by E. E. Giorgi
“She was buying specimens from Chromo?”
I nodded. “Specimens she needed for the leukemia study. Whether they really existed or not, they had to be delivered in a cryogenic tank. She was attacked, the tank broke—probably shattered by a bullet—hence the glass shards and perlite.”
“What kind of specimens can be stored in a cryogenic tank?”
“My question precisely, Sat.”
“We can brood on our way to the morgue.”
I groaned. Something I was not looking forward to. I dropped my hand on Amit’s shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
“What do you want me to do with all those e-mails?” Amit asked.
“Print them. All of them, and have them delivered to our squad room.”
“Will do.”
“What e-mails?” Satish asked.
“Huxley’s. The only thing Cox didn’t think of encrypting. Amit’s decrypting software is still running on the machine, trying about one million keys per minute. Turns out, even at that rate infinitely many possibilities is an awful lot to cover.”
* * *
“Well, you certainly don’t see something like this every day.” Garbed in blue surgical mask, protective glasses, surgical scrubs, and nitrile gloves, medical examiner Dr. Ellis stared at the corpse in front of him. Nathan Kim—age twenty-six, laboratory technician II, found dead on the Chromo premises among a bunch of raving monkeys—lay naked and completely deprived of dignity on the autopsy table. A medical assistant—anonymous eyes framed by the lower rim of the cap and the upper one of the facemask—held a surgical gown for me to don. I grimaced, the reek of formalin closing a knot around my stomach.
“Would you rather bring a souvenir of the vic home, graciously pinned to your tie?” Satish quipped. I inserted my arms through the sleeves, let the assistant tie the gown behind my back, and then watched him repeat the procedure with Satish.
The smell of fresh blood is enticing. It’s life, warmth, excitement. The morgue, though, smells of old blood, of cold flesh stored in refrigerated chambers. It smells of death. AC vents blow down from the high ceiling onto the autopsy tables, yet they never wash off the reek that saturates the air. The walls are lined with stainless steel countertops, sinks, and dimly lit view-boxes, black and white X-rays of dented bones clipped to the glass.
Nathan Kim was not a pleasant sight. Round, blood-filled boils covered his face and body, the largest of which sat precariously at the right corner of his mouth. His lips and eyelids were swollen, and his hands looked like blown-up gloves. I pulled up the facemask, secured it behind my ears, and surrendered to the morbidity of the procedure.
“Hemorrhagic cutaneous abscesses present all over the subject, most numerous on the face, arms, and chest,” Ellis noted, as the assistant held a recorder close to his face. The medical examiner poked the boil on the mouth, bled it on a small pad, and then stored the sample in a plastic bag, which he tossed on a cart with all other evidence collected from the body: swabs, hair, nail trimmings—all souvenirs to be later delivered to the lab. Ellis then focused on the one and only wound found on the corpse: two symmetrical arches marked Kim’s left shoulder, the lines slightly jagged, and the tips darker, where sharp incisors had sunk deeper into the flesh.
“Circular erythema, four-point-two centimeters in diameter, surrounds the bite wound and the contusion area on the subject’s left upper arm,” he dictated to the recorder. “This over here,” he then translated for our benefit, circling his finger over the ring-shaped rash around the bite marks, “indicates a subsequent infection.”
“Is it common after a monkey bite?” Satish asked.
Ellis looked at the body in front of him. “The subject shows clear signs of angioedema—see how his face and hands are swollen? The scenario described by the paramedics performing the CPR is consistent with vasodilation of arterioles and constriction of bronchioles. Of course, it doesn’t mean much until we cut him open and take a peek inside, but everything we have so far seems to indicate our subject died of anaphylactic shock.”
“An allergic reaction to the monkey bite.”
“One would certainly think so, Track. Except, here’s the puzzle: according to the records we have from Chromo, all employees having contact with the animals are tested for possible allergies. Kim was not allergic to macaques’ fur or saliva, or else he couldn’t have held the position he had.”
Ellis rolled the corpse so we could take a better look at his shoulder. “What puzzles me when I look at this trauma, is the spread and redness of the rash around the bite: it would be more consistent with an infection rather than anaphylaxis.”
“Would an infection explain the boils, then?” I asked.
The M.E. sighed—a cue he didn’t have an answer. He turned to the stainless steel tray by the table and let his fingers waver over the neatly arranged scalpels and dissecting knives. “You’ll have my report by tonight,” he said, placing the blade of choice below the corpse’s right clavicle. “My guess right now? Whichever monkey bit this young fellow passed him a deadly disease.”
* * *
I turned on the faucet and splashed chilled water in my face. It did not wash off the butcher warehouse smell stuck to my palate, or the gripping sound of the Stryker saw. When I returned to the autopsy room, red froth had collected between the corpse’s legs and trickled down the drain at the bottom of the table. A bloody heart had been casually flopped on the scale and its weight and color recorded on the log. One by one, Kim’s organs took a turn on the scale. At the end of the carousel we had a verdict on Kim’s death: “The right and left lungs, 550 and 580 grams respectively, show sign of massive edema in the bronchial mucosa resulting in bronchoconstriction. Swelling with diffuse petechiae hemorrhage is noted in the brain.”
Ellis placed sections of the victim’s lungs and pharynges on a metal tray. “I’m sending these to Histology: I want them to test for IgE antibodies and mast cells. My money so far goes on anaphylactic shock. As for what caused it—” He handed the tray to the assistant. “—you guys will have to wait for the tox results.”
Everything else in Nathan Kim’s body was unremarkable. A weird concept, which seems to imply that only strange and out of the ordinary things are worth medical attention. Health is dull. But red boils, golf-ball sized tumors, or a face as green as a British lawn will have the meds jumping up and down in excitement.
“A healthy young man,” Ellis noted, wrapping up his examination. “His colon is as shiny and smooth as a baby’s.”
“I’m sure his mom will be thrilled to hear it,” Satish said.
“Somebody should mention it over the eulogy,” I added.
Neither of us smiled.
The biting monkey had been identified through the dental marks left on Kim’s shoulder, and the necropsy scheduled for the afternoon.
Gray skies and a fine drizzle welcomed us outside, casting the usual views of downtown under a drape of gloom. It shadowed the intertwining highway ramps and the rows of skinny palm trees whose frazzled tops drew sinuous lines in the sky. It blanketed the plain-looking buildings and the colorful strips of murals, the parking lots where bums pushed their junk-filled carts, and the sidewalks where teenagers with pants barely hanging to their butts showed off their monkey walk. Tiny drops of humidity clung to my face and hair as we walked back to our car.
Satish checked his watch. “Twelve-thirty. An hour most of the world associates with lunch.”
I unlocked my Dodge. “I’m in a different time zone today.”
Satish nodded and slid inside the vehicle. Autopsies are unkind to the toughest stomachs. My phone rang as I jammed the key into the ignition.
“Track. Where the hell are you? I’ve been waiting here at Annie’s since noon.”
“Oscar!” I’d completely forgotten about my lunch meeting with Detective Oscar Guerra. “Damn it, don’t move. I’ll be right over,” I tossed the phone onto Satish’s lap and swerved into the street.
Satish groaned. “Thank y
ou, Track. I already felt like puking, I didn’t need the extra help.”
* * *
“Okay, gringo. Tell me what this is about.”
I chuckled. “I’m no gringo, pal. This is home.”
Guerra downed a good swig from his schooner, which he had ordered with a wink and a heartfelt “Hell, it’s not like I’m going back to work after lunch,” and laughed. “Uh-uh, bro. We were here first. You”—he pointed at me as a representative of a whole class of American invaders—“are gringo.”
Oscar Guerra—a sun-burnt face with shrewd eyes and a broad grin—was as American as I was but never forgot his Mexican origins. A face on which time had chiseled the furrows that come from embracing life in full: ten years in the military, thirteen as a cop, a couple of narrowly escaped shootouts, and hours of horseback riding at his family ranch in Oaxaca. He had a few exes and three or four children probably all with different spouses, something he had once commented with a rowdy, “What the hell, I’m fifty-eight!”
I’d dropped Satish off at the Glass House and then joined Oscar at his favorite place, a dungeon kind of bar that smelled of stale beer, sweaty armpits, and acid reflux. Apparently, the fact that such place was called “Annie’s” added to the charm.
I insisted on eating outside. The morgue had me maxed out on foul smells for the day. We sat in the shade of a wooden pergola, the knotty branches of a climbing vine bathing us in a fragrant, twinkling light. Wafts of teriyaki chicken and Philly steak tickled my nostrils and resuscitated my appetite. At a nearby table, a guy in a white shirt, black tie, and spiky hair enjoyed his meal while flirting on the mobile with his girlfriend—the beauty of living in a wireless era. By the salad bar, two ladies in jogging slacks and overdone make-up compared notes on caloric intake and hairdresser bills.
The waiter took our orders while ruminating a wad of pink chewing gum. She scribbled on her notepad and then scuttled off, a whiff of kitchen smells trailing behind her.
“I thought you liked your steak rare,” Oscar said, bringing the schooner to his mouth.
“Not today. I spent the morning at the morgue.”
He almost choked on his beer.
“It’s not funny. Listen, I was wondering if you could refresh me on the Ilke case.”
“Ilke? Peeping Tom?”
“Exactly the guy. I believe I read the term voyeur in the report, though.” I grinned.
Oscar had a hearty laugh that didn’t care if it made a few heads turn. “Yeah, that was Washburn. He said it’s an actual disease—no, wait, mental disorder, that’s what he called it. Forget Washburn. Everybody else at the Homicide table knew him by Peeping Tom. Why are you interested in the piece of scum?”
“What did he do?”
“He stalked women, preferably with an active sexual life. He’d study their schedule, patterns, routes, and most importantly, he’d find a way into their homes.”
“How to break in?”
“Uh-uh. The guy was sleek and methodic. He’d find a loose window, figure out where they hid the spare key, or snatch the key bunch from their office desk at work. He’d make a copy, and then return it to its exact place. The victims were completely unaware the perv had access to their places.”
“He never touched them though, did he?”
“No. He’d have been one hell of a serial rapist if he had. He just watched. Maybe leave a little souvenir on the side. Not so good at cleaning up after himself—that’s how we caught him.”
“Watched what?”
“You know. The lady taking a shower or using the restroom or having sex. Anything intimate. He’d find a hiding spot and sit there, sometimes for hours, as long as he could get a good peek. We even found a photo album in his place, with names and dates. To Washburn, this behavior made perfect sense. He said it’s a form of repressed homosexuality, where the man identifies with the woman’s pleasure by watching her.”
We interrupted the conversation in honor of the two juicy steaks the waiter brought to our table. Ravenous appetite and dining etiquette are mutually exclusive.
“Was Ilke ever violent?” I asked, half way through our meal.
“Are you kidding?” Oscar didn’t mind speaking with his mouth full. “He was completely innocuous. He broke into tears when we picked him up. Said he couldn’t help himself.”
“How did he choose the victims?”
“He’d pick a random face in the street or on Amtrak. Anywhere, in fact.”
“Random people?”
“Yes. Never met them before, never even approached them personally. Apparently, he felt too shy to talk to them.”
I snorted. “Too shy to talk to them but not to watch them slide off their panties?”
Oscar dropped the fork and carefully wiped his mouth. “Look, Track. If you’re really interested in this case, you should talk to Washburn. He wrote a detailed report on the guy. Fascinating, he called him. A textbook case.”
I smiled while sipping my wine. “Yeah, well. Nutcase to nutcase.”
“Come on, Track,” Oscar insisted with an emphatic sway of his hand. “Give the doc a break. I mean, mentals are his thing. He talks about them like Banjaree talks about computers, or Fraser about firearms. We all have our thing.”
“Yeah, right. Oscar, mentals do not qualify as ‘a thing,’ okay? Anyway, I’m not talking to the shrink. I had my share after the last shootout. All I’d like to know is what Ilke got out of it. Watching, I mean.”
“Control.”
“Control?”
He smiled and scratched a brow. “Washburn said voyeurism is a form of control over the sexual partner. Apparently, these people are control freaks.”
“But the guy wouldn’t even approach his victims.”
“Exactly. He remained emotionally detached. As long as he watched he felt in control, not overwhelmed by emotions. In other words, he could unplug as he willed. No pun intended.”
I had to laugh. “There was no plugging.”
Oscar shrugged. “Maybe in his mind there was.”
I tapped the fork on the table. It makes no sense. “What if he did know the victim? What if in fact he made her do it so he could watch? Would it still be a way of keeping things under control?”
Oscar drained his schooner and dropped it back on the table with a loud clonk. “Hell, Track, what do I know? I’m a cop and Ilke was the only voyeurism case I came across. If you want the expert—”
“Then go talk to Washburn. Yes, Oscar, got it. Thank you.”
Oscar smiled. “Actually, I was going to suggest you talk to the sleaze himself.”
“Ilke?”
“Yeah. As far as I remember, he’s booked for another year at least in Vacaville.”
* * *
Outside, the roar of the nearby boulevard hit me with its usual concert of engines, honks, and the throbbing speakers of a shiny black Carrera. I retreated to my Dodge and closed the door. As soon as I started the engine, Ravel greeted me with the opening notes of Water Games. Ah, oxygen for my ears. Except for the nagging voice popping into my head: Why won’t you talk to Washburn, Ulysses?
Because. I don’t like the guy.
Come on, he’s just another guy. With a little more education than you, but you’ve never been intimidated by education, have you?
I don’t like the way he stares at me.
I know you, Ulysses, his eyes tell me while his mouth says, “The pattern and depth of the stab wounds indicate this perpetrator has killed before.”
I know the animal lurking inside you.
I know the excitement you feel after every kill, the anticipation when you inhale the prey’s blood—luring, inebriating.
I know how many times you kept going back to the house, looking for her, or so you thought. Until something snapped and suddenly you weren’t the victim anymore. You’d become the predator.
* * *
“You went back to the house?”
I nodded. “More than once. I’d jimmy one of the back windows and sl
ide inside. It was empty. The for-sale sign stood slanted on the front lawn. The paint was new, but the stories were old. Nobody wanted to buy that house.”
Watanabe’s office was in complete darkness, save the neighborhood lights glimmering through the window and a small table lamp carving a cone of light over his desk. It made the circles beneath his eyes look ghastly. “What do you remember?”
What do I remember.
I sank in the chair and looked away. August 1986. I mostly recalled smells, as vivid as a hot, summer day. The fresh paint on the walls, the acrylic coating of the new carpets, the reek of emptiness and abandonment… her fear, still there, in untouched corners, like the closet door under the stairs, or the baseboard in the bathroom.
They found her body sprawled at the base of the stairs, a pair of pink stockings tightly wrapped around her throat—the only piece of clothing still on her.
She was fourteen.
I’d crawl inside the house and scavenge the traces she’d left, no matter how faint. They frightened me and attracted me at the same time, because wherever I could still smell her, I could smell him, too.
“Danny Mendoza, age 19, car mechanic,” I said. “He’d made a copy of the house key when Lily’s mother left her vehicle at the shop for an oil change. They had nothing on him, absolutely nothing. There was no forced entry. He’d left no prints, no DNA, no nothing. Only a dead body.” I swallowed. “Lily’s.”
“And you tracked down… his smell?”
“He’d drive by the house from time to time. He’d park his red Camaro across the street, pull the window down, and smoke a cig.”
“Just that?”
“Just that.”
Watanabe’s eyes feigned incredulity. “How did you know it was him?”
“I didn’t. When I saw him there for the third time, I followed him to the shop. I asked him about his cars. He loved to talk about his cars. And girls. So I asked him about that, too. We became… buddies. Sort of.”
