Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  Herb stood in the living room, stock-still. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  Perched on Herb’s head was Mr. Friskers, claws dug in tight.

  “He leaped off the curtains. His claws are like fishhooks.”

  I took a step closer. Mr. Friskers hissed and arched his back.

  Herb screamed.

  “Get it off before he scalps me, Jack!”

  “You can’t pull him off?”

  “His claws are stuck in my skull bone.”

  Only years of training and consummate professionalism prevented me from breaking down in hysterical laughter.

  “You want me to call Animal Control?” I tried to say it straight, but a giggle escaped.

  “No. I want you to shoot him.”

  “Herb . . .”

  “Shoot the cat, Jack. Please. I’m begging you. It’s not just the pain. There’s gotta be several days’ worth of cat mess in that diaper. The smell is making my eyes water.”

  I’d never owned a cat and had zero experience with the species. But I did recall an old TV commercial where the cat came running when it got fed. Couldn’t hurt to try.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t leave me, Jack.”

  “I’m just going to get my camera.”

  “That’s not even close to being funny.”

  I located the canned cat food in a cabinet. When I opened one of the tins, Herb screamed again. Mr. Friskers appeared in the kitchen a heartbeat later.

  “You were just hungry, weren’t you, kitty?”

  The cat yowled at me. I set the can on the floor and watched him inhale the food.

  Herb came through the doorway. His gun was out, pointing at Mr. Friskers.

  “Herb, put that away.”

  “It’s evil, Jack. It has to die.”

  Mr. Friskers looked at Herb, hissed, then bolted out of the room. Herb holstered his weapon.

  “Am I bleeding?”

  “A little.” I handed him some paper towels. “Find anything?”

  “Bank and credit card statements, phone bills, a few personal letters. You?”

  “A few grams of cocaine.”

  “Give it to the cat. Maybe it will calm him down.”

  I gave Herb a fake smile. “Funny, for someone bleeding to death. Want to stop by the ER on the way back for your rabies shot?”

  Herb narrowed his eyes, then looked past me, through the kitchen.

  “The crime scene unit will be here soon.”

  “So?”

  A yowl pierced the room, and Mr. Friskers shot past us and pounced his diaper-clad ass onto the counter. He sat there, hissing. His tail, which poked out through the center of the diaper, swished back and forth like a cobra.

  “I’ll try Animal Control.” I took out my cell.

  The news wasn’t good.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. The heat wave has all of us doing triple time. Soonest we could pick it up is Monday.”

  “We might all be eaten by then.”

  “It’s the best I can do. You can try the Humane Society.”

  I tried the Humane Society.

  “Sorry, Officer. We couldn’t come for at least a week. When the temperature gets this high, animals are hit hardest. We don’t even have any room for another.”

  Herb nudged me.

  “Tell them this cat is evil. If you shaved its head, you’d see a 666.”

  I relayed the info, but they weren’t swayed. Herb suggested calling the Crocodile Hunter, but neither of us knew his number.

  “We can’t let him stay here, Jack.”

  I agreed. A cat could mess up a scene in a dozen ways. Not just by destroying evidence—it could get in the team’s way, hurt someone, or even get hurt itself if it inhaled the wrong chemical.

  “You want him?” I asked.

  Herb frowned and tore off another paper towel to blot his scalp.

  I reached a tentative hand out to stroke the cat, and he bared claws and took a swipe at me.

  “Try offering him your head,” Herb suggested. “He’ll jump on and we can walk him out.”

  I left the kitchen and went into Davi’s bedroom, returning a moment later with the cat carrier and some ski gloves.

  Herb raised an eyebrow. “Should I start dialing 911 now?”

  “No need to worry. Animals love me, because they can sense my pure heart.”

  Without hesitating, I grabbed Mr. Friskers around the body. He countered by screaming louder than humanly possible and locking his fangs onto my right index finger. The gloves protected me, and I managed to get him in the carrier without losing a digit.

  “So now we throw him in Lake Michigan, right?”

  “I’m sure one of Davi’s friends will take him.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  I let out a big, dramatic sigh.

  “I guess I’ll have to keep him for a few days.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack. I don’t want the next murder I investigate to be yours.”

  “He’s just scared and grumpy. You’d be grumpy too if you had the same diaper on for four days. Right, little guy?”

  I poked my gloved finger into the cat carrier, and Mr. Friskers pounced on it, biting and scratching.

  “Try showing him your pure heart,” Herb suggested.

  The cat screamed for the entire ride back to the office.

  CHAPTER 8

  “My place is just up the next block.”

  “This isn’t a very nice neighborhood.”

  “On purpose. My wife would never think to look for me here.”

  He smiles at the girl. Eileen Hutton. Young, pretty, perfect body. She knew it, too, which is why this date cost a cool thousand bucks.

  She won’t get the chance to spend it.

  They’re driving south on Kedzie, property values dropping block by block. The flophouse where he takes his women is dilapidated, filthy, and came complete with a handful of winos lounging in front. When he parks in the adjacent alley, she doesn’t want to get out of the car.

  “What’s wrong?” He grins. His head feels ready to burst, an incessant pounding that’s making his vision blur. Sweat streaks down his face in rivers. Hopefully, she’ll think it’s just the heat.

  “I don’t feel comfortable here.”

  “Don’t you trust me? I’m one of the good guys.”

  He unlocks the glove compartment, takes out a silver cigarette case. Lined up inside are six rolled joints. He lights one up, hands it to her.

  “I married my wife for money, and believe me, she’s got a lot. She won’t put out, though. So I have to get it on the side, and I have to be discreet about it. You understand.”

  She puffs and nods.

  Enjoy it, baby. It’s your last.

  No one gives them a glance as they walk into the building. The hallway smells like piss and worse. Lighting is at a minimum. She holds his arm until they get to his room.

  His hand is trembling as he unlocks the door.

  Almost there. Just a few more minutes.

  They enter and she turns in a full circle, taking it all in. “Wow! What’s your kink, man?”

  The floors and walls are lined with clear plastic sheets. The only piece of furniture in the room is a bed, and that’s also similarly covered.

  “I like plastic.”

  “I can tell.” She smiles in a way that she probably thinks is sexy. Annoying bitch. He’s going to enjoy slicing her up.

  “I want you to wear something for me.”

  “Let me guess. A plastic garbage bag?”

  “No. These.”

  He reaches into his pocket and takes out a pair of earrings. Silver hoops, antique-looking.

  “Those are pretty.”

  She removes the dangly gold ones she has on, shoves them into her little spaghetti strap designer purse. When she puts the first hoop in, he begins to pant. His expression must scare her, because she stops smiling.

  “You know, I usually don’t make dates on my
own. I normally go through the escort service.”

  “Don’t worry. You trust me, remember?”

  She nods, but it’s uncertain.

  “These earrings look beautiful on you, Eileen.”

  “Thanks. Um, how did you get my number, anyway?”

  “I have ways.”

  “Yeah. I guess you do.”

  “The bathroom is over there. I’d really like it if you came out wearing nothing but those earrings.”

  She gives him a half smile, hesitates, then trots off to the bathroom like a good little whore.

  He undresses, folding his clothes neatly and putting them on the floor of the closet, next to the axe. His other instruments are laid out on a stained towel.

  What to use, what to use?

  He selects a garrote for the murder and a box cutter for the detail work. The garrote is something he picked up at work—a twenty-inch strand of piano wire, the ends twisted around wooden pegs. He hasn’t tried it yet. Should be fun.

  She comes out of the bathroom, strutting. Her confidence is back. Her naked body is flawless.

  But it won’t be for long.

  “Well, you’re a big one, aren’t you? What do you want to do first, big boy?”

  Severing her head is harder than he’d have guessed. He has to prop his knee up against her back for leverage, and then use a sawing motion with the garrote to get through the spine.

  There’s a lot of blood.

  When he’s finished, he goes to work with the utility knife.

  He attends to her eagerly, like a starving man. The feeling is more than sexual. It’s euphoric. Mind-altering.

  Pain-relieving.

  The moment he walked behind her and stretched the wire across her pretty little throat, the pain vanished. His vision cleared, his jaw unclenched, and a feeling of pure relief a thousand times better than any orgasm flooded through him.

  He doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t care why. The throbbing is gone, replaced by a mad giggling fit as he works harder and faster with the utility knife.

  It soon escalates into a mindless frenzy.

  Afterward, he takes a shower. The water is tepid and smells like rust. He doesn’t care.

  The pain is gone.

  How long it will stay gone is unknown to him. Sometimes it lasts for weeks. Sometimes, only a few hours.

  He takes what he can get.

  He scrubs his nails with a toothbrush and a lot of soap, cleaning out all of the gore and little bits. He notices similar bits in his mouth, spits something bloody onto the shower floor.

  Must have really gotten crazy there.

  Stepping out of the bathroom, he sees how crazy he’s actually been.

  It’s a mess. Worse than he’s ever done.

  He sits on the bed, naked, in a Thinker pose, staring at the body. He doesn’t even remember doing half of these things to her. And using only a one-inch blade and pure strength. Impressive.

  “I am one scary son of a bitch,” he says to himself.

  Careful to avoid the blood pool, he pads over to the closet and quickly dresses. On his cell phone, he presses 3 on speed dial.

  “I’ve got another one.”

  Chuckles on the other end. “Busy little bee, aren’t you?”

  “Come get her.”

  “I’m already out the door.”

  He stands in the corner. Staring at the mess. Memorizing it.

  Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock.

  “Who the hell is it?”

  “The password is psycho. Open up.”

  He grins, letting Derrick inside. The man is short, compact, with acne scars on his chubby cheeks and a lazy eye that always looks to the left.

  Derrick views the room and whistles.

  “Damn! This is some piece of work. I’m going to need a shovel to clean this up.”

  “So?” He hands Derrick fifty dollars. “Go buy a shovel.”

  “Be right back, tiger.”

  In half an hour, Derrick returns. He wheels in the cart, the body bag resting on top.

  “I thought you went to get a shovel.”

  “It’s in the bag.”

  Derrick gets to work, rolling up the body and the mess in the plastic tarps lining the floor.

  “Boy, you really did a number on her,” Derrick says. “Where’s her heart?”

  The killer belches, pounds his chest.

  Derrick laughs. “Talk about having heartburn.”

  The joke is lost on him. He’s becoming anxious. Now that the rage has passed, he has to make sure everything goes according to plan.

  “How are you going to dispose of her?”

  “This one I think I’ll cremate. I can’t risk one of my famous two-for-one specials. The casket would leak.”

  “I want these to be found at the morgue, same as before.”

  The killer hands him a plastic bag.

  “Ears? That’s a riot.” Derrick brings the bag to his mouth and yells, “Hello! Can you hear me?”

  Idiot. But beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Leave the earrings on. They’re important.”

  “No problem. These will be easier to sneak in than those arms. Hell, I could keep them in my pocket.”

  “Her things are in the bathroom. Take what you want. There’s a grand in her purse.”

  “Righto, chief.”

  The cleanup continues for another fifteen minutes. The body and bloody tarps are zipped up in the bag.

  “I’ll line the room with new plastic sometime next week.”

  “Sooner.”

  “Sooner? You got the itch again already?”

  “Not yet. But it could come back.”

  Derrick didn’t know about the headaches. He thought he was dealing with a run-of-the-mill sex killer.

  “Damn. I’m glad I’m not a good-looking chick with you loose in this city.”

  That won’t save you. When the time comes, I’ll gut you as well.

  They leave the room, Derrick pushing the cart, the killer walking alongside. A few liquor-stained eyes peek at them, then quickly turn away. Derrick’s van is parked in the alley, behind the killer’s car. He pushes the cart into the rear, spring-loaded legs collapsing as he eases it in.

  “Hey, you think, maybe, next time you do one of these women . . .”

  “You want to watch?”

  Derrick’s face lights up. “Yeah! I mean, I’m no stranger to this shit. I’m not as, uh, extreme, as you are. But I’ve done things.”

  You pimple-faced freak. I know about the things you’ve done. You make my stomach turn.

  “We’ll see. A tag-team match might be fun.”

  “A tag-team. Yeah, I like that.”

  He claps Derrick on the shoulder, forces a grin. He knows the hardest thing about getting away with murder is disposing of the body, and having a mortician under his thumb makes things a lot easier. Still, there’s no way he’ll ever let Derrick see him in action. He might have to get rid of him sooner than expected.

  “Hey, I’ll call you when I drop the ears off at County.”

  “Make sure you wash them, first. I don’t want to leave trace.”

  “Got it. See you, man.”

  Derrick climbs into his van and pulls away. The killer takes a deep breath, sucking in foul alley air that reeks of garbage.

  It doesn’t bother him at all.

  Nothing does.

  CHAPTER 9

  “That cat’s driving me crazy.”

  Herb pushed away from the computer and shot Mr. Friskers a look. Mr. Friskers howled his reply.

  “He probably wants to be let out of the carrier.”

  “I’d sooner let Manson out. What are you going to do with him, anyway?”

  I rubbed my temples, trying to work out the tension. We’d gotten back to the station two hours ago, and the cat hadn’t shut up for any longer than it took to catch his breath.

  “I’ve called all of Davi’s model friends, her ex-boyfriend, and her mom. No one wants the
cat.”

  “What a surprise. He’s such a lovable bundle of joy.”

  “I also called a few pet stores. Apparently the heat wave doesn’t affect a cat’s promiscuity—the stray population is the highest it’s ever been, and no one is accepting any more cats.”

  Herb stroked his mustache, an indication he was lost in thought.

  “Stray . . . that’s not a bad idea. Just let the little monster free to prowl the city. That’s what he’s howling about anyway.”

  I considered it. On one hand, a cat that wore diapers probably wouldn’t last too long on the street. On the other hand, Mr. Friskers was so damn mean he might do fine. I wouldn’t even put it past him to join a gang and start robbing banks.

  “Fine. We’ll release the cat into the wild. You coming?”

  “I’m staying. Kiss him good-bye for me.”

  I picked up the carrier, which caused Mr. Friskers to increase the pitch of his howling. A brief, chilly elevator ride later, we were in the back parking lot.

  “Okay, my loud friend. This is where we go our separate ways.” I unlatched the door on the cat carrier and opened it up. “Go. Be free.”

  Mr. Friskers stayed where he was.

  “Go on. You got your wish.”

  The cat howled again, but didn’t move.

  Figuring he just needed a little help, I lifted up the cat carrier and tilted it forward. The cat spread out all four paws and clung to the sides, refusing to be dumped out.

  I knelt down and peered into the carrier. “What’s the problem, cat?”

  He stared back, as if asking me the same question.

  I thought about leaving him there. He’d get the hint eventually. Chances are he’d run off as soon as I was out of sight.

  Then I thought about my mother.

  Sometimes the ones who need help the most are the ones who refuse to accept it.

  “Fine,” I said, latching the carrier door. “You’re stuck with me, then.”

  He yowled his reply.

  Herb wasn’t impressed to see his nemesis still hanging around.

  “I thought you were going to let the cat out of the bag.”

  “I did. He wouldn’t go.”

  “Did you try poking him with a stick?”

  “No, I didn’t. Maybe I should check a taser out of the armory and zap him a few times.”