it, he knows he would never actually have done it. There’s nothing worse than seeing a fellow cop in jail—even if he isn’t a fellow cop anymore. “I just, you know, didn’t get around to it. You know how it is.”

“Actually I don’t. You could educate me. We could swap places and see how it goes.”

“I understand why you’re bitter, but it’s not my fault you’re in here.”

“I realize that. Only sometimes it’s easier if I can blame somebody else except myself. Hell, maybe it’s even therapeutic,” he says, smiling at that last bit. “So—what’s new? How’s Christchurch? Is it still broken?”

“It’s not broken,” Schroder says, and he really believes that. Really, absolutely, almost believes that.

“Yeah, well, I think it’s broken no matter what side of the bars you’re on. So what is it you want, Carl?”

“Your help. You heard about Hunter, right?”

“Everybody heard,” Tate says.

“You heard anything more than that? Like who stabbed him?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“I think he was stabbed because he got hold of some names.”

“What names?”

“I think he was putting together a list of the men who robbed the bank last week.”

“And that got him stabbed?”

“Giving those names to his son got him stabbed,” Schroder answers.

“And you think the son is going to go after these people?”

“I’m pretty sure he already has. One of the robbers was found dead this morning. The victim drove the van. Timing fits perfectly. Dad gives son a name, that guy shows up dead, the next day Dad gets stabbed. The scene this morning was pretty messy. He got killed by somebody who had no idea what they were doing. Whole thing could have been an accident, or a fluke, the way it played out.”

“You think the son is capable of it?”

“You tell me,” Schroder says. “You think it’s possible for a man to kill in revenge for his family?”

“Depends on the man,” Tate says.

“Well, this man has a father who’s a serial killer. His shrink came to see me yesterday. He thinks Jack Hunter suffers from an illness that could be passed to the son. Paranoid schizophrenia—he says it can be hereditary. Says it’s a medical thing. He told me Edward Hunter has the potential to be a real bad guy. I wasn’t so sure, not then—but now I think so.”

“So arrest him.”

“We will, once we have more evidence. Landry tried to bluff him out saying we had a witness, but he didn’t go for it. We have blood, though. That’ll tell us.”

“So where do I fit into this equation of yours?”

“Two different ways. You can find out who stabbed Hunter. That might lead us back to the bank crew. Or maybe you can get some names for us. Hunter managed it, so maybe you can manage it too.”