Straw Man

by Patrick Logan

  And where had that gotten them? If it hadn’t been for Hanna finding that piece of suture, the answer was nowhere.

  More than twelve hours after the abomination was discovered at the gallery, they were no closer to finding out who the victims were, let alone the perpetrator.

  “We’re on it,” he lied. “What about missing persons? Do you have a list of women who have recently gone missing?”

  Dunbar nodded.

  “One sec,” he said, making his way to the door. “Please, just wait here.”

  The man slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Screech half-expected him to lock it, but the detective didn’t.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” he asked Leroy, referring to the man’s outburst.

  “Nothing—I dunno. Just pissed off. Fucking DA only wants his smiling face on the news, doesn’t give a shit about these dead women.”

  There was more to it than that, thought; Leroy was confused about the whole Nick Petrazzino situation. So far as he was concerned, Leroy still owed the head of the Casata Sacra a favor.

  He was unaware of how Screech had usurped his debt.

  “Don’t worry about all that other stuff,” Screech said. “Just concentrate on this case. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

  Leroy seemed relieved.

  “What about Kramer? We going to tell Drake about what happened to him?”

  Screech thought about this for a moment before shaking his head.

  “Naw, I think it’s best if we just keep this to ourselves for the time being.”

  Leroy’s expression suggested that he didn’t like the idea of keeping anything from Drake, but he reluctantly deferred to Screech.

  “You really think that Kramer was working a sting or something? Out to get Nick?”

  “Between you and I, I think that’s a crock of shit. I think…”

  Screech fell silent as the door opened and Dunbar quickly entered, a thick stack of papers in his hand.

  “Here,” he said, holding the pages out to Screech.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “The missing women.”

  Screech took the stack. There must have been thirty or forty pages, all full of names.

  “From when? The last twenty years?”

  “Try this year.”

  Screech couldn’t believe it.

  “This many missing women?”

  Dunbar nodded.

  “Yeah, about thirteen thousand people go missing from New York City every year, most of which are women. The majority aren’t missing long, but I’ve included all of the names in case they might be helpful. The ones that have a check at the end of the row have been located.”

  Screech identified the column that Dunbar was referring to and was grateful that the first twenty or so pages were full of names of women who had been found. This still left at least several hundred missing, however. He flashed the list at Leroy.

  “This is going to take forever.”

  “Well, most of them have their last known location listed, which might help.”

  Screech wasn’t sure how this would help, given that the NYPD also had this information, and the women still hadn’t been located.

  “Several hundred are still missing? Every year?” Leroy sounded as incredulous as Screech felt.

  “Yeah, but it’s not like all of them were kidnapped. Some people just don’t want to be—” Dunbar was interrupted by his phone ringing. “Sorry, give me a sec.”

  As the Detective turned his back on them, Leroy leaned closer to Screech.

  “How the fuck are we going to find three women in that pile of names?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Can we send out like an APB or something? I bet Dr. Nordmeyer can tell us what their skin color was like when they were alive. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

  Screech glanced down at the list. It contained a minimal number of columns—DOB, height, weight, that sort of thing. There was a section for ethnicity but like most of the other information, and the people themselves, it was missing.

  Recalling what Dunbar had just told them, Screech said, “No chance the DA approves an APB.”

  “This is going to be impossible, then.”

  Dunbar suddenly turned and looked at them.

  “You’re in luck.”

  “You know who the girls are?” Leroy asked.

  The detective frowned.

  “No, but I know who the waiter is.”

  Screech straightened.

  “What? How?”

  Instead of answering, Dunbar turned his phone around and thrust it in Screech’s direction. On the screen was a photograph of a man’s face. It was clearer than the art gallery security camera footage, but it showed the same man.

  Screech pulled back.

  “That’s him,” he confirmed. “Leroy?”

  But Leroy was suddenly focused on the TV mounted on the wall behind them.

  “Leroy, this is—”

  “Robert Tiedeman,” Dunbar interrupted. “Date of birth, June 12, 84.”

  Screech turned his attention back to the detective.

  “The software matched him?”

  “Yeah, he was in the system for petty theft.”

  “Petty theft? That’s it?” Screech might not know police codes from Adam, but he was aware that violent crimes, like stripping the skins off of women and sewing them back together, were the result of a progression, not a one-off.

  “Hey, guys, you should check this out,” Leroy said.

  “What?” Screech snapped. The lack of sleep and the Nick Petrazzino ordeal had taken a bite out of his patience.

  “Just look at the TV.”

  The man’s tone demanded respect and both Dunbar and Screech glanced at the television.

  “Oh, shit,” Dunbar groaned.

  The near-constant loop of DA Trumbo standing in front of the podium, his long red tie dangling from his neck, was gone. In its place was a deliberately blurred image taken through the window of what appeared to be a department store.

  The form in the middle of the frame, pixelated as it was, was still distinguishable mainly because Screech had spent the better part of last night staring at something similar.

  It was a mannequin and the headline read: Mannequin covered in human skin found in NYC shopping mall.

  “Well, I guess the DA isn’t going to be able to keep the media out of this one after all,” Leroy whispered. “And it looks like his priorities might have just shifted.”

  Chapter 25

  “You okay?” Drake asked. Hanna had been pissed back in the car, not unusual for her, but had since gone quiet the moment they’d arrived at the morgue.

  “Fine.”

  Even this response was out of character. Hanna would have typically snapped at him, told him that she wasn’t a child, that she didn’t need to be consoled or cajoled, especially by him.

  Hanna wasn’t a ‘fine’ type of woman.

  There was something about being here, Drake realized, in the morgue with the skins that bothered Hanna. If it were anyone else, he would have understood, chalked it up to a normal human reaction to the atrocity. But this was Hanna—Hanna who had worked in the psychiatric facility, had been tied up in the basement of the Loomis Estate, and had been stabbed in the chin with a metal chopstick, nearly skewered to death.

  But Drake knew that there was another side to Hanna, one that had been exposed when her claim to have been raped by the Download Killer had been summarily dismissed as a hoax.

  The most troubling thing about Hanna’s story was that she’d thought the man she’d slept with, whom she’d seduced, was the Download Killer.

  The real question was why? Why sleep with a man you believe to be a mass murderer, then report the crime as a rape? Was the reason as simple as needing attention? Or had Hanna orchestrated the entire ordeal as a convoluted way of bringing the man to justice?

  “I just want to catch this guy,” Hanna s
aid softly, a follow-up that was as much unlike her as the initial claim that she was ‘fine’.

  Like with Screech earlier, Drake didn’t press the issue. Besides, given his current personal situation, he was in no position to offer advice or solace.

  “Me too,” he said simply.

  Drake had memorized his way through the twisting bowels of the morgue and for once Hanna was content in just following behind him. The second they pushed through the same doors they’d entered yesterday, Dr. Karen Nordmeyer’s head snapped up.

  She was hunched over the corpse of an obese man with a large red burn mark beneath his left arm, which was raised above his head as if eager to answer an unspoken question.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” Judging by her tone, expect was synonymous with desire in this context. “But I do have an update for you.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow.

  “What is it? Did you identity one of the victims?”

  The woman’s chin dissolved into her neck.

  “I sent the DNA off to get tested, but that could take weeks. I told you that yesterday.”

  “What is it then? Did you find out where the shoelaces came from?” Hanna asked, pushing in front of Drake.

  “The what?”

  Hanna rolled her eyes and reached into her pocket, and then held up the brown suture that she’d taken from Lisa’s house.

  “Where did you get that from?” Dr. Nordmeyer’s eyes narrowed. “Did you get that from evidence?”

  Hanna shook her head.

  “This one’s mine.”

  Dr. Nordmeyer scrutinized the string dangling from Hanna’s fingers.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fucking sure. And it doesn’t matter where I got it from, I just need to know if it’s the same as the others.”

  “Well, I’m going to have to do some tests to be sure, but it looks similar. It is a suture; I know that much for certain.”

  “I thought you said—” Drake began, but the doctor predicted his comment and cut him off.

  “It’s not a medical suture,” she raised a finger.

  Drake tried his best not to let annoyance show on his face.

  “What kind of suture then?”

  “Well, technically—”

  “What is it used for?” Hanna demanded.

  Dr. Nordmeyer’s face turned red, but she finally got to the point.

  “A long time ago, these were used in taxidermy, mostly to keep thick pelts together. They aren’t used much anymore, though; there are less obvious sutures of equal strength available.”

  Drake screwed up his face.

  “Taxidermy?”

  “Yes, the practice of—”

  “I know what taxidermy is,” Drake said, shaking his head. “You sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “So, this is from some old school taxidermy kit?” Hanna asked, raising the suture even higher.

  “Well, I can’t be certain without properly inspecting this new one, but the others from the mannequin, yes.”

  Hanna held the suture out to the woman but now she seemed hesitant to take it.

  “Just put it on the table and I’ll compare the samples later.”

  Drake looked at the corpse on the gurney.

  Later? He’s not going anywhere. This case should take priority.

  “Is that it?” he asked. “Is that what you wanted to tell us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Drake sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Dealing with the woman was infuriating.

  “You said that you had something to update us on.”

  The doctor turned and walked toward a small desk with a laptop sitting on top.

  “Ah, yes—and no, that wasn’t it. I have something else to show you.”

  They followed her to her computer, and she intentionally blocked their view of the screen while typing in her password.

  “Do you remember the markings on the epidermis on the lower back?”

  Drake was hungover, exhausted, and frustrated the last time he’d been here.

  “Remind me.”

  “She said it looked like a brand of some sort,” Dr. Nordmeyer continued, indicating Hanna with a gloved hand.

  Drake vaguely recalled the conversation that the ME was referring to now.

  “Yeah, and what about it?”

  “Well, I think,” the woman paused to pull up a monochrome image on her computer. “That I know what this is.”

  Drake moved to get a better view of the screen.

  To him, it didn’t look that different than the first time he’d seen it, in real life. The shape—a square or diamond with extensions like a hashtag—was more pronounced, but he still didn’t know what he was looking at.

  Dr. Nordmeyer must have read the confusion on his face because she said, “It’s a fence. I think it’s from a chain link fence.”

  “No,” Hanna breathed. She was suddenly pale and slowly started to back away from the computer.

  “Well, I am fairly certain that this mark was made by a chain link fence.” Dr. Nordmeyer started typing on her computer again, but Drake’s eyes were firmly locked on Hanna. “If you look here, you’ll see—”

  “It’s not a fence,” Hanna whispered. She bumped into the gurney and the cadaver’s massive belly on top of it quivered like undercooked Jell-O.

  “Hanna? You okay?”

  She was definitely not okay.

  “I found these images,” Dr. Nordmeyer continued, oblivious to what was going on around her. “They aren’t a perfect match, but the fence pattern—”

  “It’s not a fence,” Hanna barely gasped. “It’s a goddamn cage. These girls were held in a cage.”

  Chapter 26

  The next display would be his best. It was going to be so good that nobody would be able to tell where the skins were sutured together. The whole family would be proud.

  The man was sure of it.

  It was more difficult to find his prey now that they were searching for him, and that women were more cautious, but not impossible. In fact, he was surprised that more people hadn’t come looking for the girls. They were too busy with their lives, he supposed, with whatever else they had going on, to even notice they were gone.

  Until they were put on display.

  And then they noticed.

  The man was far from the city now, closer to where he did his best work. Again, he was in his car, but he didn’t have to wait nearly as long as he’d been forced to outside the club.

  The winding path that cut through the woods was a favorite running spot, and after watching a couple walk their dog and a man clearly training for a long-distance race, he spotted her. She was alone, earbuds jammed in her ears, and while she was in good shape, it was clear that she was only just getting into running.

  Her face was red, and she was panting hard despite a languid pace.

  The man got out of his car after she passed him and left the door ajar. Then he cut through the woods, careful not to lose his footing.

  He’d been here many times before and knew these woods, knew the terrain, knew how the path doubled back just ahead, allowing him to get in front of the woman.

  In the city, people, especially women, might be wary of a man like him, if only because he was alone.

  But not here.

  In the country, people just wanted to get exercise, fresh air. The last thing on their mind was that they were being hunted.

  The man emerged from the woods and then sat, his back to the path.

  When he heard the woman approaching—her breathing shallow, her footsteps shuffled—he groaned and rubbed his ankle.

  “Aw, man,” he muttered.

  The footsteps slowed further, then stopped completely.

  “You okay?” the woman asked.

  The man looked over his shoulder and smiled. The runner was keeping a respectable distance from him, one of her earbuds in her hand.

  “Yeah,” he sighed.
“Just twisted my ankle.”

  He expected her to come closer, but she didn’t—she kept her distance.

  “You want me to call someone?” she asked between deep breaths.

  “I think I’ll be okay. Can you help me up?” he asked, letting go of his ankle and reaching toward her.

  She was cautious and made no move to help him.

  “Just use the tree. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  The woman was observing his jeans and T-shirt, a confused expression on her face. This wasn’t the most well-thought-out plan, he realized, but that didn’t matter.

  She was already dead, she just didn’t know it yet.

  “I was just going for a walk and I twisted my ankle.”

  “Well, I can call someone if you want.” She’d grown uncomfortable and was casting quick glances over her shoulder, clearly hoping that someone else would come along.

  “No, that’s not necessary. I just need a hand to get to my feet. I think I can walk it off.”

  “Yeah, I gotta go,” she said, backing up.

  “Please, just—”

  The man sprang to his feet. He was quick, but she was ready.

  The woman dropped her earbud and started to sprint back the way she’d come.

  “Help!” she screeched. “Help me!”

  If she’d been at the start of her run, and not already exhausted, she might have gotten away. While fear and adrenaline fueled her first few steps, fatigue soon took over.

  The man reached her in less than a minute. The easiest thing to do to incapacitate her was to shove her from behind, but that was unacceptable.

  She’d almost certainly scrape her knees and elbows, ruining her otherwise perfect skin.

  And this one was going to be perfect.

  It had to be.

  They were all depending on him.

  He took another three steps and then grabbed the back of the woman’s sweat-soaked shirt and yanked.