The Body Counter

by Anne Frasier

  “You don’t know anything about Fibonacci, do you?” the professor asked when his information failed to impress her.

  “No.”

  “Fibonacci’s real name was Leonardo Pisano.”

  She might have let out a small gasp, giving him the reaction he’d been hoping for. Leonardo Pisano. She pulled out her phone and Googled the name Leo Pisa. Several articles popped up. It seemed Pisa was famous in underground circles for orchestrating elaborate performance art, some of which had to do with numbers. One of the articles had a photo attached. It was a face she recognized.

  “I have to go.” Jude scrambled to her feet.

  “Was that helpful?”

  “Yes. Very.” She was sharply focused now. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “One more thing. Leo is the person I was trying to remember when you were here before. I saw him at Dark Soul not too long ago. He stopped at my table and talked to me. I think he was with the blond girl in the photo.”

  Dark Soul. That sounded familiar, and then she remembered stopping in front of the coffee shop when she and Uriah were interviewing people after the theater murder. Killers were known to return to the scene of the crime. And they might even stop for coffee.

  Had the professor just solved the case? If so, she’d bring him a giant box of tea bags shaped like pyramids.

  “Thank you.”

  Outside the professor’s apartment building, Jude called Uriah to tell him about Leo Pisa. No answer. He’d probably set his phone on “Do Not Disturb” for his Crisis Center interview.

  After leaving an urgent voicemail, she straddled her bike, tucked in the hem of her dress, and tugged on her helmet. Easing her bike around, she squeezed the clutch, shifted into first gear with her foot, and roared down the street.

  CHAPTER 45

  The cat sat in the middle of the floor, watching her. What was it with him and all that staring? Iris didn’t think he even liked people. He and his owner were just too weird.

  “Are you hungry?” she whispered hoarsely.

  The cat didn’t blink. It was bizarre the way the cat and Jude were so silent. Iris had caught the detective staring at her a few times, and it had made her scalp tingle. She suspected something. Iris was sure of it. That was probably why she’d invited Iris to stay at her place. So she could keep an eye on her and maybe crack her. Neither of them were idiots. Iris should have refused, but she was scared. And Jude made her feel safe.

  Iris picked up her phone. She was never supposed to call Leo with her personal phone. He’d gotten disposable burners for that, and she’d been warned about leaving any kind of clue or trail. “Never use your phone,” he’d said. “That’s how people get caught.” But she knew his main number. And it was so tempting . . .

  She’d done it for him, for his approval. Hoping he would finally like her more than he liked Clementine. It had been fun at first, the game, the performances. The idea of revenge had been particularly appealing, because she hated her parents for not believing her and for calling her a liar. And she loathed her brother for molesting her. And yet the night of the murders she’d changed her mind—but it had been too late. She’d already unlocked the front door and let them inside. And now that her family was dead, she missed her mother and father. But not her brother. No way would she ever miss him. Still, it had stopped feeling like a game the night they died. The night she almost died with them. They’d tried to kill her! Her tribe, her friends. So why was she thinking of calling Leo?

  She touched the bandage on her throat. She’d always have a scar, and her voice would probably never sound the same, but she hadn’t betrayed him. She hadn’t betrayed any of them.

  She didn’t call. Instead, she began playing a game on her phone. A few minutes later, she heard a light tap at the door and froze. The knock sounded again. This time it was followed by a whisper. “It’s me. Let me in.”

  Iris’s heart pounded. She glanced around the room, looking for a place to hide. But she was safe here, right? With the door locked a million times?

  “I’m sorry,” came Clementine’s voice through the crack in the door. “Leo made me do it. I was afraid if I didn’t, he’d hurt me too. I’m so sorry.”

  So Clementine had sliced her throat . . .

  “I came to see you at the hospital,” she said. “But you were leaving with the detective, so I hid.”

  Iris and Clementine had met at the shelter. Iris had been playing homeless, but Clementine was the real deal.

  “I have pizza,” Clementine said. “Mushroom and pineapple, your favorite. Please let me in. I need to see you. I hope you’re okay.” She let out a sob.

  Iris believed her about Leo. He was so charming and hot. He could convince anybody to do anything. She’d seen it. Even when she knew he was manipulating her, she’d allowed him to. And had even asked for more.

  She uncurled herself from the sofa, checked the peephole, and unbolted the door, all but the chain lock.

  Clementine was holding a pizza box with both hands. Dark floral dress and black sneakers, her hair braided and wrapped around her head, a colorful headband over that. She did “cute” so well. On the floor next to her feet was a six-pack of beer.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated. There were tears on her cheeks, but Iris knew what an actress she was. Clementine was the worst of the bunch—or maybe it just seemed that way because she looked so innocent. The campers at the river. That had been so easy. She’d approached them and asked for help. And while they’d talked to her, comforted her, the rest of the gang had done their job in a few quick slices.

  “I need to talk to you about Leo,” Clementine said. “We need to do something. Stop him. Maybe go to the cops. I don’t know how I got sucked into this, and I don’t know how to get out of it.”

  Her words connected. “I know.” Iris felt the same way, and once or twice she’d actually considered confessing to Jude. But she didn’t unlock the door. “I can’t let you in,” she whispered. She didn’t bother to tell her that she couldn’t eat solid food.

  “That’s okay. I get it. I don’t blame you. Look, I’ll leave the pizza right here.” She put it on the floor and backed away. “If you feel like talking, call me.” She turned around, hand on the stair railing.

  Iris felt so alone. She had nobody now. “Wait.” She slid the chain free and opened the door.

  CHAPTER 46

  Jude came to a sharp halt in front of the downtown Saint Paul public-television building, where the telethon was being held. Behind her, the light-rail train chimed as it pulled to a stop. Doors opened and people exited to the sidewalk. Once the telethon was over, volunteers could either walk the half mile to the gala at Union Depot or take the train.

  She set the kickstand and swung her leg free. Not bothering with the meter, she hurried through the glass doors of the broadcast center. The guard behind the check-in desk eyed her with suspicion.

  “I’m here to answer calls for the telethon,” she said. “Jude Fontaine.”

  Her words did nothing to alleviate his doubt. Maybe it was the leather jacket over the evening gown. Without waiting for an okay, Jude headed down the corridor that led to the studio. The hall was dim, and the light above one of the doors said On Air. A wall of glass revealed Uriah, dressed in a black tuxedo, sitting on a stool, heels of his shoes locked on a rung, hands clasped between his knees, sweating under the stage lights hanging from the black industrial ceiling. Next to him was the head of the Crisis Center. Her lips were moving with words Jude couldn’t hear.

  The stage where Uriah sat was to the left of two rows of tables and beige telephones. Only one seat at the back was empty.

  Speaking into a receiver was the crime-scene-cleanup guy. One of the many volunteers answering the pledge-drive calls. A man also known as Leo Pisa.

  He spotted her through the glass. His eyes widened in recognition, and he gave her a small wave. He wore a black jacket over a black turtleneck, and his dark wavy hair looked like something from a men’s fashion maga
zine. Jude motioned for him to join her outside the studio. He shook his head and pointed to the telephone receiver in his hand. She’d hoped to coax him from the crowded room and away from the others. Ignoring the On Air light, she eased the door open and slipped inside. Ducking under a camera, she aimed for the empty chair.

  Uriah spotted her and did a double take, then watched her with a slightly smitten expression. The interviewer repeated her question, and Uriah pulled his eyes from Jude.

  The conversation dealt with the suicide survivor’s perspective. “I don’t know if it’s anything you get over,” he said. “We need to educate families, but I also think we need to do something for the people left behind. Because they have to live with the guilt every single day.”

  The room was cramped, and Jude squeezed and sidestepped behind people to take the empty spot, placing her helmet and bag on the table, leaving one person between her seat and Pisa’s. She had to remind herself that she had no proof of his guilt. Right now he was only a person of interest. Great interest. But if what the professor had related was true—Pisa’s connection to the blond girl, the essay, his infatuation with the Fibonacci sequence, his name, the performance art—it made him a prime suspect.

  The incessantly ringing phones, the combined voices of the volunteers, the interview going on yards away were a sensory overload that made it hard to focus, and Jude struggled to keep a subtle eye on Pisa. Three calls and two hundred raised dollars later, she caught a shift of movement as he got to his feet and began edging his way behind the occupied chairs. Now that Pisa was standing, she saw he was dressed in black from head to toe. Like the people in the murky security-camera footage from the house near the Roth crime scene.

  Restroom, he mouthed, pointing to the exit door.

  She’d blown it with her signal for him to meet her outside the studio. He knew she knew something, and he was getting ready to bolt.

  CHAPTER 47

  Clementine sneezed. “Is there a cat in here? I’m allergic to cats.”

  Good thing the animal was hiding somewhere. “Don’t hurt him,” Iris said. Due to her liquid diet, she’d finished two bottles of beer while Clementine had eaten three pieces of pizza.

  The blond girl prowled around, searching for the cat, but paused in front of the refrigerator and opened the door. “I always wondered what a detective’s place would be like. Didn’t imagine a dump like this.” She swiveled on her heel. “We should look through all her shit.”

  “Detective Fontaine’s?” Iris let out a snort, then put her hand to her throat. It hurt, and she hoped the pill she’d taken would kick in soon. “I don’t think there’s anything to see. She’s like a monk or a nun or something,” she whispered. “She doesn’t even have a TV.”

  They both plopped back down on the couch. “You should let me braid your hair like mine,” Clementine said.

  Iris liked that idea, and slid to the floor between her friend’s knees. Clementine finger-combed her hair, dividing it into three strands. “I could do a French braid.”

  Iris nodded and closed her eyes. The medication was hitting her. She hardly noticed when the braiding stopped. She didn’t even open her eyes. Instead, she sat in a comfortable half doze. She was so sleepy that at first she didn’t understand what was happening when she felt pressure against the gauze bandage. A sharp pain jerked her to full attention.

  Too late.

  The next sensation was one of warmth soaking into the neckline of her dress. She tried to speak, but no sound came out this time.

  It had been easy to fall in with them, as her mother had always put such things. “You’re running with a bad crowd. You’ve fallen in with the wrong people.” Wrong usually meaning people who weren’t rich, or people who might not always know the correct grammar. But Leo Pisa was well educated and one of the smartest people Iris had ever known.

  Clementine leaned over her, a gentle smile on her pink lips while she held the bloody knife for Iris to see. It might have been the same knife Iris had used on the woman in the burned-out mansion. “You were never one of us,” Clementine said. “You could never be one of us.” She kissed Iris on the forehead and laughed.

  CHAPTER 48

  Bracing her gun with both hands, Jude said in a clear voice, “On the floor.”

  People gasped while Pisa slowly raised his arms in the air, an innocent look of surprise on his face. “What’s going on?”

  “Floor!” she repeated.

  In her peripheral vision, she caught a movement, followed by the sound of Uriah speaking her name. He had left the interview platform and was standing a couple of feet behind her. She didn’t waver and didn’t take her eyes from the suspect.

  “What’s this about?” Pisa asked again. He looked so concerned she began to doubt herself. This all hinged on information garnered from a man who thought he taught at the University of Minnesota when he really didn’t. A very unreliable witness.

  “You’re a suspect in the Fibonacci murders,” she stated. Go big or go home.

  “That’s insane.” He cast a look around the room, searching for a sympathetic face. He found several. “She’s crazy.”

  “The floor.”

  He eased to his knees.

  “Hands behind your head.”

  “He’s a respected member of the community,” the director shouted. Then, “Turn off the cameras! Turn off the cameras!”

  “My father was a respected member of the community too,” Jude said.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Pisa told her. “I’m here to help people.”

  Someone hiding nearby decided to play hero. He latched on to Jude’s ankle and gave it a firm tug, knocking her off balance. She caught herself, but wasn’t fast enough. Pisa jumped to his feet, pulling a handgun from his jacket.

  Had this been his plan all along? Performance art, played out on live TV? And how had she missed the signs at the Roth crime scene? She’d talked to him face-to-face. But then, psychopaths didn’t feel guilt, and guilt was the thing that gave people away.

  With one hand, he seized a woman by the hair and pulled her close. A human shield. With the other hand and with no hesitation, he began firing his automatic pistol, spent shells flying.

  People screamed, glass shattered, blood spattered against white walls. In the fresh chaos, he shoved the woman away, turned, and ran from the room. Jude moved through the scattered tables, leaping over bodies, never taking her eye off the exit door. Unattended cameras were still capturing the scene.

  Uriah caught up with her. Blood trailed down the side of his face. “Call for ambulances and backup,” he shouted. Someone scrambled and reached for a phone, but sirens were wailing in the distance. The police already knew. The madness had been witnessed on live television throughout the Twin Cities.

  Jude and Uriah ran down the hall, past the guard, who was slumped over his desk, a pool of blood at his feet. With no hesitation, Jude burst outside, halting long enough to scan the area. The light-rail train was at the station, no sign of Pisa.

  Jude took off again, arms pumping. She squeezed inside the last car as the door closed behind her, leaving Uriah on the sidewalk. With her gun held high and legs braced to steady herself against the shifting movement of the train, she ignored the frightened faces of people on each side and zeroed in on Pisa, who stood at the front of the car.

  She could certainly read him now. He was trying to formulate an escape plan. A hostage was his only hope, and that hope was slim. The nearest possibilities were a frail-looking man, a child, or a young woman. None of them would put up a fight, but the child would be the easiest. He could carry her with one arm, use her for a shield. That’s what Jude would do if she were him.

  “Put the gun down,” she said. “There’s no way out. Transit police and Homeland Security have been alerted.” Protocol. “A SWAT team will be waiting at the next stop.”

  Her focus was narrow, yet she noted a gradual increase in the train’s speed until it was traveling much faster than normal. The spe
ed didn’t seem to register with Pisa. He looked at the child, then back at Jude. She wanted to tell the little girl to run, but her command could push Pisa too far and he might react the way he’d reacted back at the studio. “There’s no death penalty in Minnesota,” she told him, her voice level and clear. “Give yourself up. You can live out your life in relative comfort. It’s not the end. You don’t have to die. And if you confess, you’ll be given privileges.”

  “I’d rather die than go to prison. Living my life in a cell. You should understand that.” He was winding up, his voice rising, indicating that a total loss of control could be near.

  “I do understand.” She needed to calm him down, distract him, so she changed the narrative, deciding to flatter him. Performers loved applause. “I have to say, cleaning up your own crimes was genius. If any clues were left behind, you could make sure they were never reported. And arriving so early at the Roth house, before we were done. Smart too. But I’d like to know why you went into crime-scene cleanup in the first place. I’m guessing it started with a death.” That comment registered with him. “A lot of major life changes are driven by triggers,” she said. “Our desire to correct something. A do-over. Often the trigger is loss.” Her tone was one of compassion. “Is that it? Did you lose somebody close to you?”

  “My mother died at home,” he told her. His voice trembled a little, but it wasn’t as high as it had been. “It was an unattended death and I didn’t discover her for almost a week.”

  He was lying about something, sharing a half truth. Had he killed her himself? That would fit. Was his mother the reason he’d dropped out of college and was unable to continue pursuing his degree?

  “It was hard to find someone to come in and clean up, and when I did, they weren’t very nice.”

  “Did you have to take care of her? Before her death?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Even psychopaths could love, or at least had their own private and twisted version of love. And once they’d experienced the death of someone close to them, some tried to avoid reminders. Others welcomed and even created them.