Pretty Corpse

by Linda Berry

  “She did, two days ago. In addition to what I just mentioned, she recalled organ music. With a mournful theme, like you’d hear at a funeral. She woke nude and paralyzed.”

  “Paralyzed?”

  Her father looked at her over his glasses. “Halothane was found in each girl. Probably, mixed with the chloroform. It paralyzes the muscles. In each case, he waited for his victim to regain consciousness. When she came to, she was imprisoned in an unresponsive body. Forced to watch, helpless to act.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Supreme control. The victim watches, helpless, while he holds her life in his hands. Each girl thought she was about to die.”

  “Sadistic bastard.” Lauren leaned back in her chair, her gut tightening. “So, what’s his motivation, Dad?”

  “Could be vengeance. Hatred of women. Stemming from an abusive childhood, or a painful rejection from a lover. Strangling is a very personal act.”

  “Did they analyze the fibers found in Bernadette’s hair?”

  “Yes.” Leaning over his faxes, he pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “The fibers are wool, dark gray, coarse weave. Probably home spun.”

  “Home spun. And he was wearing a dark hooded robe. Sounds monkish.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Candles, incense, funeral music, home-spun clothing. He could be involved in some kind of creepy cult that’s fixated with death. What about his signature roses? Any way to trace them?”

  “They’re an unknown hybrid, cultivated by a highly skilled gardener. Notices were sent to rose associations across the country. So far, they’ve drummed up lots of admiration, but no leads.”

  “You think he grows them himself?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “What did the rape kits find?”

  “Not much. Our suspect was careful.” He turned to his faxes, read slowly. “He left no saliva, semen, or hair on any of the girls. As Holly suspected, they were douched and bathed. Evidence of antibacterial soap was found on each. Also, traces of blood. Theirs, not his.” He looked up. “That’s to be expected. All were virgins.”

  “At what point did he sexually assault them?”

  “Not sure what his ritual is.” Dr. Starkley rubbed a knotty hand along his jaw. “Whether he did it before or after strangulation. None of the victims have any recollection of that. He used chloroform a second time after they woke up. They were out until they were discovered by cops.”

  “Mercifully.” She drew in a deep breath. “What about that sweet scent I smelled?”

  “It’s an unusual oil blend. Probably homemade. Traces were found in their hair and on their skin. Also, minute traces of wax were found in their vaginal canals.”

  “Wax?” Lauren arched a brow.

  “The rapist possibly penetrated them with a candle, but not a commercial brand. Again, probably homemade. A mixture of paraffin and beeswax.”

  “He’s a regular chemist. Just a wild guess here, but I suspect none of the girls saw his hands when he abducted them?”

  “No. He wore gloves.”

  “So, there’s no evidence that he touched any of the girls skin to skin.”

  He met her gaze. “I see you’re coming to my conclusion.”

  “He’s impotent. Or phobic.”

  “I believe so. Unable to handle direct physical contact with a woman.”

  “The makeup application, hair combing, wax phallus of some kind, gloves, custom ligature that imprints his brand on his victims. A lot of ritual. A lot of implements. His tools for making contact. Substitute penis?”

  “Very likely.”

  “He has total control while physically keeping his victims at a distance.”

  Her father’s eyes looked lively. “Very good theory, Lauren. If he’s unable to sexually accommodate a partner, that would explain his need for unconscious women.”

  “Right.” Lauren leaned back in her chair and tapped a rhythm on the armrest with her fingertips. “He could be using these beautiful girls as props, staging the rapes, proving through the media he’s a virile man.”

  “Whatever his motivation, he has a dangerous sickness.” The doctor pressed fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, held a match flame over it, puffed several times. Fragrant smoke lengthened into a wispy haze over his head. “There’s something else. Our suspect left three pieces of evidence that might help us, if we can decipher their meaning.”

  “The gold rings.”

  He smiled. “Each ring has a tiny inscription on the inside of the band. The engraving is rough. Obviously, he did it himself. The first two inscriptions refer to quotes, or verses of poetry. This is the one from Melissa’s ring.” He read his notes, “Cor 7.28.”

  “Chapter and verse from the Bible,” she said. “Corinthians.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have that quote?”

  He picked up a worn Bible and handed it to her. Opening it to the marked page, she lowered her eyes to a verse highlighted in pale yellow, and read out loud:

  But and if thou marry, thou hast not sinned;

  and if a virgin marry, she hath not sinned.

  Nevertheless such shall have trouble in the flesh:

  but I spare you.

  She closed the Bible and laid it back on the desk, the words hammering inside her chest. “What does it mean? Does he think he’s marrying these girls?”

  “The gold rings and the quote certainly suggest that.”

  “Maybe he’s concocted some sort of wedding ceremony and thinks it’s legitimate. By marrying his victims he believes his actions are blameless.”

  “Convenient philosophy.” Dr. Starkley sucked on his pipe and his cheeks hollowed. “For centuries, lunatics have used biblical quotes taken out of context to validate their crimes, their extremist ideologies.” He tapped the ash from his pipe into an ashtray and looked at her over his glasses. A ripple of anger crossed his face. “One thing is clear. He’s taking a god-awful chance with these strangulations. He’s coming close to killing these girls.”

  Nervous energy propelled Lauren out of her chair and she paced in front of his desk. “Did your detective friend mention any leads?”

  He frowned. “They’ve put in a lot of man hours, investigating employees of mortuaries, morgues, cemeteries. Tracking known necrophiles and other fetish offenders. But so far, no compelling link has emerged. The detectives in San Francisco worked your leads, but without physical evidence connecting an individual …”

  “No arrest.”

  Her father’s expression challenged her. “You have to work smarter than the detectives, Lauren.”

  “Great, Dad. How do I do that?”

  He tapped his temple with his index finger. “Think.”

  Lauren sank back into the chair. Somewhere outside in the distance a dog barked. She heard faint music drifting from the radio in the kitchen along with the smell of bacon frying. “The Strangler’s rituals are the glue that holds his fragile world together,” she finally said. “He operates in a tightly controlled environment. Everything has meaning. If one thing goes awry, it could split the seams of his reality.”

  Dr. Starkley nodded. “It would shake him up. He’d make a mistake.”

  “Question is, how do we make something go awry?”

  “Get uncomfortably close. Put him under pressure.”

  “I need more time.”

  “You don’t have time.”

  “Where do I start?”

  His gaze met hers. “Back at the beginning. Ground zero.”

  “You’re right, Dad. The detectives have moved to the periphery of the case. I need to go back to the flashpoint.”

  “Start with the two Oakland girls. Something’s been overlooked. You’ve got to find out what that is.”

  “I think these girls know their attacker. He’s someone they’re acquainted with yet wouldn’t suspect. Holly’s getting me access so I can interview them.”

  He nodded, biting down on his pipe.

  “One last
thing, Dad. The panties planted in the park. Who did they belong to?”

  “Don’t know. The DNA doesn’t match any of the girls.”

  Lauren hid her disappointment. “That means there’s no evidence that the man in the park was The Strangler. What ruse is he pulling?”

  “He’s playing you,” Dr. Starkley said with a dark scowl. “Wants to run you around in circles. Show you he’s boss.”

  Sensing a new presence in the library, Lauren turned to find Dagmar standing in the doorway.

  “Sorry. Time for Doctor’s breakfast.” She motioned toward the kitchen. “You like to join us?”

  “Thanks, Dagmar, but I’ve gotta get going.” Lauren and her father both got to their feet. Lauren concealed her frustration as she embraced him. He looked tired, his dark eyes shadowed underneath, his cheeks thinner than normal. They crossed the room and paused in front of Dagmar. Impulsively, Lauren hugged her and said with a catch in her throat, “Thank you for taking such good care of my dad.”

  Dagmar’s smile broadened, and her plump cheeks eclipsed the soft brown of her eyes.

  ***

  Lauren headed back to San Francisco. With no leads and little more than theories to profile her suspect, exhaustion settled in, bone deep. Her cell phone rang. Rummaging in her handbag, she caught it on the third ring. “Lauren Starkley.”

  “Patrol Officer Tina Eaton, here. What’s up, Officer? You left me a message, then I got a call from some inspector telling me you’re off limits.”

  “Camino?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why did you call back?”

  “I don’t like the way she got in my face. What’d you wanna know?”

  “Whatever you can remember about Dill Lafferty’s arrest.”

  “Lafferty ….” A pause and then, “Oh yeah, the high school gardener with too much time on his hands. I remember plenty. A couple months back, my partner and I got a call around nine p.m. Some women walking their dogs in Cypress Park saw Lafferty with a female juvenile. From their activity, the women could tell Lafferty wasn’t the girl’s father. We intervened, possibly before the girl became a rape victim. She was pretty messed up. Didn’t know what was going on. He’d given her Ecstasy. The jerkoff insisted she said she was eighteen, and she consented to taking it.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Lauren broke out in goose flesh. “Do you remember anything else?”

  “Yeah. He needed an attitude adjustment. Seems he’s got a problem with strong women. Gave my partner a hard time during the arrest. She had to rough him up a little.”

  “Did either of you testify in court?”

  “Never reached a courtroom. The lawyers made a deal. Lafferty walked.” Eaton expelled a deep breath. “You the officer who found the rape victim in Cypress Park last week?”

  “Yeah. My claim to fame. Look, how do you rate Lafferty as a suspect in The Strangler case?”

  “I’d give him a hard look. A real hard look.”

  “One last thing. What color are his eyes?”

  “Christ.” A long pause. “I remember now. Their blue.”

  “You’ve been a big help, Tina. Thanks.”

  “You got it. Let’s just get the prick.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HALLOWEEN. Ten p.m. After three nights off, Lauren was glad to be back on patrol. Feeling a stab of guilt that Steve had to ride solo while she was laid up, she eased the cruiser to a stop at a traffic light and glanced over at him. His eyes were scanning the laptop monitor.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “Nope. All’s quiet on the western front.”

  “Too quiet. What gives?”

  “Guess all the action’s in the Castro.”

  She knew most officers from the station were covering the gay parade flooding the streets of the Castro District. Outrageous, raucous, borderline indecent, the gay Halloween parade was a tradition that attracted thousands of spectators, requiring crowd control with lots of foot patrol. With all the components in place for a riot, every able-bodied cop in the city worked Halloween night. Valencia Station swelled from thirty-five officers to two-hundred-fifty. She and Steve were one of just six units patrolling the remaining three quadrants of their district, stretched pretty thin. Though entertained by the costumed characters crowding the streets, they were on heightened alert. Costumes were ideal for concealing identities, drugs, and weapons.

  “The streets are finally emptying out,” Steve said. “Most of the kids are heading home. We can breathe a little easier.”

  “Good. ’Cause I need a java jolt.” Lauren pulled over to the curb in front of The Roasted Beans and kept the motor running. She smiled sweetly. “Would you run in, darling?”

  “Sure thing, Princess. Want a foot massage, too?”

  “Later will do.”

  Feigning displeasure, he disappeared inside.

  Lauren watched costumed passersby on the street until he returned with a cup in each hand. He slid into the passenger seat and handed her a café mocha. She removed the plastic lid, licked whipped cream off the top, and took a sip. “Hmmm. Caffeine does a body good.”

  When Steve raised his cup, she noticed the knuckles on his left hand were swollen and bruised. “What the hell happened?”

  Scowling, he glanced at his hand. “Suspicious person, two nights ago.”

  “Were you planning on telling me about it?”

  “It was just some douchebag I recognized from a prior.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “Stumbling out of a bar, heading for his car.”

  Headlights from a passing vehicle momentarily illuminated Steve’s face. The muscles around his jaw were tight and drawn, his eyes hard. The look chilled her.

  “I waited till he got into his car and drove a block,” he said. “Then I got in his business. Ran him through the tests.” Steve chuckled without mirth. “He was royally messed up. I told him I was taking him in for a breath. He got nasty. Said it’d be his third strike and he wasn’t going down.” Steve’s eyes met hers. “He ran. I wrestled him to the street. He went for my gun.”

  Christ. “And?”

  He flashed her a smile. “His face got in the way of my fist a coupla times.” Steve squinted and peered off into the darkness, his smile fading. “I’d been waiting a long time to mess up this puta’s face.”

  “Who was he?”

  Steve clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Not important. We struck a deal.”

  “Yeah, what kinda deal?”

  He gave her a look filled with mystery. “You’ll find out. A surprise is coming your way.”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  “Let’s just say it’ll make up for the shit you’ve been through lately.” He sipped his coffee. “How’s your jaw?”

  “Fine. As long as I don’t open my mouth too wide. I’ve been living on soup. Couldn’t come to work on pain pills. Aspirin’s barely getting the job done.”

  Their radios crackled. Dispatch broadcasted a disturbance at Cypress Park.

  “We’re on our way,” Steve said, then to Lauren out of the side of his mouth, “Cypress Park. Our favorite spot. Can you believe it? Some clown driving across the lawn without headlights.”

  “It’s Halloween. The spooks are out.” With a sharp squeal of tires, Lauren peeled out with the siren wailing. Weaving in and out of traffic, she braked hard at intersections, stomped again on the gas. Minutes later, she pulled over on King Street and the two darted into the park. The night was crisp and cold, the air smelled of fresh cut grass, and the full moon provided great visibility. Columns of trees stood out in sharp relief against a black sky studded with stars.

  Shrill voices and laughter led them to a group of costumed bystanders milling on the shoulder of the hill. The crowd parted as she and Steve approached, and she caught her first glimpse of the vehicle. A black hearse loomed on the grassy summit facing the city lights below, headlights on, chrome reflecting moonligh
t.

  “Okay folks, back off,” Lauren instructed, cautiously surveying the group. Defined by soft edges of light and shadow, she took in a white-faced vampire, a harlequin, a gladiator, a French cabaret dancer, and a matador decked out in red velvet and gold. A dozen sets of eyes peered at her from behind rubber masks, fake beards, and painted faces. It gave her the feeling of being watched by voyeurs.

  Steve, on the other hand, seemed amused by the display of eccentrics. “Only in our district,” he said under his breath.

  Admittedly, the mood was lively, festive. The partygoers, she soon discovered, had been drawn out of an apartment bordering the park when they spotted the hearse crossing the lawn. They now speculated on who was behind the Halloween prank.

  “Probably hijacked by a fraternity.”

  “I say Eco-terrorists.”

  “No, no, no. It’s part of some dot-com promotion.”

  “A promo for a new flick.”

  “Fall back, folks,” Steve said amiably, trying the door handle on the driver’s side of the hearse. Lauren did the same on the passenger side. Both were locked. She put her face up to the windshield, peered inside. Empty. A shaded partition blocked the view of the rear interior.

  “Anyone see who was driving this thing?” Steve called out.

  “I did,” the vampire said.

  “Okay, Dracula,” Steve said. “Step forward.”

  Lauren moved to the back of the hearse.

  “I saw a guy jump out a couple minutes ago.”

  Lauren tried the rear door handle. It clicked open.

  “Get a look at him?”

  “Not his face. He had a hood over it.”

  She lifted the door.

  “Was he in costume?”

  “Yeah. Dressed like a monk.”

  Lauren’s pulse kicked up. The dome light went on. Illuminated in the hard light was a nude girl lying in an open coffin.

  “Steve, quick!”

  Steve darted to the back of the vehicle.

  Lauren crawled into the narrow passageway beside the coffin.

  Steve’s voice fired commands at dispatch. “We need a 408! Code 3! It’s The Strangler! Get a perimeter up here. Fast!”

  Lauren reached for the girl’s throat. White makeup, red lips, red rose, gold ring.