The Hundredth Man

by J. A. Kerley

  The next morning we were summoned to Squill’s office. He was on the phone and ignored us. We sat in hard chairs before his uncluttered desk and studied his ego wall. If any political or law-enforcement celebrity had passed within three states, Squill’d been there with hand out and teeth shining. After five minutes of listening and grunting, Squill hung up his phone and spun his chair to look out the window, his back to our faces.

  “Tell me about the Nelson case,” he commanded the sky.

  “Indeterminate,” I said. “Yesterday we talked with his aunt, Billie Messer “

  “I’m talking to the ranking detective, Ryder. In this office you wait your turn.”

  I felt my face flush with anger and my fists ball involuntarily. Squill said, “I’ll try again. What’s happening on the Nelson case?”

  Harry looked at me, rolled his eyes, and addressed the back of Squill’s head.

  “We talked with his aunt, Billie Messer, plus some other folks. They confirm the lowlife lifestyle indicated on Nelson’s rap sheet. He used people. We interviewed a former girlfriend, the one who filed the charges. She’s a confused woman who still has tender feelings for Nelson, but basically said the same. Today we’re meeting with the D-Two homicide dicks to set up a mechanism to review the “

  Squill spun to face us. “No,” he said, “you’re not.”

  Harry said, “Pardon me, Captain?”

  “You’re not doing anything. I’ve spoken with the chief and he agrees this isn’t a psycho case. It stinks of fag revenge killing. We’re dumping the file back to Second District. Your involvement in the Nelson case is officially over.”

  I braced my hands on my knees and leaned forward. “What if it’s not vengeance, but the start of a killing spree?”

  “I’m not talking to listen to myself. Dismissed.”

  “It doesn’t fit a vengeance pattern. Here’s what I’m “

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Let me finish, Captain. We don’t yet have enough information to decide whether or not this is “

  Squill spun back to the window. He said, “Get him out of here, Nautilus, I’ve got work to do.”

  I was shaking my head before we hit the hall. “That didn’t make sense. Why pull us before we’ve done an overview? We don’t have the info to decide either way if this is PSIT status. What’s buzzing in his shorts?”

  Harry said, “I got some fresh milk this morning.”

  “Spill it.”

  “Remember the rumor Chief Hyrum is retiring next year?”

  “Thumping and bumping, you said.”

  Harry sighed. “I’d never have said that, it doesn’t fit. I said rolling and strolling. Only it’s not next summer, it’s this September.”

  I said, “Two months away. The hatchet jobs have to be done in double time?”

  Harry nodded. “Pop an umbrella; the blood’s gonna fly.”

  “That doesn’t concern us, remember? You told me that.”

  “The only constant is change, bro, you told me that. There’s two deputy chiefs tussling for the job of Big Chief: Belvidere and Plackett. Squill’s hitched his wagon to Plackett’s star, been buttering his biscuits for years. If the commission recommends Plackett for chief, guess who he’ll slip in as a deputy chief?”

  My stomach churned. “Squill?”

  Harry slapped my back. “Now you’re seeing the big picture, Carson. Like Squill, Plackett’s more politico than cop. Guy couldn’t find his ass with a mirror and tongs, but he knows how to work the newsies; Squill gave him pointers about sound bites, eye contact, spinning a story. On the other hand, Belvidere’s a cop. Knows his shit, but has a personality like instant potatoes. A lot of little things add up in the police commission’s selection process, but remember who floated the idea of the PSIT … ” “Belvidere,” I said. “Plackett opposed it.” “Probably at Squill’s advice,” Harry said. “Push it.” “If we do good, it makes Belvidere look good, which steals thunder from Plackett, which works to Squill’s disfavor?” “Hocused and pocused,” Harry said. “Now try and focus.” I rolled my eyes. “C’mon, Harry, try it in English.” “Look hard. Take it one more step.” I focused. “In the best of all possible worlds to Squill, the entire concept of PSIT would be floating facedown in the Mobile River?”

  We passed Linette Bowling, Squill’s charm less donkey-faced administrative assistant. Harry snatched a fistful of droopy flowers from a vase on her desk and handed them to me.

  “You’re beautiful when you finally get the picture, Carson.” “Nautilus, you asshole,” Linette brayed from behind us, “gimme back my fuckin’ flowers.”

  CHAPTER 7

  It was eighty-eight degrees at 11:00 p.m. A wet haze smothered the stars and gauzed the moon. Two days had passed since Nelson’s murder, and the team Squill had assigned to the case hadn’t made any progress. I stood at water’s edge and cast the spinning rig, retrieved the lure slowly, cast again. I usually fish with a fly rod and know what I’m fishing for: specs, reds, pompano, Spanish mac. But now and then I use a spinning rig to dredge the night waters. Sometimes my line ties me to a shark. Or a big ray. Familiar species. But on rare occasions I’ve reeled in bizarre life-forms not mentioned in my books on Gulf fishing. I never know what trick of tide or current directs them to my line, but there they are, wriggling species from unknown depths, daring my touch. It’s strange, but without them I doubt I’d enjoy fishing as much.

  It’s the soothing aspect of angling that often compels me to fish when troubled, and I had been upset since hearing Clair’s buzz sawing of Dr. Davanelle. I hadn’t meant to overhear, nor spy on Dr. Davanelle’s private horror, but it was acid-etched in my mind.

  Of Dr. Davanelle’s choice for the pathologist position, I knew only the edges of the story: she was the second choice for the job, hired only after the horror of Dr. Caulfield’s injury. It took a tragedy for her to gain the position in Mobile, her first professional assignment. As Harry had reminded me during our session at Cake’s bar, I, too, had stumbled into my position through the misfortunes of others. I knew such a thing could feel like a form of dishonesty. It didn’t help that Dr. Davanelle worked with Clair brilliant, renowned, sought at forensics symposia worldwide a total perfectionist who demanded nothing less than the best from every staff member, every second.

  I reeled in my line and set the rod in the spike. I sat in the sand with my arms wrapping my knees and stared across the rippling plain of water, liquid obsidian burnished by moonlight. After several minutes of reflection I scrabbled through the cooler bag where I’d tossed my cell phone at the last minute. Phone on ice; Freud would have enjoyed that.

  Information provided Ava Davanelle’s number and I dialed. Her recorded voice was as cold as the device in my hand. She provided her number, referred to the beep, and was gone. I heard the tone, listened to the emptiness, clicked the call dead. Only then did it hit me had she answered the phone, what would I have said?

  “Hello, Dr. Davanelle, it’s Detective Ryder. I’m sorry for being a pain in the ass at the Nelson autopsy, I didn’t mean to add to your problems. What problems? I was, uh, skulking in Willet Lindy’s office yesterday when you came down the hall and watched as you …”

  I sighed and unzipped the cooler bag, preparing to refrost the phone, when it started chirping.

  It was Harry. “Got a call from the ME’s man on the scene,” he said. “We got us another headless horseman at Eight thirty-seven Caleria. Saddle up and ride, Ichabod. I’ll meet you in Sleepy Hollow.”

  The scene was a large Italian ate-style home near the southern outskirts of downtown, a neighborhood of stately historic homes intermingled with apartments. Insects burred from the hovering pines and wide-spread oaks. Several patrol cars fronted the scene, as did the crime-scene van and an ambulance. A news van did a U and pulled to the curb. Neighbors with somber faces milled on the sidewalk. Traffic thickened, drivers drawn like moths to the flashing lights and activity. A patrolman in the street waved his arms and bawled, �
��Move on, folks, move on.” I saw Harry and pulled up on the curb behind him.

  “Weasels “R’ Us around?” I asked.

  Harry shook his head. “Squill’s been at his brother’s condo in Pensacola. On his way.”

  Pensacola was at least ninety minutes away. Given time elapsed, we had maybe a half hour without him.

  “Let’s hit it while we can, bro,” I said. We walked onto a large front porch. Leaning against a white column was Detective Sergeant Warren Blasingame from District Three, who since we were in D-3 had initial jurisdiction. Blasingame was sucking a cigarette and staring at the treetops.

  “What’s happening inside, Warren?” Harry asked.

  Blasingame drew a finger across his Adam’s apple. “That’s all I know.”

  “You haven’t been inside?”

  “Just ME folk, scene techs, and Hargreaves. She took the call,” Blasingame drawled, spitting onto the lawn. “My guys ain’t supposed to go in till Squill gets here. Neither are you, probably, no matter what Piss-it rules say about you being in charge.”

  “Didn’t hear nothing about that,” Harry said as our footsteps thumped across the porch.

  Words scripted around a logo on the door: Deschamps Design Services. A small sign below the doorbell advised, please ring to enter. A decal on the glass said protected by Jenkins security systems. While the place wasn’t the Bastille, neither was it open-door policy. Directly inside was a small pastel-hued reception area that screamed Designer at Work: Chagall-hued abstracts spotlit by track lighting; a puffy blue-leather couch; a frame-and-fabric chair more like a kite than a sitting device. One wall held framed awards for best this and that in design. The place had a subtle astringent smell, like disinfectant, or strong cleanser.

  “Could chill beer in here,” Harry said, cinching his tie. We walked a short hall. I heard a muffled sob from a room to the left and gently opened the door. A slender woman sat at a small conference table with patrol officer Sally Hargreaves. Sal had been first on the scene. She was talking softly with her hand over the woman’s wrist. Sal saw me and came to the door.

  “Cheryl Knotts, victim’s fiancee,” she whispered. “Flight attendant out for three days. She got here fifty minutes ago to find one Peter Edgar Deschamps dead in his studio.”

  “Impression?” I asked, knowing Sal’s got the magic.

  “She had nothing to do with it, I’d bet the farm on that. She’s devastated.”

  By magic I mean Sal has that rare sense letting her read people fast and dead on. All cops grow the ability to detect bullshit better than your average citizen, but some are prodigies, poly graphic Mozarts. On Sal’s take alone I pretty much X’d out the fiancee as a suspect.

  “Get her to answer some questions in a few?” I asked.

  Sally nodded, touched my arm. “Walk light if you can.”

  Sally’s got a hint of wet in her eyes; the magic has its price. I kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Did I tell you I dreamed about you last week?” I said. “I was a nurse and you were a Viking … “

  Sal smiled for the first time and pushed me down the hall. “Go take care of Harry before he does something weird,” she said.

  The victim was on his back next to a drawing board. Beside the board was a desk with a Mac, and a monitor with a screen larger than the one on my TV. The man’s garb was white-collar casual: blue Oxford-cloth shirt, pressed khakis, webbed belt, brown loafers. The deceased was solidly built not a hardcore gym rat with ham biceps and steroid-worm veins, but a guy with a hard and regular regimen. His shirt was unbuttoned and the slacks unzipped, the pants bunched low around his buttocks. Outside of the scarlet collar there was no sign of blood or other violence on his clothing. Hembree’d caught the case.

  “What’s the word, Bree?” I asked.

  “Looks like you and Harry are going to pull some overtime.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Just like Nelson. Can’t find anything on the body. But a head wound … “

  “Could be floating past the Dixey Bar lighthouse about now.”

  Hembree nodded. “If the perp’s using a gun, I’d bet a twenty-two. Most of the time the slug goes into the skull and ricochets around inside like a Ping-Pong ball. No exit wound, no splatter. Just brain pudding.”

  I thought about what the mind might make of a pellet bouncing within its confines like a metal wasp. Could a brain comprehend its own destruction? Hear itself scream?

  “What about the blood when the head comes off?” I asked, rubbing my hands together, suddenly cold.

  “Heart’s stopped, blood’s not moving. Less exsanguination than you’d think. Was me I’d slide a towel under the neck to sop blood, then remove the head. Wrap the head in the towel, drop it into a bowling-ball bag, and wave good-bye.”

  “Just don’t get the bags mixed up on league night. Any writing?”

  “Been waiting for you to ask.”

  Hembree slid the deceased’s briefs past his pubic hair. The same minuscule writing, but in two lines. The top one said, Warped a quart of whores. Quart of whores. Whores warped. Quart of whores. Warped whores. Quart of whores. Warped whores. This was followed by Rats Rats Rats Ho Ho Ho Ho Rats Rats Rats Rats Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho

  An icy finger tickled the base of my neck.

  “The whores angle again,” Hembree said. “You guys went that road?”

  I nodded. We’d contacted vice and homicide departments across the Gulf Coast, expanding to national crime-stat sources. No unsolved killings in our area, at least not within our parameters. Whatever this was, we had an exclusive.

  Hembree pointed to the second line. “Ho as ‘whore’?”

  “Or ho like in laughing at us, Bree.”

  Hembree closed his eyes. “Oh, man, anything but that.”

  Taunts from psychopathic ally disordered killers were a chilling sign. The killers felt certain they could get away with anything. Some did, especially if they had iron-hard self-control, like the control to precisely sever a head and write in tiny, perfectly defined letters. Such people could live anywhere, be anything: janitor, schoolteacher, bank president.

  Hembree said the ME’s tech had approximated TOD at two or so hours before, give or take. Harry said, “I’ll go look around the rest of the place. See if you can get anything from the woman. Girlfriend?”

  “Fiancee,” I corrected. “Sally thinks she’s clean.”

  “Good enough for me,” Harry said, familiar with the magic. He buttoned his jacket. “Damn, it’s colder’n a tomb in here.”

  I returned to the room with the fiancee, not looking forward to what I might become to her. In a grocery store I once unknowingly stood in line behind a woman I’d interviewed about her daughter’s violent death. When our eyes connected she turned white, made kitten-mew sounds, and ran out the door, her groceries still riding the belt. Now, entering the worst moment in this woman’s life, I prayed her mind blanked me out after tonight, and when nightmares screamed open her eyes, it wasn’t my face printed on the ceiling.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Knotts, I’m Detective Carson Ryder, and I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes if I may.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “While it’s still … fresh, I know.” I had to strain to hear her.

  “Peter didn’t tell you about any kind of meeting today? Anyone he was going to be talking to?”

  “No. But he’s wearing meeting clothes, long pants, dress shirt. He’d work in cutoffs and a T-shirt, unless … someone must have scheduled at the last minute.”

  I heard voices and footsteps at the front door. Sally closed the door for privacy.

  “Did clients come here often?”

  “No. He goes to them. Peter’s big on service.”

  “Walk-ins?”

  “Sometimes people’d see the sign and ask if he did business cards and stuff like that.”

  “If he was going to meet someone and wrote it down, where would he keep the information?”

  She closed her eyes. �
�I gave him a PDA last Christmas. It’s probably in the front desk. Top drawer.”

  Sal slipped away, returning a minute later with a device hardly larger than a credit card. She’d put on latex gloves. I joined Sal in the hall. She tapped the keypad and studied the display a long moment before turning it to me.

  Today’s date. Under that was entered: 8:00 PM mtg.w/Mr. Cutter.

  “Well, isn’t that just bold as hell,” Sally said.

  I stepped out to tell Harry about Mr. Cutter and ran into a straight-arm block with a wall of meat behind it. “Whoa, there, Ryder,” Burlew said. “Where you going, sport?” His breath smelled like manure and onions; maybe he should have chewed Listerine ads.

  “I have to talk to Harry.”

  “Phone him, hot dog. From outside.”

  I yelled. “Harry, you back there?”

  He pointed to the front. “Door’s the other way, bucko.”

  “Where’s the captain, Burlew?”

  “Sergeant Burlew to you. Now haul ass before it gets hauled.”

  Squill stuck his face through the doorway of Deschamps’s studio a dozen feet down the hall. It was like the world had shifted on its axis and everyone got thrown into different positions. “I’ve got the scene now, Ryder,” he said. “Go take statements from the neighbors.”

  “Where’s Harry, Captain? It’s important.”

  “Didn’t you get enough air at birth, Ryder?” Squill said. “I gave you a direct order. Get outside and start interviewing.”

  I’d read the revised manual about a hundred times, mostly in drop-jaw disbelief at the autonomy supposedly granted the PSIT. In cases judged to be under the unit’s purview, Harry and I were to be the ones coordinating the efforts.