Straw Man

by Patrick Logan

  The male CSU tech didn’t hesitate; he placed his kit down beside the display and opened it. Yasiv watched with a curious eye as he then laid out a square sheet of plastic roughly sixteen inches in width before placing a series of tools on top of it, working.

  When he was content with his work, the tech slipped on a pair of blue latex gloves and touched the ragged ankle hole, first sliding a finger inside, then squeezing the material between thumb and forefinger.

  There was something disturbing about this, something unsettling and obscene, and Yasiv had to fight the urge to look away.

  Thankfully, this lasted all of two seconds before the technician pulled his hand back and held it out in Yasiv’s direction.

  “Evidence bag,” the man said sharply, his eyes locked on the mannequin. When the female CSU failed to react, didn’t so much as move, Yasiv considered that the man might actually be speaking to him.

  “I—”

  “Evidence bag,” the tech repeated, and the woman finally snapped out of it. She produced several clear biohazard bags and placed them in the man’s outstretched hand.

  Yasiv realized that his heart had started to thrum in his chest, and he felt the overwhelming urge to take the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and light one up right here, right now.

  Please be a prank, a latex suit, a fucking Halloween costume.

  But he knew even before the tech turned to look at him, his dark brown eyes laser-focused, his mouth the complete opposite of the skinsuit’s slack-jawed expression, that this wasn’t the case.

  “I’m going to need more time with this. More time and more people.”

  Yasiv frowned and he massaged his forehead.

  Shit.

  On the heels of what had happened with the psychopath Lucas Lionelle or whatever the hell his name was, the disaster involving the Casata Sacra, and the suspicious deaths of three NYPD officers, the last thing New York needed right now was this.

  Whatever this abomination was.

  Yasiv sighed so heavily that he felt his sternum buckle.

  “Any idea how old she is?” It was a strange question, but it was the only thing that he could think of to ask at that moment.

  The tech’s brow furrowed.

  “She?”

  This was an even odder response, given the mannequin’s breasts that were on display.

  “Yeah, she,” Yasiv repeated. He felt frustration being to rise inside him.

  The man shook his head.

  “No, not she.”

  “What do you mean, not she? This is a—”

  “Not she,” the tech repeated, more forcefully this time. “But them. You want to know how old they are.”

  Chapter 4

  Sergeant Yasiv left the CSU technicians to their work and walked briskly to the foyer. What Dunbar had failed to tell him was that while they had corralled a couple dozen members of New York’s elite, who were now standing off to the left, they had done the same with about half as many wait staff, off to the right.

  The former looked annoyed while the latter concerned, expressions that were reflected by the officers that stood guard. Yasiv briefly wondered if the individuals had segregated this way naturally or if this separation had been imposed.

  In the end, he decided that it didn’t matter. The only thing that was important was that both groups got comfortable, because they were going to be here for some time.

  “You can’t do this,” Lisa whined, her voice cutting through the monotonous din like a dog whistle in a thunderstorm. “You can’t keep my guests here.”

  Yasiv was beginning to regret his decision to keep the woman here. He ignored her and was surveying the scene, trying to come up with a plan of action, when someone grabbed his arm.

  “Did you call the DA? Did you—”

  Yasiv didn’t look at Norm Fairchild’s face, but his hand. The man’s fingers relaxed, and the arm retracted.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But if you would just contact the DA, we can get this all sorted.”

  A police officer who had been chatting to a woman in an expensive-looking gown, hurried over, his face turning red.

  “Please, sir, stand over here,” the cop instructed Norm.

  And there was the answer to Yasiv’s unspoken query: the segregation between guest and staff was imposed, not a natural division. For some reason, this set the sergeant off more than being grabbed.

  “No, you know what? Take Norm and his wife to—” he looked around, spotting a door halfway down the hall. “Take them both to that room and have them wait for me there.”

  The officer looked torn, but Yasiv held his ground. Sympathetic to the politics involved or not, he wasn’t going to be undermined by civilians or a cop with an attitude.

  “Now.”

  The officer reached for Lisa, but she pulled back.

  “Don’t touch me,” she warned.

  So much for not making a scene.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. But if you could just please come with me.”

  Yasiv wasn’t sure that Lisa even recognized the officer as being present.

  “Norm, do something. Do something.”

  Norm looked at Yasiv and then lowered his eyes.

  “Lisa, please. Let’s just—let’s just get this over with.”

  “Get it over with?” Her hands snapped to her hips as if drawn by a magnet. “Easy for you—”

  Yasiv had had enough. He reached behind him and pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt.

  “You can walk to the room now, by yourself, or I can put you in handcuffs and guide you there.”

  Lisa growled but stomped off in the direction of the door. Norm and the police officer fell in line behind her.

  Before the restless crowd could become any more agitated, Yasiv cleared his throat and addressed them, making sure to look over at the wait staff at least once while he did.

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but you’re going to have to stay a little while longer. If you need anything, just ask one of my officers and they’ll make sure that you’re taken care of.”

  “Is this because of that disgusting thing at the back?” a woman in a teal dress asked. “Is it real?”

  “What disgusting thing?” someone else piped up.

  “Lisa said that some asshole put a fake—”

  Yasiv cleared his throat.

  “Please, I’m not doing this to be a jerk, I just need a little time to ask you some questions. You’ll get out of here tonight, I promise.”

  “Tonight?” several guests said in unison, but Yasiv had already turned his back on them and had started toward the room in which Lisa and Norm had been sequestered.

  “Excuse me?” For some reason, this voice was one that commanded respect and Yasiv, against his better judgment, looked over his shoulder. It belonged to a man with a white mustache, bald head, and even tan.

  “Like I said, I’ll get to you in a moment. I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

  Dunbar appeared at his side, looking concerned.

  “You know who that is?” the detective said under his breath as they walked together toward the room.

  “Don’t know, and don’t care.”

  This reply failed to dissuade Dunbar from enlightening him, however.

  “That’s DA Trumbo’s campaign manager.”

  Yasiv froze.

  Just when I thought tonight couldn’t get any worse.

  “What do you want me to do?” Dunbar asked.

  The question reanimated Yasiv and he started walking again. Dunbar fell into stride beside him.

  “Nothing. Don’t do anything. Just make sure everyone stays comfortable.”

  Two more steps and another question came out of the detective’s mouth.

  “Is it… is it really someone’s skin?”

  Yasiv looked into Dunbar’s eyes then, realizing that even though the man had garnered much experience over the past two years, these cases still affected him deeply.

  Maybe he wa
sn’t as hardened as Yasiv thought. That would change, in time, however.

  Or so Yasiv hoped.

  There were really only two options for people in their line of work: become numb to the horrors of man or be overtaken by them.

  “Yeah, it’s real,” he said solemnly. “CSU is pretty sure about it. But it’s not just one person, Dunbar.”

  The detective tried to hide his surprise, his shock, but did a poor job of it. His eyes bulged slightly, which was mimicked by his Adam’s apple.

  “More than one? How many?”

  “At least three.”

  Dunbar winced.

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah—we’ll know more when they’re done processing the bo—” Yasiv hesitated. It wasn’t a body that the CSU was working on, not exactly. “—the specimen,” he corrected. “So, yeah, campaign manager or not, they’re not going anywhere.”

  “What’s the plan, then?” Dunbar’s gaze drifted to the door down the hallway. “Interview them all one at a time?”

  That was what Yasiv had in mind, but he didn’t feel the need to voice his opinion. It was written all over his face.

  “You don’t think that—you don’t think that one of them did it, do you?”

  This line of questioning was unusual coming from Dunbar as was the man’s sudden change of heart. He’d gone from wanting to throw everyone into the back of a filthy paddy-wagon to letting them walk free.

  The DA’s fucking campaign manager? Really? Who else is here? A couple of ex-cops, a judge, the goddamn governor, perhaps?

  Yasiv sighed again.

  “You’re right,” he said, a comment that brought confusion to Dunbar’s face.

  “About what?”

  “That we can’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  Yasiv cast a tentative glance over his shoulder and his eyes were immediately drawn to the man with the tan and white mustache.

  “Keep them here.”

  As he spoke, Yasiv pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Unsurprisingly, he had several missed calls, but he paid no attention to these.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Dunbar concluded. “Want me to get the officers to take down their info and set them on their way?”

  “No,” Yasiv said flatly. A plan had formed in his head, one that would more than likely piss a few people off. But it would also put some distance between him, Dunbar, and those with influence. And maybe, just maybe, it would speed up finding out what happened to the women who had made an unwelcome appearance at tonight’s gala.

  “Listen,” Dunbar said, lowering his gaze. “Maybe it’s because I just woke up, but I’m not really understanding—”

  “We can’t keep them here.” Yasiv found the number he was looking for in his phone and clicked it. “But someone else can.”

  “What? What are you talking about, Yasiv?”

  Yasiv plugged his ear and moved away from the detective.

  A harsh voice answered on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Drake? It’s Sergeant Yasiv… I need your help.”

  Chapter 5

  Damien Drake’s eyelids fluttered in sync with the buzzing of a cell phone.

  His brain seemed to be doing the same inside his skull.

  That was the cruel irony of cutting back on drinking; when you eventually fell off the wagon and went on a bender, your body punished you for it. When Drake had been drinking more regularly, he never got hangovers. But now, after his self-imposed hiatus, he felt like shit pretty much every morning after just smelling booze.

  And he’d done a lot more than sniff alcohol last night.

  He clucked his tongue, which felt three times its normal size, and suppressed a gag.

  “Can you… shit, can you answer that?”

  Phlegm had built up in the back of his throat throughout the night and he gagged again.

  I’m never drinking again.

  “Please answer that,” he begged, eyes still closed.

  Worried that he might puke if he tried to speak a third time, Drake gently elbowed the woman lying beside him.

  She groaned.

  “Yeah? Oh, the phone.”

  Drake slumped back onto his pillow as he heard her fumbling with the phones on the bedside table.

  “It’s yours,” she informed him, placing it on his bare chest. It was cool enough to make him shiver and Drake debated chucking it across the room instead of answering.

  He cleared his throat, which he instantly regretted when a thick wad of phlegm landed on his tongue. One quick chew and a swallow later, Drake answered his phone without opening his eyes.

  “Hello?” he croaked.

  “Drake? It’s Sergeant Yasiv… I need your help.”

  Hangover or not, Drake was wide awake now. His eyes snapped open, and he forced himself into a seated position. More regret when the room started to spin.

  “What—what time is it?”

  He remembered going out for afternoon drinks and… well, not much more than that.

  What the fuck happened?

  “Midnight.” Sergeant Henry Yasiv paused. “Just after. Look, I know this is out of the blue, and I know you’re going to have a lot of questions, but I don’t have much time. I need your help.”

  The speed of the Earth’s rotation seemed to have reached an all-time high.

  “What? What are you talking about? What do you want?”

  Drake and Yasiv weren’t even colleagues anymore, and after what the sergeant done to Suzan and Beckett, friends wasn’t even in the conversation.

  And neither were favors.

  “Fuck, I need you down here.”

  Still, Drake was intrigued to say the least.

  “Where? Yasiv, what the hell is going on?”

  “Listen, I’ve got at least three dead women here, stripped of their fucking skin. And in about fifteen minutes, I’m going to be buried up to my eyeballs in bureaucratic bullshit while whoever is responsible is putting miles between here and God knows where. I need your help, Drake, and I need it now.”

  His mind was full of questions, but Yasiv had pushed all the right buttons. They might be the furthest thing from friends, but three skinned women? If his mortal enemy had requested assistance for a case like this, Drake would have at least fielded the call.

  As it was, he was already swinging his leg over the side of the bed.

  “I’m on my way,” he grumbled. “Text me the address.”

  Another thing about hangovers is that they didn’t give a fuck about the magnitude of your current situation. If something intense happens while drunk, you sobered up damn quick. But no matter how fucked up things got, your hangover was here to stay.

  Drake swallowed bile, which burned worse than yesterday’s tequila as it made its way down to the pit of his empty stomach. He paused, dry heaved, then stood.

  Fifteen minutes. That’s all I’ve got.

  “What is it? What’s wrong, Drake?”

  Cool hands were on his shoulders now, his back, his triceps.

  “What’s happening?”

  Yasiv’s text with the address came through and Drake was relieved to realize that the destination was close. He slumped back onto the edge of the bed.

  “It’s work,” he finally managed. “It’s work, and… I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go.”

  “At this hour?”

  Drake glanced over his shoulder at the woman with whom he’d shared a bed. Her blonde hair was messy, and her cheeks flushed, but her blue eyes were vibrant and alert. The duvet was bunched around her waist, and her large breasts were bare. Despite the hangover, and what Yasiv had just said, Drake felt a tingle in his groin. This was short-lived, however.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, Patty. But I really have to go.”

  Before she could protest, Drake ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

  Chapter 6

  The first thing Drake noticed when he took a lap around the art gallery was the surprising lack of p
olice presence. Based on his brief conversation with Yasiv, he’d expected the place to be crawling with men in blue. The fact that he only spotted two squad cars out front, lights off, indicated that discretion had been advised. Drake drove around back and parked across the street, in clear view of the gallery’s loading dock. After observing the scene for another minute, he popped a third piece of gum into his mouth and chewed voraciously.

  A pint of mouthwash had been insufficient to eliminate the lingering taste of vomit on his tongue.

  The gum was a last resort.

  Drake took another few seconds to collect himself then stepped out of his Crown Vic, wincing at the sound of creaking metal when he closed the door behind him.

  So much for the element of surprise, he thought glumly.

  Like out front, there were at least two police officers guarding the gallery’s back entrance. They were dressed in civilian wear and trying their hardest to appear disinterested in the world in general, but Drake had no problem spotting them.

  He had been one of them, after all. Sure, that had been three lifetimes ago, but he still looked back fondly on his time with his late partner and mentor Clay Cuthbert. And just like that, his hangover, which had taken a backseat ever since projectile vomiting into the toilet, returned in full force.

  Or perhaps it was unrelated to his drinking and instead a manifestation of the guilt he felt for what had happened with Jasmine and with his Clay.

  His fucking kid.

  Drake shook his head.

  I shouldn’t have left her, he admonished himself. I shouldn’t have—

  “Jesus!”

  Drake jumped back, narrowly avoiding being struck by a blacked-out van that swerved into the parking lot. He instinctively slid a hand beneath his sport coat and clutched the butt-end of his gun, but lowered it when a man in a K-Way jacket hopped out of the vehicle.

  Even in the poor lighting behind the gallery, the word ‘CORONER’ written in white font across the back was visible.

  Drake picked up his pace, knowing that his chances of getting a glimpse of the victim—victims, Yasiv said there were three of them—was growing slim.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the gallery is temporarily closed,” a man said, stepping from the shadows. It was one of the two cops who Drake had previously identified. He started to reach into the inner pocket of his jacket when the man’s expression hardened. “Hands where I can see them!”