by Alex Kava
She watched Racine check out the reflection of her spiky blond hair in a dissection tray. Behind all the cockiness and bravado, Maggie knew there had to be a vulnerable and insecure woman, walking a fine line, trying not to screw up, hiding any hint of fear or doubt. She had seen glimpses and in those few and brief fleeting moments Maggie realized that she and Julia Racine had that in common. They were both very good at hiding who they really were.
Maggie handed Racine a pair of latex gloves and Racine raised an eyebrow at their purple color.
“I have to hand it to you, Stan,” Racine said as she pulled on the exotic-colored gloves. “You always have the newest and coolest toys.”
He scowled at her over his shoulder as he slid the bagged head out of the wall refrigerator and onto a tray. Maggie realized Stan had taken Racine’s attempt at making light of the situation as an insinuation that he spent department funds in a frivolous manner. Hadn’t he realized by now that Racine’s inappropriate behavior and remarks were simply her way of masking her discomfort at autopsies? Perhaps he was too used to working with the dead to notice, or to have patience with something as simple as human emotion or inane idiosyncrasies.
“Do you need any help?” Maggie offered, rolling up the double-gown sleeves and hoping to relieve the tension in the suite. But a second scowl from Stan, this one leveled in her direction, immediately telegraphed her mistake. Silly of her—she knew better. She stepped back, out of his way. Poor Stan. Maggie often wondered if he wished he could post a No Visitors sign on the door.
“Last time I had to rig up a device.” He ignored her offer, and instead, pointed to a contraption on the autopsy table that looked like a clamping device made of PVC pipe and aluminum. “I didn’t think I’d be using it again this soon,” he said and he didn’t sound happy about it.
He fumbled with the plastic bag, a miniature version of a body bag. Maggie stopped herself from reaching over to help. It would be so easy to start the zipper that was closer to her side. Her medical background allowed her to assist with autopsies, but common sense usually told her which M.E.’s or coroners would welcome her help and which would be insulted. She already knew Stan was in the latter category even before his earlier scowl, yet his fumbling and slow-motion pace constantly challenged her patience.
She glanced at Racine, expecting her to be just as impatient with Stan. Instead, Racine looked distracted, her eyes examining the shelves of specimen jars and containers. Maggie watched the young detective tighten her gown’s belt and check out her shoe covers, then go back to the room’s contents. Her focus seemed to be anywhere and everywhere except on the head Stan finally had unwrapped and was now propping up with his makeshift device.
The maggots had retreated deep inside, huddling to keep warm. As a result, the woman’s eyes were now clear, staring straight ahead, her tangled hair plastered to one side of her head. Suddenly, a cloud of steam escaped from her opened mouth. And despite it being packed with the slow-churning worms, it looked almost as if the poor woman were taking one last breath.
“Jesus.” Racine had noticed, despite her attempt not to look. “What the hell was that?”
“The little bastards’ metabolism can keep them about ten to fifteen degrees higher than their surroundings,” Stan explained. “It’s similar to walking outside on a subzero day and seeing your own breath, the clash of warm with cold.”
“Pretty freaky,” Racine said.
Maggie noticed that this time Racine’s eyes didn’t leave the woman’s face, as if she didn’t dare look away for fear of missing the next “freaky” revelation. She couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before Racine would be checking her shoe covers again. Would it be the removal of the eyeballs or that sucking sound when the brain is pulled out after the top of the skull is sawed off? She actually found herself feeling bad for Racine. She wanted to tell her to think about ocean waves and listen for the sound they make lapping against a white sandy shore. Something, anything tranquil that would calm her nerves and settle her stomach. It had worked for Maggie during her first autopsy, a gunshot blast that ripped away the victim’s face, leaving behind what seemed like a cavernous hole of bloody cartilage and shredded tissue. The waves had been crashing in her head by the time the M.E. had finished.
“Let’s get started,” Stan said, grabbing a pair of forceps and a scalpel from his tray, “before these bastards start climbing up our arms and legs.”
Maggie saw Julia Racine’s face go white. That’s when she realized what Racine’s real problem was. So it seemed they had something else in common, because it wasn’t the autopsy Racine was dreading. It was the maggots.
CHAPTER 13
Omaha, Nebraska
Gibson McCutty sat in front of his computer screen, watching the clock in the lower right corner—watching and waiting. He was exhausted and trying to find something, anything, to take his mind off last night. The game wasn’t supposed to start for another twenty minutes, but some of the players checked onto the site early.
The game was by invitation only. He still remembered the day he received the e-mail. He had been depressed and angry, surfing Web sites, searching for answers, when suddenly the e-mail came through with an address he didn’t recognize. He almost deleted it as spam except that the call name caught his attention: TheSinEater. It sounded like something from a game of Dungeons and Dragons, something that promised, or rather suggested, to take away his sins.
Could it be that easy? Play a game and feel better? Sorta like going to confession in cyberspace. And the message had been simple, easy, enticing:
DO YOU WANT TO PLAY A GAME?
The rules were strict, though, prohibiting players from exchanging any personal information and using only their given code names. But before each game they were allowed to chat, to discuss strategy and talk about their characters, sometimes slipping in information about themselves disguised as information about their characters.
Not everyone participated in the chats; some rambled, some threw in only a comment here and there, others just sat back and watched. Gibson was in the last category. He learned more by sitting back and watching others, taking mental notes, keeping track of what each one said outside of the game when they had their guard down.
The first time he felt like a voyeur, feeling guilty for listening in and not participating. You had to log on to participate. Actually you had to log on to have access to the chat messages as they instant-messaged back and forth. But Gibson figured out a way to watch the chat without logging on. So none of the players knew he was listening. They didn’t even know he was there, until later when he really did log on to play the game.
Today was no different.
He waited and watched for them to begin. Anxious to see where the conversation would go. Ready to take notes, feeling almost safe again now in the light of day and from his comfortable hiding place. That is until a knock at his bedroom door startled him.
“Gibson, what are you doing in there? It’s a beautiful day outside.”
His hands immediately closed the lid of his laptop, not that she could see from behind the door.
“I’m just playing a few computer games.” Without the computer keyboard, his fingers were already probing his face, looking for new targets to erupt. It was a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to control.
“Don’t you want to go to the pool or maybe play ball with some of your friends?”
He found a new pimple on his forehead underneath his bangs. He knew his mom was trying. He had to give her credit for that. But she still treated him like he was ten or eleven instead of fifteen. Go play ball with his friends? And what friends? Hadn’t she noticed he didn’t have any, at least, none outside his computer world? She had this perception that somehow he would be an athletic superstar just like his father. Sometimes he wondered if his parents had thought that by giving him his dad’s name it would also transfer those athletic talents. How totally lame was that?
“Maybe later,” he told her
, throwing her the false hope she always seemed to need.
It was easier in the long haul to agree and make her believe everything was fine. If she knew the truth, she’d be spazzing out on him. He already knew that he could handle crap much better than she could. He didn’t want her worrying about him.
“Okay, later. But do try. I don’t like you spending so much time in your room.”
“I will,” he yelled back over his shoulder, though he knew he wouldn’t.
He listened to her hesitate. She always did. He used to wish that she wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily, that she would challenge him or even threaten to reprimand him just like his dad used to. But she never did.
He listened for her footsteps until they were down the hallway. He waited for the squeak of the staircase’s telltale step. Then he wiped the blood from his fingertips onto his jeans and opened the laptop’s lid.
On his computer screen in the upper left corner was another message waiting for him, staring out at him in red type. He started to shake. He wanted to erase it, but his fingers suddenly were useless. And instead, he simply sat there and stared at the words.
I KNOW YOU’RE THERE, GIBSON. AND I SAW WHAT YOU DID.
Gibson bit down on his lower lip and balled up his hands to stop the shaking, keeping them over the keyboard, trying to think, waiting for the panic to subside. Finally he took a deep breath and punched at the keys, not stopping to check his spelling and hitting Send before he could change his mind.
WHO ARE YOU?
Then he waited.
It seemed like forever. Maybe the person was already gone. Maybe he didn’t expect a response. He could be bluffing. Or he didn’t have the guts to—
I’M THE MASTER OF THE GAME. AND YOU BROKE THE RULES.
A shiver slid down Gibson’s back. He stared at the words as if waiting and looking for more of an explanation. But he didn’t need one. He knew exactly what was going on. And worse, he realized he wasn’t safe even in his own home, in his own bedroom.
CHAPTER 14
Platte City, Nebraska
Nick Morrelli washed down his mother’s potato salad with iced tea, wishing the tea was something stronger. Not a good sign before noon. He couldn’t believe he had taken off the entire week, handed over his role as lead prosecutor on the Carlucci drug case and even given up Red Sox tickets. Okay, maybe the Red Sox tickets weren’t such a big deal, but still, all for what? To come back to Nebraska, stay at his sister’s house and attend events like this for a whole week?
“Why are you hiding over here?”
His older sister, Christine, startled Nick, suddenly appearing behind him, invading his corner of the backyard. He wasn’t hiding. The old rattan chair happened to be quite comfortable despite needing a new cushion and a fresh coat of spray paint.
“I’m not hiding. Someone needs to keep old Ralphie quiet.” He patted the dog’s shaggy head, keeping his paper plate up and out of Ralphie’s reach, even though the old dog was fast asleep.
“Yeah, he looks like he’s enjoying your company.” Christine sat down in an accompanying rattan chair, wincing when it wobbled a bit.
“You know Mom says guys never came to these things in the good ole days.” He looked around their parents’ large backyard, crowded with people, only a few he recognized.
“The good ole days? I think you mean back in the Dark Ages,” his sister told him. “I thought this was all a part of that new leaf you were turning over. You remember, your attempt at becoming a mature responsible adult.”
She offered him a zebra brownie, pristine, untouched and unlike when they were kids and her goodie offerings came with a bite removed. So how could he refuse? He broke a piece off and stuffed it into his mouth.
“I don’t think being a mature responsible adult is all that much fun,” he said with a mouthful as if to emphasize his point that perhaps he wasn’t adult material. “There’s hardly anyone here I know.” But now he realized he sounded a bit pathetic. He expected his sister to say, “When has that stopped you before?” Instead, she decided to stoop to his level.
“Mom and I wanted to limit the guest list only to those…shall we say, friends who you haven’t slept with. You know, out of respect for Jill. Sorry, if that left only Hal, Timmy and Father Tony.”
“Ouch,” he said, faking his best imitation of being sucker punched. And yet, he knew he probably deserved that. He had spent much of his bachelorhood perfecting the art of one-night stands, so perhaps he deserved a reminder now and then.
“Seriously, Nick. I don’t get it.” This time she waited for his eyes, and he knew the horseplay was over. “You claim this is what you want. That Jill Campbell is the best thing that’s happened to you. And yet, here you are at your own engagement party hiding out in the corner of the yard with an old, sleeping dog.”
He didn’t know what to tell her. Of course this was what he wanted. His eyes left hers to find Jill, making the rounds from one group of guests to another. She almost glided instead of walked, her yellow dress making her look like a model instead of an attorney. She wore her blond hair loose today, letting it brush her shoulders. In court she usually pulled it back or wore it up, attempting to add years and authority to her smooth, youthful face.
He told her time and again that she had saved him from himself, never really explaining, presuming that she already knew that there had been someone else he was trying to forget. But instead of pressing him for details, she seemed to take it upon herself to be the one who would finally replace the other woman she had never met.
“There you go again,” he heard Christine say and immediately he knew he had missed something. Before he could respond, she added, “You’ve been doing that a lot, Nicky. You never seem to be where you’re at.”
He rolled his eyes at her as if that was the most ridiculous, incoherent thing he had ever heard, but he knew exactly what she meant. He hadn’t been able to focus in months. His friend and co-worker, Will Finley, claimed it all began the day he and Jill had set a date for the wedding. Or to hear Will tell it, the day he surrendered to Jill.
At the time Nick joked that of course he couldn’t focus. “After all, wasn’t that what happened when you fell in love and decided to take the plunge?”
His friend had just done the same thing, marrying Tess McGowen, the love of his life, only months before. He expected Will to understand. He expected Will, of all people, to sympathize. Instead, his friend’s reaction felt like a sting. “Plunge?” Will had laughed. “You refer to marriage as a plunge and then you wonder what your problem is?”
Nick took another gulp of the iced tea as if needing to wash away the memory. What did Will Finley know anyway? People who were happy quickly forgot what misery felt like.
Misery?
What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t miserable. Jill had saved him from his misery. Suddenly, he realized he had done it again—strayed off. He glanced at Christine, expecting to see her impatience, but she wasn’t looking at him. He followed her gaze, only now seeing the black-and-white in the driveway.
“If this is one of those strip-o-grams, I know it was your idea, not Mom’s.”
But Christine wasn’t smiling.
“I’m not sure what’s going on.”
Two uniformed officers were talking with Father Tony. Nick’s first thought was that there had been a car accident or something awful that required a priest and last rites. He watched Tony’s head bob in agreement then watched him swing around, looking for and finally finding Nick. Nick attempted to wave to him that it was okay for him to leave the party, but Tony made his way through the crowded backyard, guests parting for him like a sea of pastels.
“What’s going on?” Christine asked, but Tony only shrugged, his eyes meeting and holding Nick’s.
“Omaha police want me to come down to the station to answer some questions.”
It took Nick by surprise. “To answer questions? About what?”
Tony shrugged again, and he remin
ded Nick of when they were boys. That same shrug came anytime they got into trouble and an adult asked for an explanation.
“Monsignor O’Sullivan was found dead in a restroom at the airport last night.”
“Oh my God,” Christine said. “And it wasn’t just a heart attack or they wouldn’t have questions.”
Nick shot her a warning look. He could hear her shift into reporter gear, probably already taking notes in her head.
“I hate to take you away from your own party, Nick. But can you come with me?”
“Of course,” Nick said without hesitation. He and Father Tony Gallagher had been friends since kindergarten when the two of them got deathly sick after eating almost a whole jar of paste. He thought he knew his good buddy pretty well, and unless it was his imagination, he didn’t think Tony looked all that surprised about the monsignor being dead.
CHAPTER 15
Washington, D.C.
The number-one tool for dismemberment was the hacksaw, but from what Maggie could see, this guy must have never had one handy.
Stan Wenhoff dropped several strands of the victim’s hair into a bottle of solvent, giving the liquid a swirl before capping the bottle and setting it aside. While he removed hair and tissue samples, Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off the decapitation area. A hacksaw usually left a fairly clean cut through the skin, joints and bone. Oftentimes there might be some bone chattering where the blade would jump and come down on a different area of the bone. For the most part a hacksaw was quite effective. Whatever tool this guy used had left a mess. Forget a little bone chattering. After Stan had cleaned the caked blood and river mud, the gaping area looked raw and shredded. There were jagged cuts, almost hacking marks in the bone and torn flesh where it looked as if he had ripped instead of cut.
