by Dan O'Brien
Montgomery cleared his throat.
“Matthews, this is a crime scene.”
“Sir?” he replied without looking up. Looking down at his foot sliding in the darkening pool of blood, he grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, sheriff. I wasn’t really…”
“Watching what you were doing, figured that much, deputy.” Kneeling down opposite the deputy, the sheriff removed a ball point pen from his jacket pocket. Lifting back the torn shirt, he grimaced. There was a long slash mark, distinctive and deep; it was like the others. And in that moment, he knew that Agent Westlake was not interfering. In fact, she might actually be there to help.
“Why the hell does he keep taking skin off of his victims?”
“He?” The sheriff raised an eyebrow.
The deputy shrugged, as if his assumption was common knowledge. “Takes a cold son of a bitch to do something like this, hey. Gotta be some kind of angry, sex-depraved man, ya know?”
“I’m not certain of anything yet. I am relatively sure that Westlake might be on to something with the multiple murders theory. This being victim three in a short time with a similar pattern of slaying. But this….”
He trailed off as he pulled open the door completely, letting the corpse fall forward onto itself. The young man had been eviscerated, intestines pilling forward like heavy noodle spaghetti in a thick red sauce.
The claw marks were barely visible with the body folded upon itself, but the deep lacerations to the face were more prominent. The head turned to reveal stark white bone beneath that traced from the lower mental eminence to the apex of the skull.
“This is just damn weird. Your sex-crazed diagnosis might be a bit soon, Freud.”
The deputy coughed as he stood and then turned away. A heavy sound collided with the ceiling just above the young deputy’s head: footsteps, and then another set; laughter and more footsteps.
“Sounds like a party up there, hey.”
“Maybe they heard something.”
“You call Agent Westlake?”
“He did, twice,” replied Lauren, stepping out from the shadows near the front door and into the half-lit hallway adjacent to the kitchen. She had not changed, though the long black coat she often wore hid the dress clothes beneath.
Her face was as grim as the scene. She scanned the messy living room and pile of broken glass. “We have signs of a forced entry. Do we know who the victim is?”
The deputy pointed to the black wallet on the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. Opening it carefully, Dominic walked up behind her. His cold eyes surveyed the scene, hands behind his back.
“Didn’t realize we were bringing dinner guests to crime scenes,” spoke the sheriff with a mixture of humor and irritation.
Lauren looked back and saw that Dominic was peering at a pile of stacked books, reading their titles silently. He was not touching them, just bent at the waist so that he could read the spines.
“You caught me at a bad time, sheriff. I didn’t really have time to change. Came right from the restaurant after picking up my gun.” He looked at her with a look that bordered on disbelief. “You said it was urgent, so I came straight away. Is he going to be a problem?”
“I don’t know, Agent Westlake. Is he?” he returned, though with more levity than gravity.
Lauren ignored his comment and opened the wallet, checking the bill fold and finding nothing. There were a few business cards: local electronics, computer repair. Lauren grabbed one and held it up to the sheriff.
“What is this?”
The sheriff stepped around the counter. “Says exotic dancers. Lulu’s Exotic Friends. I am not sure it requires that much explanation.”
“Sounds self-explanatory,” mused Dominic, continuing to look at the collected works of the dead man.
Lauren smiled at him tightly. “Can’t be too many exotic dancer locations in your little town here, sheriff. Might be some insight into our victim.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Agreed.”
There was a knock at the door, drawing the sheriff’s attention. He moved past Westlake, tipping his hat at her and ignoring Dominic. Lauren continued to rifle through the wallet, pulling free the laminated license with a crimson-painted nail. She read it carefully, speaking the dead man’s name out loud.
“Joyce. Wayne Joyce,” she spoke clearly. The deputy did not react. “Deputy Matthews, do you recognize the name?”
“What name?”
“The name of the victim.”
“What’s the victim’s name?”
“I just said his name,” she replied, slight irritation in her voice.
He stood up and leaned against the counter. “Sorry ‘bout that, Agent Westlake. This body is just damn macabre, hey. Got me mesmerized as they say.”
Lauren nodded, holding back the urge to mock the deputy or perhaps tear him down for his lack of professionalism. Instead, she repeated the name. “Wayne Joyce. Name ring a bell?”
The deputy looked into the distance, his mind working. “There are a few guys named Wayne this far north, Agent Westlake. And a whole bunch of Joyces, hey. But I think I recall a Noah Joyce. Graduated same time I did.”
Lauren slipped the license back into the wallet.
“Brother? Father?”
“Cousins most likely,” he returned with a shrug, overturning a magazine and scanning the cover absently. “I don’t believe Noah was old enough to have children his age and I don’t recall him having a brother. Any siblings at all.”
“He works here locally? Your Noah Joyce?”
The deputy had moved down the hallway, hearing the mixture of voices. Collins and her attendant emerged from the darkness slowly. She had the same gray and black swirl that looked like a frozen yogurt sundae from a Tim Burton film. The odd attendant trailed behind her like a sad little puppy, despondent and scared. “Agent Westlake, don’t you look nice for such a gruesome occasion?”
Lauren smiled. “More flesh taken this time. It looks like our killer is getting bolder.”
Collins rounded the counter and covered her mouth with one of her ridiculously manicured fingers: wild silver and purple nail polish better suited for a stripper than a mortician. Her attendant, sullen and uncommunicative as always, looked at the agent for only a brief moment before moving closer to the refrigerator.
“I don’t think our evil little friend is quite done yet,” she began. As Dominic stood just beside her, with chiseled features and depths of cerulean, she faltered; her bravado forgotten. “I did not realize that we were bringing dates to crime scenes, Agent Westlake,” chided Collins.
Lauren shook her head. “It required my immediate attention. Much like the body requires yours.”
Collins’ mouth was a wicked smile. “I will attend to that, Agent Westlake, my apologies. I believe the sheriff and the wayward deputy are in the back of the apartment. Perhaps they could use your attention presently.”
Lauren smiled, though it was not completely genuine. She felt attacked. Something she had not felt for some time. Bringing Dominic had relinquished control over the situation. Moving past the coroner and her attendant, she grabbed Dominic’s arm.
“I have become a nuisance, haven’t I?” he asked quietly, casting a serious glance at Collins. “My presence here has created a difficult situation for you all, has it not?”
Looking into his eyes, she saw recognition. Sighing, she allowed the tense feeling in her shoulders to melt away. Tapping his arm with her fingers, she closed her eyes.
“No. No, it’s fine.”
“Fine? I’m not sure that is a ringing endorsement. Would it be better if I left?”
Lauren could see the sheriff just down the hallway. He was talking to the deputy, looking up from his conversation every few moments. She did not want Dominic to leave, a sentiment that she had not felt in some time; this kind of connection with a man.
Dominic grabbed both of her hands, taking them in his much larger ones. His hands were warm and tender despit
e their strength. “I can see your hesitation. I will absolve you of responsibility for the decision. I will go.”
She swallowed hard, nodding.
There was a deep emptiness in her stomach.
“Can I see you again?” he asked earnestly, his blue eyes sparkling.
Lauren felt coy, her face blushing. She moved like a teenager, swooning. “Yeah….”
His face touched hers, just ever so slightly, cheek to cheek. She could feel the heat that radiated from him. He was warmer than any man she had ever known.
“Tomorrow, can I see you tomorrow?”
She nodded. “Yes. I would love that.”
She saw that Montgomery and the deputy were looking at her, arms crossed and self-satisfied grins across their faces. She touched his chest. He nodded and left, motioning to the sheriff and deputy with more confidence than they reciprocated. The door closed and Lauren could feel her professional demeanor return in full force.
Montgomery sauntered over. “I think you might be on to something, Agent Westlake.”
Lauren wheeled on him, face flushed.
She pointed a finger, her mouth a grim line.
The sheriff threw up his hands in mock defense. “I meant about the case, Westlake. Check the emotions at the door. This is a crime scene.”
Westlake understood, but she could not help but feel attacked. “I’m glad you are opening your eyes, sheriff. Something is stalking the quiet populace of Locke.”
WATCHING THE LIGHTS OF THE APARTMENT, the creature saw the shadowed forms of the police force moving about. Hateful, hungry eyes stared out through darkness and thicket. Steam rose from the heaving chest, blood and gore covering its hairy body. Patches of sewn flesh stunk of salt and sweat. One arm hung in the semidarkness illuminated by the scattered puzzle of lights from the apartment complex; cautious eyes watched Agent Westlake move into view.
Its breath increased: chest heaving, pulse racing. Squatting, it hid deeper. Brush rustling, cold branches snapped beneath its feet. Light crawled across its features in wisps and splits. Patchy hair covered its face, some gray and some red; uneven ridges and valleys created a face of tumbleweed. The night was cold yet the creature did not shiver.
Dripping, dripping blood: the flat sheet of flesh torn from the young man’s face hung in the creature’s hand obscured by the shadow. The breathing was ragged. A strange, strangled growl like loose phlegm echoed from the brush.
Westlake’s stunning features despite the cold and grisly scene were an affront to the creature. It was a reminder of humanity, of innocence. Another growl: this one was not the creature. Looking out through the brush, dark eyes watched the darkness.
A terrier: white and gray fur, ruffled with a winter coat. It skittered close, nearing the slinking creature that watched hungrily from the shadows. Rear end moving sideways, low whining growl, its beady little eyes challenged the creature. The claw reached out, dirty and used, into the freezing air of the Minnesotan night.
The terrier whined, barring its small teeth; and then a yip, another bark. With a swift flick of its claw and a bundle of curly fur, the terrier was no more. The carcass was torn in half, the small animal little more than a tuft of crimson flesh and mangled fur. The creature continued to watch for a while longer, not eating the small animal. And then as quickly as it had descended on the apartment that night, it was gone.
LAUREN PUSHED ASIDE THE dirty white blinds that shrouded the connected backyards of the apartment complex. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, a wisp of bangs crawling across her forehead; eyes watched the darkness. She thought she had heard something in the backyard.
“Agent Westlake?” called the sheriff, emerging from the shadowed hallway.
She did not respond. Continuing to watch the outside, she saw the dilapidated fencing and overgrown brush that ran along the backside of the apartments. There were four separate residences, yet they shared a single backyard.
“Did you hear a dog? Barking?” she asked without taking her eyes off of the darkness.
Montgomery moved closer, his hands inside his jacket. He wasn’t really listening. “Collins bagged the body and took it to the morgue. She will have the wound examined. See if the killer left anything behind.”
Lauren lifted the silver lock of the sliding glass door.
“Agent Westlake….”
She moved out into the cold air, her eyes squinting and her head tucking down into the warm recesses of her heavy coat. Ashen trees with long and spindly arms reached down just atop the brush as if they were giants reaching for unripe apples. The ground was blackened dirt and white stones. At one time they formed a pattern, now simply terrain in disarray.
The sheriff followed, cursing about the cold and the door as he did so. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing out here? It is damned cold to be traipsing about in the night.”
Lauren moved toward the brush carefully, her right hand finding its way to her holster. With an even movement, she pulled it free and held it out in front of her. The barrel was precise, still, as it was centered on the brush.
Montgomery saw this and kept his hands in his pockets. His face was a portrait of irritation. “What are you doing? What could possibly be out here?”
Bending down with her weapon, she saw the lump that had once been the terrier. Steam rose from the little body as the last of the corpse’s heat filtered into the night air. She replaced her weapon with a frown and sighed loudly. It would have been difficult to distinguish the entrails and furry flesh as having once been someone’s pet.
The sheriff covered his mouth, grimacing.
“What the fuck is that?”
A glass door opened a distance away and the shuffling of feet drew Montgomery’s attention. Lauren, however, remained in a crouched position, her eyes unable to leave the disturbing pile of man’s best friend.
A woman’s shrill voice filled the air.
“What are you doing back here?”
Lauren stood slowly. Tucking her hands back into the wool lining of her coat, she lowered her chin just inside the wide rim of her coat. “Police, ma’am,” replied Westlake.
Montgomery pointed to the lusterless badge on his outer coat. “Local police. She is with the F.B.I. We are investigating a murder next door.”
He produced a small pad, the cheap kind that every dime novel and cheesy horror film believed to be the bread and butter of detective work. “Have you heard anything strange tonight? See anything suspicious?”
Lauren looked around at the night. She could feel something out there. The killer had been here moments before, might even still be lurking in the forest just beyond. “Is this your dog, ma’am?” she asked, perhaps more curtly than she would have liked.
The night had not been going her way.
“Ms. Yonkers? She was just outside…” she began.
Lauren stepped aside, revealing the gruesome pile that had previously been Ms. Yonkers. The wail the woman let out was a shriek from the beyond. Falling to her knees, she began to sob. For a moment, she looked as if she would reach for the hideous pile of flesh, but instead wrapped her arms around herself.
There was a part of Westlake that felt pity and another part that felt a strange sort of disgust. There was a man dead, yet no one mourned for him. However, this little pampered dog had a mourner the likes of which few humans were afforded.
“Was that Ms. Yonkers?” stumbled the sheriff, touching the pen to paper.
Between sobs, she managed a head bob.
Lauren walked to the brush, pushing aside a large tuft of it with her gloved hand. There was blood on the gnarled braches, small patches of what had been skin––some clothing.
“Sheriff,” she spoke calmly.
Montgomery tipped his hat to the mourning woman and joined Lauren. His grizzled face dipped into view as she pushed back the undergrowth, snapping some of the branches. They fell to their feet. Pressing the blood between her fingers, she sniffed it like a hound.
�
��Blood. Pretty fresh.”
“There was something in here, wasn’t there? Something big,” he marveled.
Lauren nodded somberly. “I think whatever or whoever did this was watching us.”
“What?” Montgomery did not seem excited about such a proposition.
Standing, she returned her attention to the sobbing woman. “Ma’am?”
Looking up from what had once been her prized pet, her bleary eyes ran with dark mascara. “What did this? Why would someone hurt Ms. Yonkers?”
“I’m not sure yet. There was a murder in this complex. If we are to find out who did it, and to maybe find what or who did this to your dog, then we need some help.”
She sniffled. “I haven’t seen anything. I let Ms. Yonkers out because she was barking at the door. I thought she had to potty.” She looked at Westlake. “Do you think she was barking at someone? That maybe…” Agent Westlake looked at her with as much sorrow as she could muster. “…that Ms. Yonkers died because I let her outside? I killed Ms. Yonkers?”
Sheriff Montgomery, his head ducked out of the cold wind, intervened. “Did you hear anything from this apartment here?” He gestured toward the apartment he and Westlake had just been in. “Sounds of a struggle. Screaming. Anything?”
She looked at the darkened apartment and open sliding glass door. “I don’t think so. I heard those wild children upstairs. With their music and hollering and sex nonsense,” she replied. Her voice assumed a motherly, scolding tone at the mention of the blatant disregard for volume.
Standing there, Lauren listened carefully. She could hear the steady rhythm of bass and then some singing and laughing coming from just above the dead man’s apartment. As she started to walk back toward the apartment, the sheriff performed the clean-up. Clearing out the remains of Ms. Yonkers and promising to return for the funeral later in the week.
Inside the apartment once more, the warmth of the place was noticeable. There was little light in the house, except for the outside light which cast minimal illumination inside the domicile.
