by Kylie Dodson
"Rivers."
"Right. Anyway. His name is Lionel Carver. Sound familiar?"
"Didn't he write Spawned Theosis?"
"A Synaptic Look Into The World Of Human Crime. You know of it?"
"I read it. It was interesting. Kind of twisted. But it helped me in my approach to certain criminal types."
"I'm impressed," Blake said. "He wrote that from jail, you know. Can you believe that? A best seller, too. Anyway, I stayed in contact with him and--woah. The people and places he led me to. He's been an invaluable informant. We have lunch every now and then."
"That's surprising. I didn't know he went to jail. There was nothing in his book about that."
"He's kind of secretive that way."
"I'm shocked that you know him."
"Case, you would be doubly shocked at the names I have in my Rolodex."
"I'm doubly shocked that you have a Rolodex."
"You would have one, too, if you knew who I know."
"What are you getting at, Rivers?" she asked, her patience was starting to wear thin.
He smiled. "Take a left."
***
Blake led Jennifer up the short crumbling steps to the concrete porch. It looked like every home in the area had a porch, something that modern houses didn't have for the most part. The neighborhood had definitely been around since the nineteen-thirties
Large oak trees loomed heavy in the yards. Their long branches reached out over the street, providing a canopy of permanent shade. The lack of sun did little for the grass, but
Jennifer could imagine the street was wonderful during the Spring season.
Blake knocked on the old door with its rectangular window that took up the top quarter of the door.
"Let me do the talking," Blake said, cocksure of himself.
It reminded her of the last time she told him that. And she knew that was the point.
"Yes? Who is it?" an older male voice asked from the other side.
"Hi, Lionel. It's me, Blake Rivers."
Jennifer could hear the chain slide out from its slot and hit the door frame on the other side. Then the deadbolt slid back. The door opened wide to a dimly lit foyer and a much older but still dapper looking man.
Blake opened his arms wide and received a hug from the otherwise friendly looking elder.
"How are you, old friend?” Blake asked.
"Wise beneath my years," the older man joked.
"Lionel, this is Jennifer. Jennifer, Lionel Carver."
Jennifer extended her hand. "Actually, it's Det--"
"Detestable how some of these older homes end up looking." Blake shot her a glare.
She had dealt with enough undercover situations to know the score. Blake should have warned her, but better late than never. She didn't know the reason why Lionel would not want a police officer in his house, but she kept that question to herself for the moment.
"We keep trying to petition the city to declare them in the historical registry." Lionel beckoned them inside.
"You don't want to do that," Blake said. "Then you can't make repairs without permission. And that would be a nightmare."
"Ah, the pitfalls of local government, eh?" Lionel said, closing the door behind Jennifer, darkening the house. "Well, come in. Come in. To what do I owe this visit, Blake? Another round of chess, perhaps? Or did last time's trip through an ayahuasca haze not reveal enough insight for that last article?"
Blake looked back at Jennifer with a sheepish grin. She raised one eyebrow then turned her attention to her surroundings.
Even in the dim light, Jennifer could tell that the runner carpet they walked on was too little too late for the original wood floors. She didn't suppose that could be helped, as old as the house was. Who knew how many generations of shoes had trampled the floor. The scratches and gouges were certainly a testament to well-worn and lived-in.
As they traveled farther into the house, the lights grew brighter. That's when she saw the book shelves. Each one was lit by the soft glow of rope lights, shining their illumination on to heavy looking text books and glass jars.
She drew closer to the jars and found them full of human organs. Two of them had sections of brain, two more had hearts of different sizes. One of them even had a pair of eyes and a jaw sitting at the bottom of the formaldehyde-filled container. She spun around to find more of the same on the other side of the living room. The whole place was like a mad scientist's lair.
She turned her attention to Blake who treated the whole thing like it was nothing. "What is all of this?"
"Oh," Lionel said. "Apologies. It is easy for me to forget to make a small introduction into my home. I may not be a practicing surgeon anymore. But I still like to maintain my studies. The human mind has so many eccentricities. Even when two people are looking at the same thing, no two minds will see it the same way. It is fascinating. And, dare I say, impossible to ever fully understand."
"Lionel was once a very skilled surgeon," Blake said.
"Watch your tone, young man. I am still very skilled." Lionel turned back to Jennifer. "Just no longer practicing."
"I understand," she said.
Lionel took a seat in an arm chair. Like the floor, the seat looked very well worn. Jennifer was sure that it was an antique, like many of the items in the house. She didn't know when Lionel started practicing surgery, nor when he was incarcerated or what for, but it was clear that he'd amassed quite a bit in his life. But she did have to admit, the place was clean, despite the filled jars. And Lionel, despite his age, kept himself well groomed.
"So, how can I help one of the city's finest?" Lionel asked.
Blake stopped himself mid-sit down. "You knew she was a cop?"
"My boy, I lived with her kind for many years. And who starts their name with the title, Detective?"
"But she didn't get to finish the word."
"She didn't have to. I can tell by her demeanor. And you have never been good poker player.”
"Sorry," Blake said. "I didn't think you'd talk to us if I'd told you."
Jennifer sat next to Blake on the old Chesterfield sofa. She was surprised that none of the buttons had come off. Despite the normal wear and tear, Lionel Carver must have kept his personal belongings as well cared for as he did his appearance.
"You're wondering why everything except the porch steps and the floor look new," he told her.
Jennifer glanced at Blake, unsure how Lionel knew her thoughts.
"My dear, I was a brilliant neurosurgeon. And though I may be out of the professional practice, I continue to study the mind in all disciplines. That includes psychology. You are a detective of law. It is in your training and indeed your very nature to question and observe your surroundings. Why would my home be any different? The real question is, why are you here?"
The question felt loaded. Like whatever answer she gave would not be the one Lionel was referencing.
"So you're not mad for the deception?" Blake asked.
Lionel smiled. "Most officers do not look as our lovely guest, Detective Jennifer...Um?"
"Case," Jennifer replied.
"Yes. Most officers do not look as lovely as Detective Jennifer Case. Wouldn't you agree, Blake?"
Jennifer glanced at Blake and thought she saw him turn red. She kept her own reaction hidden.
Blake leaned forward. "We're, uh--working a case. An investigation into a murder—Well, three murders. One of them was--"
"Mr. Carver," Jennifer broke in. "There have been two murders. The suspect of both, I'm convinced is a serial killer. There's also been an additional murder, unconnected, I believe. Now, Mr. Rivers, here, tells me that you are an informant of sorts?"
"And, here, I believed we were friends, Blake," Lionel teased.
Jennifer appreciated someone else putting Blake in the hot seat.
Lionel grabbed a single cashew from a bowl that sat on the end table by his chair. He turned the little nut over in his fingers. "Isn't it interesting how the wide end
of a cashew resembles the human brain?"
Neither Blake nor Jennifer responded.
"I am utterly fascinated with the biology and inner workings of the mind, Detective Case," Lionel said. "The shear amount of information it can store. That it can forget that same information, never to be recalled again. The chemicals it releases, driving us to feel and react to particular situations. Fear, lust, joy, and sorrow. All chemical. But most of all, I am interested in the lack of conscience that some brains have. I'm sure it's similar for you. The criminal mind is full of both conscience and no conscience." He observed the cashew a moment longer. "There are two types of killers in the world. There is the killer who does so without care--No conscience. And then there is the killer who does so in a blind rage, only to regret it after--conscience. Where does this absence come from? Is it nature or nurture?"
"Believe me, Mr. Carver, if I had the answer to that, I think I'd be able to stop every crime before it happened."
"Especially that particular one," he said offhandedly.
The words took Jennifer back. What was he getting at? That was twice that he referenced something she felt was related solely to her.
He popped the cashew into his mouth and gently chewed. "Forgive my lack of haste. Teeth aren't what they used to be. So, young Blake has called me an informant and brought a police officer to my home, investigating three murders. I take it to mean that you come seeking aid? Counsel?"
"We could really use it," Blake said. "Have you heard of anything or maybe seen something?"
"I know about the riddles. I know what they say and I know where they were. Cryptic messages have always been so odd to me. If the goal is to get away with a thing, why lead people to yourself with clues? The criminal mind is a strange animal. I have yet to crack it even though I have one, myself. My thinking to the second riddle...Have you spoken to the owner of the construction site?"
"We have. Nathan Driscoll has been less than forthcoming", Blake said. "Well, except for an attempt at seduction," Blake quickly glanced at Jennifer.
"I am not surprised he would try." Lionel smiled at Jennifer. It is a very complimentary smile, full of admiration with zero lust.
Jennifer smiled, taking the compliment as such.
"There's also this other guy. He's really creepy and smells awful. He talks in riddles," Blake added.
"Now, we are getting somewhere," Lionel said. "Though he sounds like a vagrant, it could be a clever ruse."
"He's clearly psychotic," Jennifer said.
"If I were in your shoes, I might disregard Mr. Driscoll. What could a man with so much wealth attain through murder? I think I would focus my efforts on the psychotic. I would not be convinced, though, that he is a serial killer."
"That's what I think," Blake said.
"However," Lionel continued. "Money creates strange behaviors in some." He picked up the receiver from a rotary phone. "I have a few contacts of my own. I shall call young Blake should anything pan out. If you don't hear from me, there was nothing to hear."
"Thank you, Mr. Carver," Jennifer said.
"Please, call me Lionel. And maybe, one day, you'll answer my question."
"What's that?" Jennifer asked.
"Why are you here?"
***
"Was I right, or was I right?" Blake asked from the passenger seat.
"About what? He didn't give us anything."
"Come on, Case. He practically told us that Pluckus did it. At least in the Kimberly Gamble murder."
"No, he said he would focus on Pluckus. There's a big difference between focusing on a person of interest and accusing a person of interest."
"It is really hard for you to give me credit, isn't it?"
"I've given you credit for things related to all of this."
"Yeah, if scraps count."
Jennifer pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. "What do you think a ride-along is, Rivers? You think it's you being deputized? This isn't your investigation. You shouldn't be chiming in with every opinion that pops into your head. You shouldn't be sitting in on an interrogation. And you shouldn't be sticking my head with..."
"What? Sticking your head with what?"
Jennifer thought on her words for a moment, trying to cover up where they were going.
"Bad intel."
Blake turned, facing his window. She knew that last barb was an insult. He hadn't given any bad intel. Not really. He was just making mistakes because he didn't know any better. He didn't have her training. Sure, he was an investigative journalist. His job and her job weren't all that different. They both had to match up pieces to get the whole story. Only when he got the whole story, he wrote an article. An article based on facts and opinion. When she got the whole story, she made an arrest. An arrest based on facts and evidence.
"OK. I'm sorry. It wasn't bad intel, per se. Just..." She cleared her throat. "Look, if I understand this correctly, you're here to write an article about me. About my methods and how I do this job. So, you're investigating me. Not the cases I'm following. Is that right?"
"Yeah," Blake sounded like a scolded child.
"So, how about we make a deal? You do your investigation and I'll do mine."
"Sure," Blake said. Dejected was becoming a routine for him.
Jennifer's phone rang. The caller ID read [Snell]. She answered. "What have you got?"
"Film dupe lab revealed nothing," Jamal said on the other end of the line. "No riddles, no clues, no body."
Jennifer let out a sigh. "Well, it was worth a shot. Thanks for the intel."
"You got it."
She hung up and lowered her phone.
"What was that?" Blake asked.
"That was homicide moving farther and farther away from being solved."
***
Jennifer sat at her desk, alone. Her mind was conflicted as she stared at the cold case of her sister, Samantha Lynn Cassel, on her computer screen. She tried to read the article but her thoughts kept going back to her heated moment with Blake. She sighed, irritated that she was giving so much energy to such a minor event.
Her phone's buzzing finally snapped her out of both thoughts and she glanced at the screen.
"Hey, Dubs," she said.
"Hey, Jen, sorry I'm not calling you first. I'm at the park. Well, I'm just outside of the park. Anyway, it's a crime scene down here. Like, a murder crime scene."
"I don't think I need to take on a third homicide case, Dubs."
"It wouldn't be a third one, Jen. Because there's a riddle here."
CHAPTER 18
A single ambulance and two patrol cars were parked close together, inside the park, forming a makeshift perimeter around a park bench. Taggart's car sat outside of the park on fifty-ninth street. And several uniformed officers tried to keep onlookers from getting too close. Unfortunately, they couldn't keep everyone from taking pictures. Central Park had way too many open spaces to block everyone. Jennifer walked by one of the officers, badge out. He waved her through.
"What have we got?" Jennifer asked Dubs as she approached the park bench. A covered figure lay on it. Blood spots soaked through the white sheet that covered the victim.
"Well, it's a male. Mid-twenties." Dubs lifted the top of the sheet, giving Jennifer plenty of room to see the victim.
The first thing she noticed was the black eye. Shock punched her in the gut. "Jordan?"
"You know him?"
"He was a suspect in the Kimberly Gamble case."
"Not anymore," Dubs said.
"I should have been first on the scene."
"I know. Sorry about that. It wasn't my call."
"Who was first on scene?"
"Detective Taggart. I called you from the parking lot because I didn't want anyone knowing that I was calling you. I didn't want Captain McGhee to know."
"Good strategy. It might have been OK, though. The captain and I have reached a slight understanding. Though I don't know how long it will last." She gestured toward the b
ody.
"How did he die?"
"Knife wounds. But these weren't like the others. No surgical knowledge or anything. It looked like it was done fast. Like the killer was in a hurry."
"Sounds unrelated. But you said there was a riddle, right?"
Dubs pointed toward Jennifer's feet. The detective looked down and noticed etching in the back of the park bench. She crouched to get a better look at it.
"'Roses are red, violets are blue, it was me all along, the one who killed you'," Jennifer read aloud. "This isn't the same killer."
"It's not?"
"This isn't really a riddle. More like a poem. But nowhere near as eloquent. Still, this is not good. It could mean we have a copycat."
"So, there are three killers out there?" Dubs asked, genuinely scared.
"Did Taggart see the poem?"
"He did."
Jennifer squeezed the bridge of her nose. "OK. That, at least, crosses Jordan off the list."
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through numbers. Finding the one she wanted, she called it. "Hi, Mr. Gamble? This is Detective Case. I'm calling with information about your daughter."
"You found her killer?" Mr. Gamble asked on the other end of the line. "Was it Jordan?"
"No, sir. To both questions. But I did think you would like to know that I did find Jordan. He's dead."
"Oh. That's...Sorry for saying this, but that's kind of a relief."
"I can certainly understand that, sir. But, just so you know, I don't think Jordan actually killed her."
"You're still looking into that, though, right?"
"I assure you that I am. I may even have the culprit in custody. I can't promise that, yet, though. But I am keeping the investigation of your daughter's murder as my first priority."
"Thank you, Detective Case."
"You're welcome. l will let you know if anything else comes up." She hung up her phone and replaced it in her pocket. She didn't feel like she was being completely honest with Mr. Gamble. The serial killer needed to be her first priority for personal reasons. And whoever killed Kimberly was not likely to kill again. Assuming she had the right suspect in custody. The others, though, were victims of the same person--with the exception of Jordan--and that person was still on the loose. She appreciated Dubs calling her out on this one, but whoever was responsible for Jordan's death was something Taggart would have to work out.
