Death Notice

by Todd Ritter

  “I don’t understand why someone would want to hurt my George. He was a good man. People liked him. He worked this land a long time. His folks were here before the mill. That’s a good number of years, and people respected that. Even the boys he had out here in the summer respected that.”

  Kat’s ears perked up. “Boys?”

  “Every summer, George would hire a couple boys from the junior high to help out on the farm. It took some of the load off his back and it did the boys some good, too. Taught them the value of hard work.”

  Kat asked Alma if she remembered the names of some of the summer employees.

  “Troy Gunzelman,” she said. “Him, I remember.”

  That was no surprise. Troy’s notoriety extended beyond Perry Hollow and into the next county. Even a woman as sheltered as Alma would know about his exploits on the field.

  “Any others?”

  Alma shrugged. It was obvious she was getting tired of being peppered with questions. Kat was tired of doing the peppering. But both of them had to continue.

  “When was the last time you saw your husband?” Kat asked.

  “Last night. I thought he would have come to bed after checking out the noise, so I went to sleep. When I woke up, his side of the bed was untouched.”

  “Is his truck missing?”

  “No,” Alma said. “It’s parked in the same place it was last night, so I assume he didn’t drive it.”

  “You mentioned a noise. What did it sound like?”

  “Animals.”

  Alma turned to look out the window next to her chair. Kat followed her gaze across the snow-covered yard and past a John Deere tractor old enough to be in a museum. Beyond it was the barn, where several more cats and a handful of chickens loitered outside. Kat heard the whinny of horses from within, followed by the sharp bark of a dog.

  “It was a racket,” the widow said. “They were making noise something fierce. George thought it might be a bear or a mountain lion. They’re rare, but they’re still out there, believe you me. Saw a bear out on Old Mill Road once. Scared the Lord out of me.”

  Kat saw Alma’s dead husband on Old Mill Road, and it scared the Lord out of her.

  “What time did the noise start?”

  “About ten thirty.”

  A cold bomb of fear exploded in Kat’s chest. If Alma was correct, then the fake obituary had indeed been sent before George Winnick died.

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “Fairly sure,” Alma said. “I remember looking at the clock when George left to go check on the barn.”

  Kat jerked her head in the direction of the barnyard. “Do you mind if I poke around out there a bit?”

  When Alma shrugged again, the hopeless lift of her shoulders said, Sure, go out there. Find your clues. But it won’t bring my husband back. He’s gone forever.

  After thanking Mrs. Winnick for her time and patience, and after offering her condolences once again, Kat left.

  Outside, she tramped across the yard toward the barn. The sun was still out, thanks to daylight saving time, which had gone into effect the previous morning. The newfound brightness allowed her to look for footprints in the snow. She saw dozens of them—from Alma, from George, even from the stray cats that seemed to roam everywhere. If the killer had crept through the yard the night before, it would be impossible to trace his steps.

  Inside the barn, Kat found herself confronted by a surly Rottweiler chained in a far corner. It barked ferociously as soon as she entered. When it lunged in her direction, the chain hooked to its collar stretched so tight she thought the animal was going to choke itself to death.

  The noise from the dog set off the horses housed in stalls along the barn’s right wall. There were three of them in total, their heads shaking in agitation at the presence of a stranger. The only animal not perturbed was a black cat sleeping in a square of fading sunlight that slanted in through a cracked window. Unlike the other animals, it didn’t move a muscle.

  Kat surveyed the cluttered barn, the scent of hay and manure stinging her nostrils. In addition to the animals, the barn housed a tractor, a riding mower, and a plow. A pyramid of hay bales sat near the horse stalls.

  This was where the farmer first encountered his killer. She was certain of it.

  The killer had most likely entered the barn not long after faxing the death notice to Henry Goll. His presence there had irritated the animals, which in turn roused George.

  Kat put herself in the place of George Winnick, standing in front of the open barn door in about the same spot where he would have entered. She saw what he would have seen—a barn full of shadows.

  She took a few steps forward. Cautious ones. Like what George might have taken.

  Because there were no signs of a struggle in the barn, her assumption was that the farmer didn’t notice his stalker until it was too late. Perhaps he didn’t see him at all. The killer could have snuck up on George, creeping up quietly behind him.

  Looking around for hiding places, Kat saw the possibilities were endless. Behind the barn door, for one, or in the shadow of the tractor. Near the sleeping cat was a small alcove, no larger than a broom closet. The killer easily could have hidden there, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he waited for his victim.

  Kat crossed the barn and peeked inside the alcove. She saw a modest nook consisting of a clean concrete floor and plank walls. Her view from the threshold gave her no reason to enter the alcove outright. Besides, if George’s killer hid there the night before, then a tech team needed to do a thorough scan of it. Maybe it would turn up something. A footprint. A stray fiber. Perhaps a hair. Anything would help because at this point they had nothing but a corpse, two pennies, and a wooden box.

  Leaving the alcove, she gazed at the cat lying a few feet away. It hadn’t moved the entire time she was there. Not once. She watched for the tiniest of movements—an ear wiggle, the idle sway of a tail—but saw nothing.

  Approaching the animal, Kat nudged it with the toe of her boot. It was as still as a brick and just as heavy.

  The cat was dead.

  Kat bent down to examine the animal further, noticing a small pile of sawdust around its hind legs. When she nudged it again, more sawdust trickled from a gash in the animal’s stomach.

  The cat had been cut open, a long incision across its stomach showing where the knife had sliced. In place of its organs, someone had filled it with sawdust, which explained the heaviness. An unruly pattern of fur-obscured thread crisscrossed the incision. Stitches, used to sew the cat back up.

  Kat inched away from the dead animal. What it meant to the case, she didn’t know. But staring at the poor creature sprawled on the ground, she clearly understood that despite her theories and best guesses, she didn’t have a handle on the situation at all.

  Tony Vasquez was the first member of Nick Donnelly’s team to reach the barn. With him were a half dozen other state troopers. Tony stretched police tape across the gaping barn door. He then ordered two troopers to go on the other side of it and stand guard while the rest went to work.

  Not wanting to get in the way—and not wanting to destroy any evidence in the process—Kat retreated to an empty corner of the barn and parked herself on a bale of hay. From her itchy perch, she watched as Rudy Taylor arrived, armed with enough evidence bags to seal up every strand of hay she sat upon.

  Nick Donnelly and Cassie Lieberfarb showed up five minutes later. While Cassie joined her coworkers, Nick made a beeline to the bale of hay.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  “That’s good,” Kat replied, “because I have to talk to you.”

  Nick plopped down on the bale next to her. “You first.”

  Kat took a deep breath and began. She told Nick about the death notice faxed to the Gazette newsroom before George Winnick died. She then moved on to what Alma Winnick had said about George investigating noises coming from the barn. That led to the search of the barn itself, where she found the dead cat stuffed
with sawdust.

  “That confirms my theory,” Nick said, once she had finished.

  “And what’s that?”

  “That it might not be the Betsy Ross Killer we’re dealing with.”

  It wasn’t what Kat wanted to hear. Strange as it seemed, she had been hoping that all of this was the work of Betsy Ross. It’s easier to face the devil you know than the devil you don’t. And whoever killed George Winnick was one sick devil.

  “All of this—the fax, the dead animal—sounds far different from what Betsy Ross does,” Nick said. “Serial killers like him do sometimes change their MO, but not as extreme as this. And George’s wounds were different from the ones on the Betsy Ross victims.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He bled to death.”

  “From the cut on his neck? That was barely three inches long.”

  “Three and one-fifth inches long,” Nick clarified. “Wallace Noble measured it. And it was more than just the cut that caused him to bleed out.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Nick leaned forward. “Do you know what the carotid artery is?”

  “Sure. It’s where the nurse checks your neck for a pulse. What does this have to do with George Winnick?”

  “His right carotid was sliced open,” Nick said. “It’s difficult but doable. Whoever did this most likely reached through the cut in his neck and pulled the artery out of the body. One careful incision later and you have a blood geyser on your hands.”

  Kat felt a stress headache coming on, signaling her brain was getting overloaded. The slight pain began just behind her eyes, ready to spread to her temples. Considering the circumstances, she was surprised the headache had taken so long to arrive.

  “It’s a horrible way to die,” Nick said.

  Kat couldn’t agree more. Perry Hollow had experienced its share of tragic deaths. Accidents. Brutal falls. But what Nick described seemed so cruel and hateful that she couldn’t quite believe it. Making someone bleed to death implied premeditation and planning. You needed to be prepared to do it.

  “It gets worse,” Nick warned. “Do you want me to go on?”

  Kat didn’t, but it was her job to say yes.

  “The killer did more to George after he was dead.”

  “The lips,” Kat said. “They were sewn shut.”

  “That’s not what I was talking about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you cut open a corpse, there’s very little bleeding because circulation has stopped and most of the blood has settled. There’s some leakage, but it’s minor. Wallace said there was an unusually large amount of blood on George Winnick’s lips.”

  “There was,” Kat replied. If she closed her eyes, she could easily picture the reddish ice crystals that had coated his lips. It was the first time she had ever seen frozen blood, and she hoped to God she’d never see it again.

  “That means,” Nick said, “that George was still alive when his lips were sewn shut.”

  Kat’s mind whirled, imagining what such an act sounded like to the victim. Was it silent? Or could George hear the thread slipping through his skin, his flesh pulling together as it did so? If Kat concentrated, she could hear it, something not unlike the sound of a shoelace passing through the eyelet of a sneaker.

  Trying to force the sound from her head, she asked, “Then what was the time of death?”

  “That’s the problem. Wallace couldn’t tell for certain. It was definitely within twelve hours before you found him, but he couldn’t pinpoint it more than that.”

  “Why not?”

  “After George bled out,” Nick said, “the killer pumped liquid into his body.”

  “Jesus,” Kat muttered. “What kind?”

  “Part water, part formaldehyde.”

  “Formaldehyde? Are you sure?”

  “His body was filled with it. That’s why Wallace can’t pinpoint an exact time of death. The mixture killed off the microorganisms that cause decomposition. It slowed down rigor mortis. The right carotid was engorged, although that could have been from the tube.”

  Kat’s voice rose with disbelief. “There was a tube?”

  “Not when you found him, but the incision in the artery had been widened by something. The assumption is that the killer inserted a tube into it. That’s how he was able to get the formaldehyde and water mixture into the circulatory system. It got the job done, but it was pretty rough. Not at all like the professionals.”

  “Professional who?”

  “Morticians,” Nick said. “After George Winnick bled to death, the killer tried to embalm him.”

  NINE

  Henry lay on his weight bench, grunting against the 250-pound barbell he pushed away from his chest. The muscles in his arms tightened as he held the weight aloft for three seconds. When he lowered it, the tension eased, flooding his muscles with a satisfying warmth.

  “One,” he said.

  He raised the barbell again. He paused three more seconds. He lowered it.

  “Two.”

  Henry’s routine included a workout in a corner of his apartment filled with exercise equipment. One hour of each day was devoted to honing his body to its full potential. Although pushing forty, he possessed the strength and agility of a much younger man.

  “Three.”

  With his face looking the way it did, Henry knew peak physical prowess was the only thing that kept people from pitying him completely.

  “Four.”

  And he didn’t want pity.

  “Five.”

  He wanted to be left alone.

  While he worked out, music blasted from a CD player against the wall. Puccini’s Tosca, one of his favorites. Opera was still relatively new to Henry. It was only in the past five years that he had become obsessed with it. Now it was the only music he listened to. Especially the tragedies. What he heard in the music, other people missed. The tales of doomed love, mistaken identity, and broken hearts of epic proportions were melodramatic, yes. But they were also true. You could love someone so much you would kill for them. Your love could be so strong that if they died, a large part of you died with them. Opera was tragic. So was life.

  Finishing another set of reps, Henry lowered the weights and—breath heavy, heart thumping—paused to listen to the music. It was “E lucevan le stelle,” Cavaradossi’s third-act aria in which the doomed painter recalled memories of his lover, Tosca. The aria was sung in Italian, and Henry knew every word. He was fluent in Italian, having learned it in his old life. Before the accident. Before Henry Ghoul.

  E lucevan le stelle.

  Henry repeated it in English, like a prayer. “How the stars seemed to shimmer.”

  Closing his eyes, he focused on the music, on the lyrics, on the perfect voice singing them. It reminded him of Gia. Sweet Gia. His Italian rose. The aria could have been written about her.

  Entrava ella, fragrante.

  “How she then entered, so fragrant, and then fell into my arms.”

  Usually, he would have been enthralled, swept up in the aria’s embrace. But that day was different. The aria—and thoughts of Gia—put him in a dark mood, which was accompanied by an itching restlessness.

  L’ora è fuggita . . . e muoio disperato.

  “My last hour has flown and I die hopeless.”

  E non ho amato mai tanto la vita.

  “And never have I loved life more.”

  Henry left the room without bothering to turn off the CD player. His apartment, located above a used-book store on the end of Main Street, was large by modern standards. But that evening, the place felt absolutely tiny. As he roamed restlessly inside it, the walls seemed to constrict around him.

  He had to get out. Just for a little bit.

  His steps quickened in the hallway as he headed for the front door. By the time he was outside, he was at a full jog—legs churning, arms pumping. He picked up speed to tackle the slight incline of north Main Street. When it flattened out at the end of the
street, he kept the same pace, streaking over the sidewalk.

  The stares of strangers confronted him as he passed. Blurs of faces trying to get a good look at him. Henry ignored them, soon becoming unaware of how many people he flew by or if they were staring. He also ignored the cold, which his flimsy workout clothes did nothing to ward off. He focused only on the steady exhalation of his breath and the rhythmic slapping of his feet on the pavement.

  The sadness that overcame him in his apartment dissipated outdoors. He knew the melancholy would wash over him again at some point. No matter how fast he ran, Henry knew he couldn’t outrun his pain.

  After he had sprinted at full speed for about fifteen minutes, a cramp stabbed his midsection. He slowed himself, legs winding down until eventually he came to a stop at the corner of Maple and Oak streets. Bent forward in exhaustion, palms resting on his knees, he noticed a large Victorian mansion dominating the corner.

  McNeil Funeral Home.

  Henry had never been inside, but the exterior impressed the hell out of him. Three stories tall with white siding, it boasted a green gabled roof, wraparound front porch, and Tiffany accents in the tall windows. Pretty fancy for a stopping place on the way to the afterlife.

  Once he regained control of his breathing, Henry stepped onto the walkway that cut through the property’s expansive front yard. Without fully comprehending what he was doing, he trotted toward the front door. Not hesitating, he pushed inside, entering a tastefully appointed room dominated by a large mahogany desk. An attractive young woman sat behind it. She smiled at him when he entered.

  “Hello, Henry,” she said.

  He halted in the doorway. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Because you look uncertain.”

  Henry imagined he looked more than uncertain. He probably looked ghastly in his sweat-drenched T-shirt and running shorts, his flushed face making its flaws stand out even more.

  Deana Swan, however, looked better than expected. Years of speaking to her on the phone had created a mental picture that wasn’t flattering. In Henry’s imagination, she was a female version of her brother, with chipmunk cheeks and oversized sweaters. That was the type of woman who spent her whole day in a funeral home.