Strip search sp-2

by William Bernhardt

  "Well, I could call Forensics, but you said you wanted to keep this quiet. I know you take DNA samples from your employees at the same time you fingerprint them, so I'll leave it up to you. Test the curtain for saliva and sweat, compare them with a sample from your main man, and see what you come up with, okay? You lay out enough money, you can have the tests done downtown in forty-eight hours. In the meantime, I noticed Mr. Castle has a grooming kit in his bottom desk drawer. Why don't you go open it and see if it has any Skin Bracer Cooling Blue aftershave? 'Cause if it does…" I wagged my finger under Castle's nose and put on my best faux-Cuban accent. "Lucy, I think you've got some 'splainin' to do."

  Olivestra remained silent, but I could see his indignation concretizing into a cold realization of truth.

  Castle began to sputter. "This-this is an outrage. Utterly reprehensible. I'm calling my lawyer and filing charges for slander and gross police misconduct. You haven't heard the last of me, Ms. Pulaski."

  I stared deeply into Olivestra's simmering eyes. "Somehow, Mr. Castle, I kinda think maybe I have. Like, maybe, everybody has." I grabbed Darcy by the shoulder. He flinched, but didn't pull away. "C'mon, Darcy. You've earned yourself a custard. My treat."

  2

  "Why?" Amir pleaded, his hands pinned behind his back and his body pressed against the stainless steel plating of the fast-food grill. "Why are you doing this to me? I do not even know you!"

  "I know you. I know who you are. More important, I know what you are."

  "Please do not hurt me, sir. Please!" Amir cried, but it was no use. Thunderbolts of pain radiated up his arms and through his shoulder blades. "Is it my skin color? I am not from Iraq, if that is what you are thinking. Or Iran, or Saudi Arabia. I am from New Delhi."

  "I don't care about that," Tucker said, pulling the man's arms even tighter.

  "Then please stop. Please. I have a wife. I have three daughters. A newborn son."

  "Uh-huh. And when was the last time you saw any of them?"

  "I saw them-I saw them-why do you ask me this question?"

  "Just wonderin'." Tucker was a big man, not tall, but thick, and rippling with muscles, muscles born of hard work, physical labor, not pushing weights around in some fancy-ass gym. He shoved Amir forward, pressing his bare chest against the edge of the cooking stove. Amir screamed, trying to push himself away. "Be careful! Please! I have not yet turned off the equipment."

  "I noticed. I'm cookin' a little somethin' up for you."

  "But why? I am nothing. I do not even run this place! I am just the assistant manager." His face was stricken, desperate. "Please-my wallet is in my back pocket. I do not have much, but whatever I have, it is yours."

  Tucker tightened his grip on both of the man's arms, bending them almost to the breaking point. After all those years living off the streets, moving from one hardscrabble job to the next, Tucker knew what he was and what he wasn't. He might have many failings. But he was not a thief. The very suggestion made his blood boil. He wrapped a rubber cord around Amir's wrists, then secured him to the grill. "You got pictures of your little girls in that wallet?"

  Amir hesitated. "Well…no. There is not so much room."

  "Pretty much written them off, haven't you?"

  "That is not true. I love my little darlings. I-"

  "You got a new piece of ass, some slutty teenager who's workin' as your fry cook and will spread her legs for the cost of a quarter pounder."

  "That is not true!" Amir squirmed, trying to keep his stomach off the super-heated stainless steel.

  "Is. She's makin' it with Wilfred, too. The janitor. You know. The one with more acne than face."

  "I-I do not believe it."

  "And for that you gave up your family. Your wife. Your three girls."

  "Listen to me, my man. There are things you do not know. Financial matters. My wife is better off-"

  "And what about Anna, Khouri, and Indira? Are they better off?"

  "Please. I do not know why you are asking me all these questions. I do not know…what business it is of yours. But I take care of my girls. I visit whenever I can-and I give them whatever-"

  "When was the last time you made your child support payments?"

  "My-" Amir stopped short. "Is that what this is about? Are you from the DHS? I know I am a little behind-"

  "More than a little."

  "But it is so hard, trying to make a living in this country, working sixty hours a week at a Burger Bliss. I barely clear twenty thousand American. I have told them that. I filed a report. Talk to your bosses."

  Tucker gave the knot a twist, sending another searing bolt of pain coursing through the man's body. "Do I act like I'm from DHS?"

  "Then-why are you here? Why did you knock me out? Why did you rip off my shirt? Why me?"

  "Why here? Because I had to catch you at your place of work, alone, after everyone else left the joint." Tucker's expression flattened, and then he added. "And why you? Because you are Keter."

  "Keter? I do not know this word Keter."

  "Doesn't matter. I do."

  They both heard the abrupt ring of the oven timer. "Ah," Tucker said. "The appetizer's ready."

  He put on a pair of oven mitts, opened the door, and withdrew what at first appeared to be a long fireplace poker with a protective handle at one end. It was so hot smoke emanated from the end piece.

  Amir took a closer look and realized that it was not a poker. It was a branding iron. At the far end of the metallic prong, glowing at him like a fiery monogram, was the letter K.

  Amir stepped away from the pulsating heat, cowering, begging for mercy. "Please," he said. "Do not do this to me. Please!"

  "Friend, this is just the beginnin'." Tucker brought the iron nearer; though still inches away, Amir could feel it cooking his skin. "No! Please, no!"

  Tucker pressed the brand into the man's solar plexus.

  Amir screamed. With a howl that might've been heard for miles-if anyone was awake within miles-he cried out as the searing metal burned into his flesh. His knees buckled, he lost all control of his body, he wet himself. The skin on his chest began to blister and water rushed from the surrounding tissues in an ineffectual effort to cool the piercing wound. He went into shock, looked as if he might have a stroke…which would make the rest of the plan far more complicated.

  He untied Amir's bonds-there was no risk that he was going anywhere on his own-and walked him over to the deep fat fryer, still burning at full boil, still bubbling with the super-heated oil that had flash-fried thousands of frozen potatoes that day. Tonight, the recipe would be somewhat different.

  "No," Amir said, crying, barely able to muster a whisper. "Please. No."

  "You are part of the Sefirot," Tucker intoned. "The time for the termination of your predestined number has arrived."

  "Number," Amir whispered, the aching in his chest still making it difficult to think, much less resist. "I tell you-I have done nothing wrong. This is…this is madness!"

  "It ain't madness that's doomed you," Tucker said, as he lowered the man's face toward the bubbling cauldron. "It's math."

  With a decisive thrust, careful to keep his gloved hands out of it, Tucker pushed Amir's face into the churning pool of boiling oil.

  Had he been able, the man would surely have screamed. But the intense three-hundred-fifty-degree heat melted his mouth, his lips, the skin on his face, even his tongue, long before any such response was possible.

  3

  July 12

  I actually stuck my hand out of the shower and said, "Would you hand me a towel, sugar bear? I can't-" Before I stopped myself.

  Even after all this time, my brain still blipped, and I expected David to be standing on the other side of the fogged-up shower door. "Idiot," I said, slapping myself on the forehead for good measure. As if that minor blow might get my brain working right.

  Mind you, I had made progress. I didn't have conversations with him anymore. I didn't see him at night during that twilight time just be
fore you fall asleep. And I had fully and formally forgiven him for…well, whatever I thought he needed to be forgiven for. But some part of my brain, especially when I was deep in thought about something else, still instinctively expected David to be there. We had spent so much time together, so many happy times.

  I've read that people who lose limbs in adulthood experience something called phantom pain-the arm or leg they no longer possess still seems to hurt. I guess I have a phantom husband.

  And it still hurts.

  Back when I was in detox, I hated Dr. Coutant. Of course, I was forced to see him three times a day. If I had refused I would've never been discharged, not after what I'd done. So I went to his little closet at the clinic, always refusing the couch, and rambled on about whatever pleased him, blowing off questions whenever possible, deflecting them when I knew he was getting too close ("Okay, like now could we talk about my other parent for a while?") and never never never letting him start in about David. If he wanted to call me a drunk, let him. If he wanted to harp on my dismissal from the detective squad, losing my house, losing custody of my niece, he had that right. But my husband was my business. It was insulting, really. After all, I'm a trained psychologist. Was I supposed to believe he could lord it over me just because he went to school a few more years and could prescribe drugs? I was an experienced, educated career woman. And yet, for the entire six days he had me in his clutches, he treated me like I was some barely potty-trained street junkie.

  Actually, I still hated Coutant. But these days, it wasn't because I didn't think he knew what he was talking about. It was because I knew he did.

  "How long has it been?" This was always his first question. I made a point of calculating my answer before I arrived.

  "Five months, two days, and about fourteen minutes."

  He seemed genuinely pleased. "That's very impressive."

  "Hardly a lifetime."

  "For an alcoholic? It's several lifetimes. I know people who've been under considerably less stress than you who haven't made it half as long. Still…" His pencil slowed, and he made sure I was looking at him. "If you think the struggle is over…it isn't."

  "I know that."

  Coutant was a short, round man with a full beard and round-rimmed glasses, but now that I was seeing him in his private office, he didn't wear the white coat. His office was tastefully decorated in soothing colors, mostly beige. Like he borrowed his interior decorator from Banana Republic. "Can you still remember what that last drink tasted like?"

  "Well, that last drink was laced with a hypnogogic drug that led to me getting kidnapped."

  He batted his eraser on his legal pad. "Okay, the last drink you enjoyed."

  I thought for a moment. A long moment. "Actually, no."

  "That's a good sign. It tells me you were well past the point of drinking for pleasure. You were drinking to relieve stress, to deal with your demons. Neither of which booze accomplishes. If you can remind yourself of that, if you can remember that it isn't actually fun for you and never will be again, it'll be a little easier to keep off the sauce."

  I saluted him. "Message received and understood."

  "The problem is-the demons may still be there. Have you been depressed lately?"

  I hesitated. "I am a little…lonely. I miss having Rachel at home. And I miss…" I didn't have to finish the sentence.

  "Unfortunately, depression and anxiety are not uncommon in your profession, Susan. Much less to someone who's been through everything you've been through."

  "Don't you have some kind of magic pill you can prescribe? Prozac, or whatever's trendy these days."

  "I could, but I'm not going to."

  "You prefer to let me suffer."

  "I think we both know that you have an addictive personality, Susan. I can't in good conscience recommend anything to you that might create a dependency. Hell, if I could, I'd restrict you from drinking coffee."

  "You are a cruel bastard."

  "Yeah, I get that a lot." He smiled. "I'd still be happier if you were in an AA group."

  "I'm not the talky-feely type."

  "Nonetheless, AA has the highest recovery rate of any program-"

  "You're assuming I need a program."

  He rubbed the rim of his glasses. "Susan, when will you get it through your head that you do not have to do everything on your own? There's nothing shameful about getting help. You have many friends who love you. Amelia, Rachel, Darcy, Chief O'Bannon." He paused. "Me. Let us help. Talk to people who've been through what you're going through. Even if you don't join an AA group, I could find you a sponsor-"

  "Please don't."

  "I'm sorry, Susan, but I can't help but think this…insistence on doing everything yourself is another indication of your self-destructive behavior. The same instinct culminated in you beating some poor frat boy to a pulp in-"

  "That's not fair!" I shot back. "I was out of my head. I thought he was a drug kingpin." I took a deep breath. "Besides, he had the sorriest pickup lines you've ever heard in your life."

  In an apparent act of resignation, Coutant changed the subject. "How's Darcy?"

  "Doing great. He's made enormous progress these past months. I've done a lot of reading on autism and worked with him and given him useful things to do and I think it's making a real difference. He was invaluable to me on an investigation yesterday."

  "How long have you two been seeing each other now?"

  I stared at him through furrowed eyebrows. "I assume that was an unintentionally suggestive phraseology. I took care of him for five weeks. While his father was recovering from a gunshot wound."

  "And even thereafter dropped by to visit almost every day."

  "His father was weak and barely ambulatory. And besides, we like each other. What are you getting at?"

  "Nothing. Why are you so defensive?"

  "I don't like what you seem to be implying. Darcy is a kid."

  "He's nine years younger than you."

  "He looks more."

  Coutant held up his hands. "Look, I'm not trying to suggest that you initiate a physical relationship, especially given his neurological difficulties. But I am wondering if you're using him as…well, as a sort of shield."

  I pursed my lips. "You know, Doc, I guess that M.D. did make you smarter than me, because I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

  "Then let me be blunt. Your husband died over a year ago. Right or wrong, many people blamed you for his death. You used alcohol to defend yourself. The first time you attempted another relationship with a man, that FBI agent-well, we both know how that turned out. But now that's ancient history, too. You should be seeing someone. It would be healthy for you. And if it isn't going to be Darcy-"

  "It can't be Darcy."

  "Then you need to stop spending all your time with him and find someone else."

  "You think it's that easy?"

  "Las Vegas is a big city."

  "Which makes it harder, not easier. Where am I going to find someone decent to go out with? And I warn you, if you say, 'An AA meeting,' I'll slug you."

  Coutant smiled. "In my personal opinion, it's all a matter of attitude. If you're scared of trying again, then you'll hide behind your work or your friends or whatever else is available. But if you really want to find someone-you will."

  "Where'd you get that pearl of wisdom? Dr. Phil?"

  "What does it matter? Whether you care to admit it or not, pushing everyone away is just another example of self-destructive behavior." He leaned forward. "Susan, you're a smart, healthy adult female. You need a smart, healthy adult male."

  "And get trapped in a relationship? With the mess I am right now? Sounds pretty risky to me."

  "It is a risk. Of course it's a risk. So what?" Coutant checked his watch, then laid down his pen and paper. Apparently the fifty-minute hour had come to an end. "Susan, how is it you've managed to live in Vegas your entire life but you've never learned how to gamble?"

  Despite his years of expe
rience and training, despite the steady succession of suicides and homicides that had inevitably hardened his stomach, if not his heart, despite his almost obsessive concern with self-image and making a good impression on his superiors and inferiors, the moment Lt. Barry Granger stepped behind the counter at the fast-food restaurant to which he had been summoned and took a look at what lay beyond, he fell to his knees and began uncontrolled retching.

  It didn't make him forget what he had seen. A deep fat fryer with blood splattered all around it. Severed flesh simmering in the oil.

  "Still think we don't need to bring her in on this one?" Chief Robert O'Bannon asked, hovering over his convulsive chief homicide detective. He was using a cane to keep himself on his feet.

  Granger took long slow controlled breaths. "What…happened?"

  O'Bannon paused reflectively before answering. "I'm not sure there's a word for what happened here." He glanced over his shoulder and shouted at one of the crime scene techs working the site. "Hey, Crenshaw! Is there a word for dissolving someone's face in an industrial-strength deep fat fryer?"

  The tech looked up, grimaced, then returned to his work.

  "There's just no precedent for…death by melting. Unless you count The Wizard of Oz." Steadying himself with the cane, O'Bannon reached down and slowly pulled his detective to his feet.

  "I'm-I'm sorry, sir," Granger said feebly, wiping his mouth. He had sandy hair and, normally, a sun-baked ruddy complexion. At the moment, his face was ashen white. "I don't know what came over me."

  "Don't feel bad, Barry. I've been a cop for over thirty years, and I've never seen anything like this. You should've seen the poor chump teenager who came in this morning to open-and found this mess of blood and melted flesh where the french fries are supposed to be."