Still, they did nothing to help his investigation.
“But I’m guessing this little history lesson isn’t why you’re here,” Shatley said matter-of-factly, pushing back from the magnifying glass and disappearing into the other room.
Reed wasn’t sure how to respond to the statement, so he said nothing, waiting, listening as the floor in the opposite half of the building echoed with movement.
A moment later Shatley reappeared beside him, an oversized leather volume in hand. He slid the evidence bags to the side and lowered the book in their place, the light and magnifying glass both positioned above it.
“Let me guess,” Shatley said, looking up from the book and turning to face Reed. “You found these inside someone’s mouth, didn’t you?”
There was no stopping Reed’s jaw as it fell, a tremor of excitement passing through him. “How did you...?”
A knowing smile curled the corners of Shatley’s mouth as he returned his attention to the book. Open in front of them was a depiction of a painting, the image stretching across the two pages.
Reed forced his features back to neutral as he bent to take in the picture. It looked like a scene from a riverbank, people piling from the shore onto a ferry. At the back end of it was a muscled man with a pole, herding them forward.
“Have you ever heard of Charon?” Shatley asked without looking over.
“Karen?” Reed asked, his eyebrows coming together as he tried to place the name.
“No, Detective,” Shatley corrected, “not Karen the woman’s name, Charon the ancient Greek deity.”
Even using the new frame of reference, Reed drew a blank, trying in vain to grasp where the information was going.
“Greek mythology believed that the river Acheron separated the world of the living from the world of the dead. In order for souls to get across, they had to pay a toll to Charon, the boat man who ferried them there.
“Ancient burial practices dictated that proper fare, the obol, was placed into the mouth of the deceased to ensure they made it across.”
For the first time, bits of what Reed knew began to line up. It still did nothing to help him track the killer, but it gave a key piece of insight into the motivation behind the crimes. From there he might be able to work backward to get where he needed to be.
“And if they didn’t?” Reed asked.
“Legend dictated that the souls must wander the shores of Acheron for 100 years, their own form of purgatory, before being granted a ride across.”
Images from movies such as Boondock Saints and Troy came to Reed’s mind as he processed the information. The practice wasn’t common in modern society, but it wasn’t completely without precedent either.
“Tell me,” Reed asked, “in your opinion, why would a killer be placing these in the mouths of his victims?”
It was generally bad form to divulge information to someone not affiliated with law enforcement, though after three bodies in as many nights, Reed wasn’t overly concerned with protocol. He now had an evidence expert in front of him, free of any outside pressures, and wanted an unbiased opinion before leaving.
Shatley stood back, crossing his arms over his chest, his lips pursed in thought.
“As I numismatic, I can’t think of one,” Shatley said. “What you’re looking at there are some of the most sought-after coins from antiquity.”
He paused long enough that Reed got the hint he would like first crack at them if they ever became available.
“After that? My guess would be, whoever did this wanted to make sure his victims made their way straight to Hell the moment he was done with them.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The final declaration from Shatley rattled through Reed’s mind as he reversed course and headed back to the coroner’s office. It bounced from one side to the next, fitting with one mental image after another, each twisting his stomach a little tighter.
Since seeing the first crime scene, Reed had been certain that the killer was out for some sort of vengeance. The crimes were too well-planned, too graphic in nature, for there not to be a personal angle to them.
Hearing that the end goal, though, was to ensure the victims ended up on the right side of the river, residents of Hell, itself, made things much worse. It told him the end was the ultimate goal, and while thus far, the means had been limited to only the targets, there was nothing to say that it wouldn’t change if necessary.
Reed was looking at a vendetta killer, and in his limited experience with them, he had found that they never just stopped on their own.
They had to be stopped.
The parking lot of the coroner’s office was half-full as Reed pulled in, remaining in the back row and letting Billie out for a few minutes. Once she was done and resumed her place in the backseat, he headed inside, fast becoming a familiar face, needing only to toss a wave to the girl working the front desk before passing into the elevator.
Halfway down the basement hall a flash of white caught his attention, a sheet of paper affixed to the door of Solomon’s office, a single thumbtack holding it in place.
Detective Mattox – Please meet me in the lab.
Reed left it in place and made his way to the end of the hall, hanging a left before pushing his way through the metal double doors.
The faint smell of formaldehyde touched Reed’s nose as he stepped in, the ambient temperature dropping 15 degrees compared to the hall outside. The sound of classical music was in the air, low, coming from a speaker in the corner of the room.
“Afternoon, Detective,” Solomon said from her post, smack in the center of the space. She wore a full examination gown and apron as she looked up at him, a plastic shield pulled down over her face. Bits of bone dust and blood spatter dotted her outfit.
Beside her was an older woman, her entire torso splayed open in the standard Y-cut, the flaps pulled back. Most of her internal organs had been removed, her rib cage resembling an empty cavern.
“Afternoon, Doctor,” Reed replied, stopping a few feet away from the macabre scene, his hands thrust into his pockets. “Thank you for giving me the heads up this morning about the obols. It helped.”
An eyebrow arched behind the mask as Solomon looked up at him. “Obols?”
“Sorry,” Reed said, his mouth turning up in a half smile. “That’s what the guy I met with this afternoon kept calling them, kind of stuck.”
“Ahh,” Solomon said, nodding as if in acceptance of his explanation. “By obols I’m guessing you mean fare for the ferry man?”
A spark of surprise passed through Reed as his eyebrows rose higher. Until a few hours ago he had never heard the word obol, had no idea that they were placed inside mouths.
Now, the last two people he had spoken with seemed to be experts in ancient Greek rituals.
“Very same,” Reed confirmed. “Seems whoever is doing this wants to be sure these guys stay gone.”
On the opposite side of the stainless steel examination table, Solomon flipped off her headlamp, making little difference with the enormous spotlight aimed down from the ceiling. She peeled the lamp from her head and laid it on the utensil tray beside her, removing the mask and doing the same.
“Sorry about asking you to meet me in here today,” she said, snapping off her gloves and depositing them in the hazardous waste container along the wall.
“Not a problem,” Reed said, shaking his head. Compared to what he’d seen the last few nights, the lab seemed downright tame. “I imagine you’re getting behind with all these rush jobs we keep sending your way.”
“True,” Solomon said, the statement coming out flat and direct, “but that’s not why I asked you to meet me here. I think there’s something else you should see.”
She motioned with a finger for him to follow her, walking across the room to a row of tables matching the one being used for the autopsy nearby. The first two in line sat empty, nothing but bare polished steel.
On the third was a large surgical towel, the l
ower half of three different arms laid out in a line.
The trio ranged in size and shape, each one starting a couple inches below the elbow. They were positioned palm-down on the towel, their chalky skin seeming extra pale beneath the overhead glare.
It took only a moment for Reed to identify all three.
“All the general stuff is in the file,” Solomon said. “A copy is in my office for you when you go.”
She said it in a manner that indicated it was more of the same, the cause of death and weapon consistent with the previous nights.
“But this, I thought you might want to see for yourself. It may be nothing more than a complete fluke, but it might not be,” Solomon said, starting with the arm of Durell.
She turned it over, pointing at the pale underbelly. “Anything jump out at you there?”
The lower part of the arm had been cut clean from the upper half with a single slice, as with the prior victims, the nub ends of the ulna and radius bones visible in the center of the pink flesh.
Unlike the others though, a second cut had been made in the flesh just before the severed end, a diagonal slash that removed most of the skin and meat clear to the bone.
“Huh,” Reed managed, looking at the wound, trying to make sense of it. “Did the first one not go clear through?”
“Oh, no,” Solomon said. “It more than finished the job. This one was for pure cosmetics.”
“Cosmetics?” Reed heard himself ask before even realizing it, a look of confusion on his face.
“Yes,” Solomon said, her voice betraying nothing. “Like the others, this limb was removed posthumously. However, I think something happened that made him miss his target.”
There was a slight trace of satisfaction that crossed Solomon’s face, the tiniest indication that she was enjoying having the upper hand, drawing out her find. Reed contemplated prompting her to jump ahead to the end but decided against it, choosing to let her have her moment.
She was too professional to prolong things forever. She also worked underground and needed the chance at recognition whenever it presented itself.
Reed knew the feeling.
Leaving the arm of Durell palm up, Solomon moved on, turning over the arm of Wright.
“We didn’t pick it up yesterday because Wright’s pit bull chewed away so much of the meat around the lower arm that there was nothing left to see.”
The three inches beneath the severed end had been chewed away to almost nothing, the tissue left behind a gelatinous mess that resembled the last bit of meat on a ham bone. Dirt and dried saliva coated everything, the end result of a meal interrupted.
“But when I took a look at Mr. Mentor’s arm, it made sense,” Solomon said. She flipped the third hand over with a bit of a flourish and stepped aside, allowing Reed to take a closer look.
The cut had been made diagonally, the weapon sheering the skin in a clean line.
Sticking out the bottom of it was a tattoo, the lower half of it visible.
“Is that...?” Reed asked, feeling his pulse tick upward, sweat flushing his back despite the cool temperature in the room. He twisted his body for a better view, the black ink plain against the pale skin.
“I don’t know what it is,” Solomon said, “but I think it might be the link between your victims. The killer seems to be making a point of crossing out that image, whatever it may be.”
For three days the victims had been coming in so fast, Reed had not had the time to work proper victimology on them. Now, he might not need to, the killer finally tipping his hand.
All moisture was gone from Reed’s mouth as he stared at the image, quite certain he couldn’t remember seeing it before, though with only half of it present there was no way to be sure.
“We have the other half on ice in here, right?” Reed asked without looking over at Solomon.
“Already took pictures,” Solomon said, her voice back to normal, her moment of triumph gone. “They’re in the file on my desk. Door is unlocked.”
Chapter Thirty
The Boat Man felt naked.
Despite having spent the previous months observing from afar, unarmed in his pursuits, since tasting the pleasure of carrying the sword with him, he had grown attached to having it on hand. It served both as a sense of power, feeding off the fear of those who saw him with it, and as a reminder for why he was out here.
There were only a few left to go, and he needed that reminder now more than ever. He craved that connection, both to the power and to the past.
“Get you anything else?” the waitress asked as she stopped at his table, one hand pressed into her hip, the other holding a pitcher of coffee at shoulder level. Her gaze bore into him as she asked, almost daring him to say yes, her body language already leaning toward the next table in line.
“No, thanks,” the Boat Man said, forcing a nervous smile into place. He looked down at the last smears of a slice of cherry cheesecake on his plate, the final dregs of coffee in his mug.
Both had been dreadful, the mere thought of forcing any more down repulsive.
“Just the check, please.”
The waitress nodded, seeming to approve of his choice, turning on the ball of her foot, stringy blonde hair spinning around behind her. The Boat Man waited until she was gone before leaning back in the booth, his attention fixed on the vacant gas station across the street.
The few other cars that had congregated there for the evening left about a half hour before, leaving the same two as the last to leave, per usual. Bile rose in the back of the Boat Man’s throat as he sat and stared at them, their respective owners leaning against the front hoods, self-assuredness rolling off of them.
After everything that had occurred, the destruction that he had wrought, these two should be concerned at the least, scared shitless at worst. They had to have figured out what was happening, that it was only a matter of time before their turn came.
The fact that they must have known and still didn’t seem to care, galled the Boat Man, his knuckles showing white as he clenched his fist. The way they were behaving meant they either didn’t respect him or were trying to bait him, both of which would be grave errors on their part.
“I’ll be your cashier whenever you’re ready,” the waitress said, slapping the check down on his table without breaking stride.
The Boat Man looked over as she passed, catching nothing more than the clicking of heels and the whiff of Aqua Net.
He glanced down once at the total circled at the bottom, without moving to pull it close or extract his wallet. Instead, he shifted his attention back to the window, watching the pair as they lounged, both taking the occasional pull from bottles wrapped in brown paper bags.
Had Mason Durell’s body not given one last gasp of life, had his corpse not contorted itself at the most inopportune moment, the Boat Man would now be crouched low in the shadows across the street. The young men, both of them, would be such easy targets, he would be on them and gone before either one knew what happened.
Nothing more than a pair of chalk outlines on the sidewalk, two more promises in a vow fulfilled.
The thought brought a smile to the Boat Man’s face as he stared, every detail about them both, the scene, the cars they drove, already committed to memory. For the first time all night, he almost appreciated what had happened to his sword, forcing him to slow down, to enjoy what he was accomplishing.
For three nights in a row he had terrorized the streets of The Bottoms, and nobody, from the cops to his targets, had the slightest idea who or what they were looking for. He had done such a masterful job that even now, many believed he didn’t exist, the next pair on his list leaving themselves exposed in the open.
Doing the math in his head, the Boat Man counted out the money for the bill, adding exactly twenty percent to it. The food and the service had both been abysmal, but it was imperative that nobody remember a single thing about him, even something as innocuous as a tip too far one direction or the other. It had been h
is first and last trip into the diner, there being no reason to make it memorable for a soul inside.
The Boat Man slid from the booth and stepped into the cold night air, giving one last look at the vacant station before turning away and walking off into the night. The smile returned to his face as he went, his body tingling with the sensation of impending action.
Enjoyment was never the goal, far from it in fact. Now that it was here, though, it felt wrong to turn away.
She would have wanted it that way.
Chapter Thirty-One
“You back on the night shift already, Honey?” Jackie asked, looking up from her magazine, her pink lips pursed in front of her.
Reed paused at the top of the stairs, his body turned to keep her from seeing his eyes pressed closed. The last thing he wanted was a lengthy conversation, the very reason he waited until after the third shift changed on to come in.
“Naw,” Reed said, “just following up on a few leads. Easier to use the computers at night when the place is empty.”
Billie stood beside him, looking between him and Jackie, unsure if she should approach the desk on the far end of the room or remain in place. She seemed to sense from Reed’s body language he had no interest in moving, her rib cage pressed against his calf.
“That’s true,” Jackie said, nodding in agreement. “You just missed Ike and Bishop. Should have the place to yourself until morning.”
“Great, thanks,” Reed said, glad he hadn’t crossed paths with Iaconelli and his Marfan-afflicted sidekick. He paused long enough to see her raise the magazine back up, the image of Brangelina splashed across the cover, before turning and heading to his desk in the corner.
On the seat of his chair was a single brown folder, so thin no more than a few sheets of paper could be inside. Without unloading anything, he picked it up and thumbed through, the top sheet, a computer-generated drawing of the man Hank Winters had seen the night before.
The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 11
