by Chris Carter
‘Let’s go then,’ Garcia said sounding eager.
‘Not now, he’s only around at night – are you busy tonight?’ Hunter said with a quick wink.
‘Are you asking me out on a date?’
It was Hunter’s turn to flip Garcia the middle finger.
Sixteen
George Slater left his office at the renowned Tale & Josh law firm at the usual time of six-thirty in the afternoon. His wife Catherine knew she wouldn’t be having dinner with him as it was Tuesday night, ‘poker night.’
George was an average-looking man. The kind that would never attract much attention in a crowd through looks alone, but no one could deny he was charming. Five foot nine with dark-brown eyes and hair to match, his impeccable dress sense had always managed to conceal his thin frame.
After leaving his office George sat listening to the radio news as he drove his luxurious M-Class off-roader Mercedes-Benz to a small rented apartment in Bell Gardens. He’d found the apartment over the internet and dealt directly with the owner avoiding the estate-agent middleman. In exchange for discretion, George had offered to pay the landlord cash – one whole year in advance.
Two copies of a hand-drafted agreement and a receipt for the amount paid were the only existing documentation of the transaction. No lengthy contracts, no traceable paperwork. Even the name on the contract was fictitious – Wayne Rogers. George took no chances. The property could not be traced back to him.
The apartment was located in a very quiet street just on the edge of Bell Gardens and that suited George just perfectly. It meant fewer people to witness him coming and going and the building’s underground garage offered him even more shelter from prying eyes.
The single-bedroom apartment wasn’t very spacious but it served its purpose. It certainly wasn’t luxuriously decorated. The entrance door opened straight into a small living room painted white. A three-seat black-leather sofa had been placed a little off the center of the room facing an empty wall. There was no TV set, no paintings, no rugs or carpet. In fact, apart from the sofa, the only other piece of furniture in the living room was a magazine holder. The kitchen was small and very clean. The cooker had never been used. The contents of the fridge were restricted to twelve bottles of beer, some chocolate bars and a carton of orange juice. The apartment wasn’t used for living in.
An en-suite double bedroom was located at the end of a small corridor. Inside it, an extravagant bed with a pompous iron-frame bedstead had been positioned against the wall directly opposite the door. To the left of the bed an all-mirrored-door wardrobe. The room had been fitted with a dimmer switch, or as George liked to call it – the mood switch. This was the most important room in the apartment.
George closed the door behind him, placed his briefcase on the floor next to the sofa and walked into the kitchen. After grabbing a beer from the fridge and twisting its top off he returned to the living room. The beer tasted ice-cold and it relaxed him on a desperately hot day. George drank half the bottle down before sinking himself into the sofa and grabbing his second cell phone from his briefcase. Very few people knew about his extra phone; his wife wasn’t one of them. George had one more sip of his cold beer before rereading the latest text message.
I’ll be with you around 9:15. Can’t wait to see you.
The message wasn’t signed, but there was no need. George, or Wayne as he was known, knew exactly who it was from – Rafael.
George had met the six-foot-one man of Puerto Rican descent through a male escort agency a year ago. At first their relationship was professional, but it soon developed into a forbidden affair. George knew Rafael had fallen in love with him and though his feelings for Rafael were very strong, he couldn’t call it love – at least not yet.
George checked the time – ten past eight. He had an hour before his lover was due to arrive. He finished his beer and decided to go for a shower.
As the water massaged his tired body, George fought a guilty feeling. He loved Catherine, and he loved making love to her on the few occasions he was allowed to. Maybe if they’d stayed in Alabama things would’ve been different, but LA had offered him something new. In today’s society being bisexual would be considered by some as quite normal, but certainly not by Catherine.
Catherine Slater was born Catherine Harris in Theodore, Alabama. Her upbringing by her excessively religious family had been very strict. She was an avid churchgoer, sometimes five to six times a week. Overbearing and opinionated, she firmly believed in no sex before marriage, and even then she believed sex shouldn’t be used as an instrument of carnal pleasure.
Catherine and George met during their freshman year of law school at Alabama State University. Both straight ‘A’ students, it didn’t take long for their classmate friendship to develop into an impossible, sexless romance. Blinded by his enormous desire to be with her, George asked for Catherine’s hand in marriage one month after their graduation.
Soon after their wedding George was offered a position with a very well-known law firm in Los Angeles, Tale & Josh. Catherine’s vision of Los Angeles was that of a degraded and violent city fueled by sex, drugs and greed, but after two months of discussions and promises she accepted that George’s job opportunity was too good to pass.
Catherine wasn’t bothered by the fact that her own professional future wasn’t involved in the move to Los Angeles. She’d never expected to be a career woman. Her parents had brought her up to be a good wife, to take care of her home, her children and her husband, and that was exactly what she wanted to do. She also believed George wouldn’t take to LA and after maybe a year or two he would grow tired of the ‘big city, bright lights’ lifestyle – she was wrong.
After winning his second case for his new law firm, George’s client invited him to a private party to celebrate the victory. Don’t bring your wife with you. You’ll have more fun on your own, if you know what I mean.
George was intrigued by the mysterious invitation. He gave Catherine the typical ‘working late’ excuse and turned up at a luxurious mansion in Beverly Hills. What he saw changed his life forever.
George’s only porn experience had been in high school. One of his friends had managed to get his hands on an old VHS movie and some adult magazines during a weekend when his parents were away. George had never forgotten it, but this was no movie, this was no acting. In one clean swoop George was introduced to BDSM, partner swapping, gloryholes, spanking, sex slavery, golden showers – things he’d never even dreamed of. He discovered a world he’d never thought existed outside adult books and sleazy films. Free sex, free drugs – a place where all his fantasies could come true, where his darkest sexual desires could be exposed with no guilt. It was there, inside the dungeon room of the luxurious mansion that George had had his first sexual experience with another man, and he’d loved it. After that, he couldn’t get enough of his new-found underground life. He loved the parties, the people, and the secrecy of it all.
George dried himself slowly before wrapping the towel around his waist. The anticipation of seeing Rafael again turned him on. In the kitchen he grabbed another beer and checked the wall clock – 8:45, not long now. He toyed with the idea of getting dressed again, but he enjoyed the excitement of greeting his lover with nothing on but a towel.
One thing they both enjoyed doing was role-playing and George had a story all worked out for tonight. In the bedroom he slid open one of the mirrored wardrobe doors to reveal an amazing variety of BDSM props – whips, chains, ropes, gags, leather straps, handcuffs, anything his imagination could come up with.
He carefully chose the toys he needed for his scenario and placed them on the bed, his excitement starting to show through his bath towel, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. He checked his watch – 8:53. He is early, George thought, maybe he’s as eager as I am.
George couldn’t conceal the satisfied smile that came to his lips as he opened the door.
‘Who’re you?’ His smile evaporated into a worried fr
own.
The answer came as a punch to the stomach, powerful and precise. George contorted in pain as the air drained from his lungs, his eyes wide open and terrified. Gasping for oxygen, he took one step back, but it wasn’t enough to avoid the second blow. This time a kick straight between his legs. As the intruder’s foot made contact with George’s genitals, he fell backwards, his bath towel dropping to the floor. George wanted to speak, to fight back, but he had no strength left.
The intruder calmly closed the apartment’s door and approached George’s contorted body on the floor. George couldn’t make any sense of what was happening. He gurgled, unable to breathe and his heart skipped a beat as he saw the syringe. With a quick arm movement the intruder plunged it into George’s neck and all of a sudden there was no more pain, no more struggle. Only darkness.
Seventeen
Chris Melrose had been working for the County Department of Coroner for the last three years. From a very young age Chris had been fascinated with death, with everything morbid. His initial plan was to become a forensic scientist, but his poor school grades kept him from getting a place at university.
Chris’s first job was as a jack-of-all-trades in a mortuary. His duties ranged from funeral arrangements to lining the inside of coffins and preparing bodies, but that just wasn’t enough. Chris wanted the life he’d always dreamed of. He wanted the blood-stained rags, the stainless-steel tables, the stinging and intoxicating smell of death. He wanted to work with bodies in their raw state, before they were cleaned up and made ready for the funeral. After applying for almost every lower-level position with the County Department of Coroner he was finally offered a job as a lab porter. His new duties included cleaning autopsy rooms, moving bodies to and from the cooling chambers and making sure that all equipment was clean and ready to be used. The medical examiners in the Coroner’s office had never seen anyone take so much pride in his work. Chris was in everyone’s good books. What he loved doing more than anything else was sitting in on autopsies. None of the examiners minded.
Chris’s night shift went from 7:30 p.m. to 7:30 a.m. He liked to take his first break just before midnight; it gave him a chance to light up a cigarette and have a quick banana, peanut-butter and honey sandwich.
Chris took a last drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt in the air and watched it produce a dim, yellow arc. He got up from the small bench he’d been sitting on, folded his empty plastic sandwich bag and started walking back towards the Coroner’s building. A cold hand grabbed his left shoulder.
‘Hi there, Chris!’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Chris jumped and turned to face the figure standing behind him, his heart halfway up his throat. ‘Are you crazy? You scared the fuck out of me.’
Mark Culhane gave Chris a rehearsed yellow smile.
‘If I had a gun, you could be dead right now. How do you get off on sneaking up on people like that?’ Chris asked placing a hand over his chest, his heart pounding against it.
‘I’m a detective, I love sneaking up on people,’ Culhane said with a new smile. ‘Besides, why the fuck would you carry a gun? Everyone you deal with is already dead.’
‘Everybody packs these days, this is LA remember? Anyway, I haven’t seen you for a while, what the hell do you want?’
Chris was in his early thirties, a few pounds overweight with straight dark-brown hair that he kept quite short. He had strange cat-like brown eyes, a reddish complexion and a prominent nose.
‘Oh, Chris, that’s no way to greet an old friend.’
Chris didn’t answer back. He simply raised his eyebrows waiting for Culhane to state his business.
‘I need to check whatever new entries you’ve had in the past few days,’ Culhane finally said.
‘By entries, you mean bodies?’
‘What else would I mean, smart ass?’
‘Why don’t you just put in a request, you’re a cop, aren’t you?’
‘This is a friend, not necessarily official business.’
‘A friend?’ Chris’s voice took a dubious tone.
‘Are you training to be a cop? What’s with all the goddamn questions? Just show me the bodies, will you?’
‘And if I told you I couldn’t do that because it’s against regulations?’
Culhane placed his right arm around Chris’s neck and pulled him closer. ‘Well, that would certainly piss me off, and I don’t think you’d wanna do that, do you?’
Silence.
Culhane tightened his grip.
‘OK . . . OK, I was going back in anyway,’ Chris said, lifting both hands.
‘Adda boy,’ Culhane said, letting go of the headlock.
They both walked back to the Coroner’s building in silence. One of the advantages of visiting Chris at this hour was that Culhane wouldn’t have to go in through the front door; the building would be a lot quieter, no badges needed to be shown, no papers to sign – less suspicion.
They reached the staff entrance door on the south side of the building and Chris punched a six-digit code into the electronic keypad. The thick metal door buzzed open.
‘Wait here, I’ll be right back,’ he said and quickly disappeared into the building leaving Culhane standing outside with a curious look on his face. Less than a minute later Chris re-emerged carrying a standard coroner’s white overall. ‘Put this on, it should fit. It’s the largest one I could find.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
The last thing Chris wanted was for anyone to find out he’d allowed a stranger into the building without signing in at the front desk, even if that stranger was a cop. He guided Culhane through the deserted lower-floor corridor, through a pair of heavy swing doors and up the staircase to the first floor. Culhane had walked these corridors more times than he cared to remember. It still made his stomach turn inside out. Culhane would never have admitted it, but he was glad he wasn’t alone. They reached the last room at the end of the hall.
After every autopsy, the bodies were brought to the cold-storage room, or as everyone in the Coroner’s office called it ‘the big chill.’ The room had enough freezer space on its west wall to store over fifty bodies. Culhane and the other detectives from the Narcotics division had their own name for that room – ‘the honeycomb of death.’
Chris locked the door behind him so they wouldn’t be interrupted and walked over to the computer desk at the far end of the room.
‘OK, let’s try an initial search . . . male or female?’ he asked wasting no time. The faster he got rid of Culhane the better.
‘Female.’
‘Is she white, black . . .?’
‘Caucasian, blond, blue eyes, slim and very attractive.’
Chris gave Culhane a coy smile. ‘OK, from what date would you like me to search from?’
‘Let’s try from last Friday.’
Chris instinctively looked at his watch. ‘That’d be . . . June 1st right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘OK.’ Chris typed in the information and hit the enter key. It took less than five seconds for the computer to return an answer.
‘Yep, we’ve got sixteen matches. Do you have a name?’
‘Yes, Jenny Farnborough, but I’m sure she won’t show up on your screen.’
Chris’s eyes quickly searched the list. ‘Nope, you’re right, she’s not on this list.’
‘Any unidentified female bodies?’
Chris checked the list once again. ‘Yep, we’ve got four.’
‘Let’s check them.’
After a few mouse clicks they had a printout. ‘OK, let’s go have a look,’ Chris said, walking towards the freezers. They stopped in front of the door marked C11, the first one on his list. It took them a little more than five minutes to go through the four unidentified bodies. Jenny Farnborough’s wasn’t one of them.
‘Are these all the bodies? I mean, is there another cold-storage room in the building?’ Culhane asked.
‘Yes, there’s another one in the basement
, but I have no access to it,’ Chris replied.
‘What do you mean, why not?’
‘It’s a sealed-off area.’
‘Why is there a sealed-off area in a Coroner’s?’
Chris was glad to offer an explanation to something an LA detective didn’t know. ‘Certain cases can still be too dangerous – radiation, poison victims, high risk of contamination – cases like that. In those circumstances, the autopsy is conducted in the sealed-off area by the chief medical examiner.’
‘And do you know if there’s a body down there at the moment?’
‘Doctor Winston was working on an autopsy in there until really late last night. The body has never come up to this room, so I’m pretty sure it’s still down there.’
‘But the body has to come up to the honeycomb right?’
‘Honeycomb?’ Chris frowned.
‘This room . . . the fridge.’ There was a hint of irritation in Culhane’s voice.
‘No, that room has its own storage area. The body can stay down there indefinitely.’ Chris’s answer added to the detective’s irritation.
‘Are you sure you can’t get me in that room?’
‘No chance, only Doctor Winston has the key and he keeps it on him at all times.’
‘Isn’t there a way around it?’
‘Not really. The door is alarmed and there is a camera on the wall. If you ain’t invited, you ain’t getting in.’
‘How many bodies are down there?’
‘Only one that I know of.’
‘Have you got a picture of the body or any records on your computer?’
‘No, Doctor Winston keeps everything related to the cases that go into the sealed-off area in there. They don’t even get added to the main database until they’re cleared by the doctor himself. Anyway, even if I had a picture of the body I don’t think it would help you.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Well, rumor has it the body’s unrecognizable, something to do with it having no face.’
