Cut to the Bone

by Shane Gericke

  Which Emily couldn’t do till she learned some basics.

  “What’s her name, Captain?” she asked the big man over the little corpse.

  Hercules Branch raised an index finger that said, “With you in a minute.”

  “OK.” She turned to a uniformed patrol officer, whose fiercely jutting jaw reminded her of a sweet potato. “Please tell me you brought Vicks VapoRub.”

  “Don’t leave home without it,” he said, pulling a tin from his pocket.

  Emily thanked him and smeared a gob under each nostril. The stinging menthol fumes helped mask the stench of death. A cheap cigar was even more effective, but a year ago Chief Cross had banned smoking at crime scenes. Too much risk of contaminating evidence.

  The building was an old Chinese buffet reincarnated as an elegant day spa. This was its lobby - what the foot-high calligraphy over the reception desk called the “client welcome center.” The thirty-foot ceiling came to a series of peaks, reminding Emily of the circus tents she’d adored as a little girl on Chicago’s Southwest Side. Fringed Oriental rugs softened the pearl granite floor. The walls were rag-rolled, navy blue with robin’s-egg highlights, and held a series of art prints that were as indefinite as jazz.

  She took notes.

  Champagne-colored curtains covered the tall, narrow windows. A dozen chairs, the same lacquer black as the frames of the art, surrounded a glass table filled with women’s magazines. The manicurist occupied the chair farthest from the main door. Next to her sat the woman who’d attended her and Marty. Her mud-streaked head rested on the manicurist’s bony shoulder. A cappuccino maker steamed in one corner. A water dispenser gurgled in another.

  “Zabrina Reynolds,” Branch said. “With a Z.”

  He flipped to the middle of his notebook.

  “She was twenty-three, according to the manager,” he said. “She’s worked here a couple years. Lives with her boyfriend in a condo on Route 59.”

  “Should I notify him?”

  “I already did,” Officer VapoRub said. “These ladies had his cell phone number. He’s in Taiwan on a business trip. His boss confirmed his presence.”

  “Ruling him out.”

  “For the time being,” Branch agreed.

  The manicurist began wailing.

  “We loved Zee,” she sobbed. “So happy all the time, so much fun.” Her lower lip pooched out. “She wasn’t supposed to be here today.”

  “Why not?” Emily asked.

  “Zee had a cold. I told her to go home, I’d cover the desk. You know what she did?”

  Emily shook her head.

  “She patted my cheek. Like my grandma does? Then she said, ‘It’s more fun here with you guys.’” Her face crumpled, and the floodgates opened anew.

  “Why don’t you take her outside for some fresh air?” Emily told the attendant. “I’ll find you when I’m ready to take your statement.”

  The attendant nodded, trundled her out the door. Emily glanced at Officer VapoRub.

  “I’ll keep them company,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  She started to join Branch at the body, then felt a presence against her back.

  “You found your clothes,” she said, reaching back to pat his leg.

  “Along with a hot shower,” Marty said. “Branch, I’m gonna head to the office and write my statement. I’ll e-mail you copies when I’m done.”

  Branch gave him a thumbs-up, and Marty swung his attention back to Emily. “Want to work on the house when you’re done?” he murmured.

  She bumped her head “yes” against his chest. Easy to do because he was a foot taller than her five-six. “I’ll call you,” she said. “Be awfully late, though.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He rubbed her shoulders, then gently pushed away.

  “Aw, Marty, tell her you wuv her,” Branch said.

  “I’d better not,” Marty said. “She’d insist on smooching me, then you’d have to fire her for sexual harassment and we’d all be embarrassed . . .”

  Cop humor, Emily thought as they chuckled. Like these two homicide veterans, someday she’d be an expert at whistling past the graveyard.

  But not today.

  Not with Zabrina Reynolds staring at her.

  Marty headed out.

  Emily finished scouting, then turned her attention to the corpse.

  1:00 p.m.

  The Executioner drove into his attached garage, heart singing at his success. When the door merged with the concrete floor, he eased his grip on the Sig and hopped out.

  Plunked the bloody knife in a pail of Clorox. Donned coveralls and fresh gloves. Scrubbed the getaway Subaru top to bottom, then stem to stern. Vacuumed the interior. Removed the dust bag and stuffed it in a can of paint. Washed windows and mirrors and wiped down the interior.

  Then did it again.

  Satisfied the car was as clean as he could make it, he threw a nylon cover over the roof and secured it with bungee cords, snapping them with a satisfying thwack.

  He added both sets of gloves to the can, along with the beard, hat, and bleached knife. He hated to lose the stabber - he’d sculpted it from a single bar of steel - but he had plenty of others. He watched it disappear in a bubble of barn-red latex.

  The bulk squished the paint to just below the brim. He added a capful of drying catalyst. In twenty-four hours, the evidence would be sealed like a bug in amber. He hammered on the lid, put the can in his Land Rover, and went into the house.

  “Hi, Bowie,” he greeted with a salute. “You won’t believe the day I had . . .”

  He detailed the kill while eating his favorite lunch from childhood - bologna and cheese on white bread, with lettuce, Miracle Whip, and a dash of pepper. Then he showered, changed, confirmed his morning departure with the airline, and reviewed the plan again.

  Airtight.

  He told Bowie his schedule from now till Monday - “I probably won’t call, I don’t want anyone tracing my calls back to you” - then hugged him goodbye. He grabbed his carry-on and headed for the garage. Wished again he had eyes on top of his head so he wouldn’t strain his neck looking for police aircraft.

  As he backed the Land Rover out of the garage, he debated whether to swing by the mud spa. It wasn’t smart, he knew. He should stick to the plan - drive south, pick up the interstate, get to St. Louis to start the next phase.

  But the woman from the windshield beckoned. He’d realized who it was as soon as he reached Ogden Avenue, and was enormously thankful he hadn’t killed her.

  Yet.

  He turned north.

  1:17 p.m.

  Emily judged Zabrina Reynolds five-five and 120 pounds. She had a tiny waist, flared hips, and medium bust. She lay faceup, arms at her sides. She hadn’t fallen that way, Emily remembered. Marty repositioned her for the CPR.

  Her delicate hands were cupped, like she was holding water. Her waist-length hair was blond with lime-green streaks, an affectation that somehow worked for her. The hair was so askew the overheads sparkled off her scalp. Zee had enormous green eyes with perfectly tweezed brows. Her full lips were painted coral. Her skin was taut. No blemishes or scars. One tattoo, a kitten, above her left ankle.

  More notes.

  An alligator belt cinched her pale yellow sundress. Her sandals had medium-high, but wide, heels. Stylish, but still practical for spending time on her feet. “A sensible girl,” Emily’s mom would have said approvingly.

  Befitting August, Zee’s legs were bare. Befitting an employee discount, her nails were perfectly manicured and painted the same coral as her lips. They appeared natural, not glued on.

  Branch grunted.

  Emily turned to see him trying to exit the chair he’d taken to ease the strain on his bad hip. His face was mottled from exertion, his expression stained with frustration.

  “Need a hand?” Emily asked.

  “Not unless you can go potty for me, Detective,” he replied.

  “Gosh, no, Captain,” she said, batting her eyelids.
“But I’m certainly willing to learn. Is there a school for that?”

  Branch snorted as he pried himself loose. He straightened his trousers, then limped toward the men’s room, leaning on the black thornwood cane. His big hand squeezed the top knob, which was carved into a bug-eyed man bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  Emily smiled. It was a sly joke from Marty, Branch’s best friend besides his wife, Lydia.

  Two years ago, Branch was raked by submachine-gun fire. His myriad injuries healed over the course of 400 physical therapy sessions, but walking sans limp was still maddeningly elusive. Marty talked to a woodcarver pal. A month later, he had what he wanted. He wrapped it in Dick Tracy comics and gave it to Branch last December, at the NPD party.

  “You are such a dick,” Branch murmured, shaking his head. Everyone knew it was cop-speak for, “Love you, too.” Applause erupted even as heads turned to hide damp eyes.

  The bathroom door closed, and she went back to her examination.

  “Sheriff’s dispatch to Commander Benedetti.”

  Encrypted band, Marty noted. Unusual. Not surprising, though, given the patrol frequencies were so clogged from the manhunt.

  He picked up the mike. “This is Benedetti. Go ahead.”

  “It’s Marge. Are you still in Naperville?”

  “Yep. Just left the spa, heading back to the shop.” As chief of detectives, his office was next to the sheriff’s in the county building. “Why?”

  “I can’t raise Patrol Nineteen. I tried everything but smoke signals.”

  “Who is it? And what’s he or she doing?”

  “Luerchen. Smiting evildoers on Plank Road.”

  Marty grinned, having heard how badly Ray stepped on his weenie at the lieutenants’ meeting. Apparently, so had Marge. “Bunch of dead zones along Plank. Probably can’t hear you.”

  “I know. But the lieutenant needs him back ASAP.”

  “Probably wants her wastebasket emptied.”

  He heard Marge giggle. “Probably,” she agreed.

  “So what do you need from me?”

  “Your body.”

  “So many women tell me that.”

  “They don’t mean it like I do, dear,” Marge said. “Listen, I’d send a patrol unit, but they’re all tied up on jobs. I hate to bother Naperville. They’ve got their hands full.”

  “Say no more.” He U-turned in front of the McDonald’s and headed back toward Plank Road. “I’ll find the miscreant and send him your way.”

  “Thanks, Marty. You’re a doll.”

  “Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  The fun, flirty banter reminded him of how sensational Emily looked popping out of that mud. Not as good as being slathered in whipped cream, one of the many fantasies he’d cooked up about the first woman he’d loved since his wife died of cancer. But close.

  “Appreciate that, Margie,” he said, making a mental note to stop at the supermarket after finding Ray. “Benedetti out.”

  Emily studied Zabrina’s cuts. Each was an inch long and very thin, with smooth edges. Deep, to have killed her so fast. One was on her chest, where her barely there bra crossed her heart. Another was on the left side of her neck, into the jugular vein. Air-blackened blood crusted around each, freshened by the occasional flush of scarlet.

  “A long, narrow, unserrated blade,” she said. “Like a fillet knife.”

  “Agreed,” Branch said.

  “Crime of passion?”

  “You tell me,” he said.

  Emily stuck her hands in her jeans. She wouldn’t lose her breakfast - her stomach was far stronger than two years ago - but those three cups of French roast were bubbling more than she liked. “Part of me says yes. Knives are intimate. You have to get close to kill someone.”

  “Arm’s length,” Branch said. “At the most.”

  “Meaning Zee’s killer was near enough to look into her eyes,” she said. “Hear her gasp. Watch her bleed. Meaning he hated her.”

  “Or loved her, or was jealous.”

  “Passion’s a powerful trigger for murder.”

  “Suggesting the boyfriend?”

  “We already cleared him,” Emily said. “But maybe he hired a hit man.”

  “Or woman,” Branch said.

  She ceded him the point and looked at the waist-high reception desk. The reddish-black stickum near the back edge was enough to account for her broken nose.

  But not the rest.

  “Where’d all the blood go?” she asked.

  Branch’s smile said, Attagirl. “Inside the body,” he said. He removed his sheath knife and laid the tip on his own chest. “He pushes straight up, under the rib cage,” he said, miming it. “The tip punctures the heart. Because of the shallow angle and thinness of the cut, the blood doesn’t drain back through the hole. It stays inside her body.”

  “In the chest cavity?”

  “Nature’s own Tupperware.”

  “I get it,” she said, examining Zee’s swan neck. “Same with her jugular?”

  “Uh-huh. But there, he angles down.” Another mime. “He sliced her esophagus, too, so the jugular blood had a place to drain.”

  “Her stomach,” she said, patting hers.

  “Yes. Some sprayed out of the wound, as you can see. But most stayed inside. That’s why the room’s not awash.”

  Emily shook her head. “How could he possibly accomplish all that?”

  “Either he’s so lucky he should be in Vegas,” Branch said, “or he’s an expert with a blade.”

  “Suggesting the hit man.”

  “Or an extraordinarily angry friend. Dealer, lover, rival, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief-”

  “You’re giving me a headache,” she complained.

  “Great cure for that,” Branch said. “Find him and ask.”

  “Or her,” she shot back.

  He chuckled, and waved for her to get to work.

  “Come on, Ray, show yourself,” Marty said, eyeballing each side street as he worked his way west on Plank Road. “I’ve got a report to write.”

  He slowed at Seager Park. Prettier place than most to fill out paperwork, he knew from his own years in patrol. Or, considering the sergeant’s abject laziness, steal forty winks.

  He crunched his way up the gravel, hoping it was the latter. He’d sneak as close as he could and crank the siren. With any luck, give Ray a heart attack . . .

  He skidded to a halt.

  A five-foot circle of parking area wasn’t the dusty beige of the rest.

  His senses sharpening in a way that warned, “Here Be Dragons,” he bailed out and hustled to the discoloration.

  It was blood, all right. He couldn’t detect the telltale scent of old pennies - battery-acid fumes had long ago burned away his sense of smell - but he knew by the color, sheen, and crust.

  And the hundreds of circling flies.

  He glanced around. Saw four brass cylinders just outside the circle. Small, empty, and resting on their sides.

  Handgun cartridges.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, turned over the closest.

  “.40,” the bottom read, under the deep indent of the firing pin.

  Not Luerchen’s caliber, Marty knew. The sergeant carried .45s.

  Meaning there’d been a shooter.

  He bent his head to the gravel to examine the blood from a flat angle. He noticed very faint drag marks pulled out of the northwest side. They pointed toward what looked like an opening mashed into the treeline.

  Roughly the width of a police cruiser.

  He hustled back to his car.

  “Marge,” he radioed, breathing slow to control his fast-pumping heart.

  “Go ahead, Marty.”

  “I’m at Seager Park on Plank Road. Send backups, Code Three.”

  “What’s happening?” she asked. “Did you find Luerchen?”

  “No. But there’s blood and shell casings. A
car-sized opening in the treeline.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Round up detectives, forensics, and canines. Put SWAT on standby. Find the sheriff, tell him what’s up.” He scratched his head, trying to anticipate all possibilities. “Call Branch. His cavalry can get here faster.”

  “You going to wait for them before you check out the opening?” Marge asked.

  “No. If Luerchen’s there, he’ll need help. Tell everyone I’m in the trees so don’t shoot me.”

  “Understood, Marty. Please be careful.”

  “Will do. I’ll call when I know more.”

  No sense assuming a jacked-up cop wouldn’t take a shot at a heavily armed man prowling the woods, so he popped his trunk and slipped on his body armor. Sheriff glowed atomic yellow from both sides. He cinched the straps tight, then pulled out the M-4 combat assault rifle he kept for emergency firepower.

  He jacked in a round of .223, tucked the butt into his shoulder, and walked into the woods, feeling a little bad about the heart-attack joke.

  Emily divided the lobby into three-foot squares. She tucked her gloved hands behind her back and searched each square in order.

  She stopped, cocking her head.

  “What?” Branch asked.

  “There’s two burnt matches. Behind the door.”

  “¿Que?”

  Emily squatted, wincing at the ripple in her calf. They were wood. Eighth-inch square, two inches long. Kitchen matches - Ohio Blue Tip or a clone. Available anywhere in the world.

  She closed her eyes and visualized scraping one against the sandpapery strip glued to the cardboard box. The bulb head flared bright orange, then steadied. The flame crawled down the stick. When it ran out of wood - or hit a finger - it died.

  She opened her eyes, compared visualization to reality.

  Pretty close. The bulb heads were charcoaled. But the burns ended right away - the sticks were untouched. Suggesting the matches were lit and immediately extinguished.

  She relayed the information, and Branch pointed to the mood candles.

  “I’ve visited this spa enough,” Emily said, shaking her head, “to know they light their candles with butane torches.”

  “That’s not it, then. Do they allow smoking?”