by Rivers, Mal
“You do realize,” I said, “that there are twenty-four hours in a day, and I like to have eight of them in bed.”
“Yes, well, I would never stop a man from sleeping. Be back here before dinner and we’ll see where we stand.”
“And what will you be doing all day?”
“My routine will remain as normal. While you are out, I will be looking into something else—the small problem of the impostor Lynch.”
“Oh, I see—how, exactly?”
“It occurred to me that whoever instigated that fiasco Monday morning must have acquired an actor of some description from somewhere. They assuredly had to shop around, as it were, to find someone painstakingly similar to Guy Lynch. Of course, they needn’t necessarily be the killer, but it will be a start.”
I smiled and nodded, as if I had accepted her excuse for not coming along with me. I looked at a half bookcase at the opposite wall facing her desk and took out a large, yellow book and threw it on her in-tray.
“Phone book. I think you’ll need it.”
“Pah. I suggest you get to work.”
I had nothing to say to that. I seldom do. I went into the kitchen and made myself a couple of sandwiches for the day and took out a fresh bottle of water. I’m not against fast food, but I’d never hear the end of it from Ryder. I said goodbye to Melissa and took the Lexus to Anaheim.
12
Anaheim is hardly London. That’s the first thought that comes to my mind. In fact, that comes to my mind every city I drive along in America. For one thing, there is actually space for cars to drive. Cars can park alongside the curb instead of on top of them, and you still have room for a bus or two. Instead of row to row buildings that all possess that charcoal look, as if they’ve been barbecued, there’s space, greenery, trees along the sidewalk. The only tree I ever saw on a London pavement belonged to a drunken Santa Claus with tourette's.
The public restroom in question was a brand new contraption. Most likely provided when the end of year budget allowed it. It was a solitary brick building, set back from the sidewalk. The bricks were sandalwood, if I’m not mistaken. A low triangular roof with a gable, three red doors; one for males, one for females, the other for the disabled, as well as a janitor’s room. There was still a loop of crime scene tape around the building, and no doubt the doors were locked.
I parked up beside the church across the way and waited for my collaborator, Kacie Cordell, FBI. She was usually the one I consulted with when it came to the FBI. We get along fine and Ryder had no objection to her. Melissa seems relatively friendly with her, too. I originally opted to go through the scene with Johns and Mantle of the BI, but they passed it along. Apparently, the FBI had the bat and the BI was playing catch.
In previous engagements with Kacie Cordell, she had a different partner each time, so I had no idea who else I’d be dealing with. As it turned out, I’d be dealing with no one. When a black SUV stopped a hundred yards in front of me and a young woman with girlish brown hair (that managed to look blonde in the sunlight) jumped onto the sidewalk, carrying a black satchel, it was clear Kacie was running solo. I took off my shades, approached her and gave a sarcastic salute.
“Morning,” I said.
“It is.” She smiled. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”
“Most women say that to me.”
“Do they now.” She brushed back her hair and dipped into her jacket pocket. “Got the keys. It’s the door on the right.”
“You seem eager. That why you’re by yourself?”
“Partly,” she said. “It’s all hands on deck back at headquarters.”
“Have to admit, I’m surprised the FBI are dealing with us.”
“Be fools not to. All this cross department bickering makes me sick. We’re all on the same side.”
“You and me both, sister.”
“Call me sister again, and see what happens.”
I laughed and motioned a nod to the restroom. “Shall we?”
“Yeah. I got the file here, although, the scene cleaners haven’t been yet. So the blood and other markings will still be visible.”
“Well,” I said. “She did say the crime scene would wait for me.”
Kacie smiled and walked with me across the road to the restroom. She took the path while I hopped the bush along the sidewalk. She ducked under the tape and unlocked the red door to the right. I looked at the ‘ladies’ sign and wondered why Lynch had died here.
I expected the inside of the restroom to be quite decent and it was. Well furnished and clean, as far as public restrooms go. Small, though. If Ryder had an opinion of it, she’d likely appreciate the efficiency. There were three stalls along the north wall and three wash basins along the south with a landscape mirror running across. A modern dryer on the east wall and a towel rack. The west side was the entrance. There was a partition wall for privacy from the outside, and a trash can.
It didn’t take long for me to see the blood, or should I say, the bloodstains. More burgundy than red now, due to the age. The pool had originated from the middle stall, creeping over the tiles and stopping two feet short of the wash basins. The toilet stall was rife with stains all over the walls, floor and toilet bowl.
“You know, I think the floor would look better in that color. Matches the brickwork outside,” I said.
“Suggestion noted. Now, let’s get on with it.” She walked over to the stall and flung open the door and pointed to the coat hook on the inside. “He was found hanging on this. Lynch’s belt was buckled tightly around his neck, but with enough slack to get up and over the hook.”
I moved to the right slightly and stood by the towel rack, all the while looking at the stall door.
“That hook’s pretty high, must’ve taken some effort to get a guy like Lynch up there,” I said.
“Yeah, I reckon he’d have been lifted forty—maybe fifty centimeters.”
“And he just let it happen?”
She came over and showed me the file and said, “Nope, he was bashed over the back of the head. All the incisions were made postmortem. He was hit with a typical blunt instrument, few centimeters in diameter, rounded edges—most likely a hammer of some sort. No such item was found, though.”
“The blow killed him?”
“Hard enough to knock him out, but the fatality came from the front, most likely when he hit the floor. Must be made of ceramic, because his skull was in pieces.”
“Anything else?”
She hummed. “Nothing amazing, no.”
“What about prints?”
“Hundreds of them. So what? It’s a public restroom.”
“Yeah, okay. What about on Lynch?”
She shook her head. “Lynch’s jacket, shirt and pants were full of his blood, that’s about it.”
I walked to the other side of the room and kept my eye on the stall. My notepad was still in my pocket, I was confident I could remember all the information at this point.
“So then our killer hangs him up and cuts him—” I trailed off and mumbled. “Why—”
“Huh?” Kacie said.
“I just don’t get the hanging thing. Why—” I stopped, realizing I was about to say he didn’t do that in Afghanistan.
“It’s his ritual, isn’t it?”
I nodded and let it go. No sense arguing with her over it. “The cuts were the same as the other murders?”
“From a first glance, yeah, I guess. It depends really. I’m no forensic or pathology expert, but I’ve heard talk of how irregular the cuts have been throughout the murders. No doubt you and Miss Genius know about case number three?”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled.
“Well, according to the lab guys, even the cuts that look the same differ. The type of knife is said to change throughout. Sometimes the cuts have the quality of a scalpel, sometimes the quality of a plain old butcher knife. This one here is plain. Sharp, but nothing special like a scalpel.” She showed me a top down photograph of Lynch’s body. �
��The horizontal cut is slightly lower than usual, too.”
I nodded in agreement. “What’s that mean, then?”
“I guess it’s open to interpretation. You should probably come down and check with the medical examiner.”
“Ah,” I said. “Maybe. I’ve got a full day as it is.”
“That so. Is Miss Genius working on an angle we don’t know about?”
“If I knew, would I tell you?”
She gave a dry laugh and turned her head toward the mirror above the wash basins. Admittedly, I was feeling a bit clammy, so decided to wash my hands. I went for one of the faucets, when I realized the hot water faucet was damaged, with the handle missing.
“Oh,” Kacie said, “I forgot to mention that. There was almost a flood by the time the BI got here. The faucet was broke and spraying water everywhere.”
“In the struggle, you think?”
Kacie shrugged her shoulders. “Probably.”
I rubbed my chin for five seconds and took it all in. After I’d seen enough I left the restroom and breathed in the fresh air outside. No one out in the street and no cars but ours, just a single kid on a bike. When Kacie had locked the door I was by the sidewalk, looking up and down the street.
“Why here of all places?” I asked.
“I stopped asking why years ago,” she said.
I knew what she meant, but my question was more technical than philosophical.
“It seems too likely that Lynch was attacked in the restroom. I just don’t figure anyone would bring a body here. Yet, I don’t figure a public restroom as a safe place for a killer to strike, either.” I paused for a second and gave it more thought. “Was there a way to lock the restroom doors from the inside—so no one came in unannounced?”
Kacie checked, and then gave it some thought. “Not without the key, but I reckon the killer could have used the trash can to block entry.”
I screwed my face up a little and took out a sandwich from a plastic bag in my pocket. I took a bite and then shook my head.
“It still makes no sense,” I said. “Either way you look at it. For starters, why the hell did Lynch go into the ladies’?”
Kacie’s lips twitched and she shrugged. “Maybe there were no stalls free in the men’s room?”
I shook my head again and swallowed another bite. “Nah. Like everything in this case, it stinks.”
We walked over to my car and I stood idly up against the driver’s side door. With her arms crossed, Kacie said, “Surely, this place wasn’t the Cross Cutter’s choice, either. After all, wasn’t he following Lynch? In such an area I would say it’s very unlikely you wouldn’t realize you were being followed, and the chances that the Cross Cutter had the foresight to wait for Lynch in a restroom of the opposite sex seems close to zero.”
I have to admit, I nearly slipped, forgetting about the impostor Lynch. Of course, Ryder and I hadn’t yet decided whether the Cross Cutter had actually followed the real Lynch. Naturally, everyone else had already forged a conclusion and was thinking accordingly. For them, Lynch had run scared from our office to his death at the restroom. I told Ryder it was a bad idea to keep the impostor Lynch secret, but she wouldn’t listen. It was going to bite us in the ass, that was for sure.
I decided not to deviate and just played along.
“The question still remains: why did Lynch go into the ladies’?” I said half heartedly. I’d lost interest really. The real question I wanted the answer to was whether Ryder had found the impostor Lynch yet. My day was just getting started, though. That would have to wait.
“Follow me to headquarters,” Kacie said. “We can stop for milkshakes or something.”
I opened my car door and leaped inside. It didn’t take much thought. Ryder knew damn well I wasn’t getting through everything today anyway.
“Yeah, lead on,” I said.
I followed Kacie on the way to the FBI, Los Angeles Division. Three blocks west on the way I saw a familiar face. Two, actually. That of Laura Harles and Robyn Faith. I could’ve stopped, but decided against it.
13
I shivered when I entered the morgue’s storage room, and I’m not entirely sure it was because of the cold air that ran through the ventilation shafts.
After our milkshakes we took a detour to the city morgue where Guy Lynch’s body was being held, about five minutes away from the federal building. The visit to the morgue would otherwise be unnecessary, however, the medical examiner that did the examination was apparently in the building. At least, she should have been. After ten minutes I felt like I was wasting time.
The morgue attendant was in his fifties. Twitchy, with body odor. He seemed intent on keeping his eye on us, as if we were there to steal a body or two.
I rubbed my hands to keep them warm. Kacie, however, seemed to relish the cool air. She leaned gracefully against a desk and showed no signs of discomfort.
Doctor Dimmel, Medical Examiner, entered the room and gave a sharp “hello” and walked over to the relevant chamber drawer.
“Sorry to be curt, but I have two appointments booked for two o’clock and I’m late for both,” she said, opening the drawer.
Here was Guy Lynch, in the flesh. I’d never seen him alive, only someone like him. His face was bulky and eyebrows bushy. Very little difference between him and the fake Lynch, however, the eyes were definitely the giveaway.
His chest was a mass of incisions since the autopsy. I immediately noted the horizontal cut was lower than the photographs I had seen of the other victims, just as Kacie had said.
“Why are you here? I sent the report over yesterday,” Dimmel said.
Kacie nodded toward me. “Thought I’d show him for real, while the body’s still here. Better than photographs, don’t you think?”
“Not really.” Dimmel groaned. “Was a pain in the ass to examine, what with the killer’s incisions getting in the way of my Y incision. Couldn’t you have just read the report?”
“Don’t be awkward. Take us through what killed him,” Kacie said.
Dimmel frowned and cleared her throat while pointing at the skull.
“Cause of death—fracture of the carotid canal. Not to be confused with the blunt force trauma to the back of the head. He was dead long before any of the incisions were made—”
My mind shut off for a while, as I was sure I had heard all this before. I heard Dimmel say the fatality was rare in such a situation. Normally, the fracture Lynch had suffered was found in racing accidents. Dimmel was skeptical that a forward fall to the ground could cause it, but saw no reason to think otherwise.
“There is also some damage to the rib cage—not caused by the incisions. Also to the windpipe. It’s almost as if the victim had been beaten in various places before the fatal blow to the head,” Dimmel said.
We moved onto the incisions, particularly, the horizontal. Dimmel was halfway through when I regained my interest.
“—as I keep telling you, Agent Cordell, I didn’t do the other autopsies. However, looking over the previous victims’ reports, I would say the cuts differ greatly. Not necessarily on the outside, it’s just the depth here is weak. But, then again, this so called Cross Cutter seems to be inconsistent with all the incisions.”
“Even so, this cut is abnormally low,” Kacie said.
“Yes.” Dimmel nodded. “The depth was enough to break the skin, obviously, but just barely. The knife here was not lunged deep after the sternum and dragged through, like the previous murders. It’s more like—how should I phrase it—like cutting a pizza. You cut through to the base and stop. You don’t cut through past the cardboard box and then into your kitchen worktop. Essentially, that’s what happened here. The killer cut to the base and that’s it.”
“Well, thank God someone was prepared to give it to me in layman’s terms,” I said.
Kacie laughed and Dimmel frowned and replaced the sheet over Lynch and closed the drawer.
“So that’s why there were no guts on the floor
,” I said.
Dimmel maintained her frown and shook her head. “Even the incisions from the other murders were never right for disembowelment, as it were. The horizontal cuts are too high. A vertical cut alone is rarely enough. As for Mr Lynch here, the horizontal cut had the right location, but nowhere near enough depth. In fact, if it weren’t for the head injury, it could have taken quite a while for him to die from the incisions.”
I nodded and put my hands in my pocket and swayed. I then looked at Kacie and said, “The FBI think someone else did this, don’t they?”
“It’s an idea we’re playing with.” She imitated my sway and looked to the ceiling. “But given the other inconsistencies, who knows. The Cross Cutter is making it difficult, whether he knows it or not.”
We were interrupted by Dimmel’s harsh, throaty voice. “If you knew all this, why the hell did you come here?”
Kacie smiled and took me by the arms, as if we needed to escape. She turned and gave an innocent smile toward Dimmel.
“To tell you the truth, I just wanted ten minutes in here. It’s far too warm outside.”
14
At around 2PM I sat in a dark room on the sixteenth floor of the federal building on Wilshire Boulevard. I had the temptation to open the blinds and a window, but decided against it when Kacie entered with a mug of coffee, sporting the FBI logo. I took my jacket off and wrapped it around the chair. I’d left my P230 in the glove box, to avoid embarrassment at the metal detectors downstairs.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Working,” Kacie said. “Or at lunch. We’re not all pen pushers.”
I took a sip of coffee and fumbled at my visitor’s pass. “No resistance to letting me in, then.”
“Nah. The Assistant Director couldn’t get those files to Miss Genius quick enough.”
“Seems she couldn’t read them quick enough. She was up till 2AM looking through them.”
Kacie nodded. “So, what’s her angle?”
