The Killing House mf-1

by Chris Mooney

  Fletcher selected two items from the kitchen. One came to rest inside Mr Corrigan’s mouth. The other was placed on his dinner plate. The man would see it, even in the gloom.

  Back upstairs, Fletcher turned on the bedroom lights. The man tied to the bed did not stir, even when he was searched.

  His pockets were empty. No identification. Fletcher studied the face. Karim had emailed him several pictures of Rico Herrera. Herrera had a round-shaped face, a gap between his front teeth and a birthmark along his right temple. The man on the bed had a square face, small and even teeth, and no birthmark. This man wasn’t Rico Herrera.

  Fletcher moved into the adjoining bathroom. Inside the medicine cabinet he found a surgical-strength bottle of antiseptic. He soaked a facecloth in cold water, returned to the bedroom and placed it on the man’s forehead. Then he cut the zip ties. The man’s arms flopped against his head. He didn’t stir or make a sound. Fletcher laid the man’s arms by his sides. The light brown forearms were punctured and bruised by needle marks.

  The nightstand drawers contained an assortment of surgical-spirit prep pads, gauze and plasters, packaged IV needles and syringes. He found vials of the narcotic pain medication Demerol mixed in between saline bags. A folding knife was in a bottom drawer.

  Fletcher left to explore the room across the hall. The security-alarm keypad glowed from the wall next to the door. He turned on the lights and filled it with liquid styrofoam.

  The master bedroom contained a king-sized bed and a pair of nightstands, a lamp on each one. Both nightstands held alarm clocks. One contained a bottle of hand cream, the other a biography of Winston Churchill. A leather club chair sat in a corner. The walls were bare. The bureau did not contain any framed pictures, and he had seen no pictures downstairs. Inside the bureau drawers he found a mix of men’s and women’s clothing.

  Fletcher took in the room, with its Moulin Rouge colours and recycled Louis XIV-style furniture and fabrics: pop Victorian mixed with the taste of a French bordello. A knock-off Gustave Serrurier-Bovy armoire made of rich mahogany stood in a corner. He had seen the original, crafted in 1899 by the late Belgian architect, on display at Paris’s Musee d’Orsay.

  Fletcher was more interested in the closet door. It was made of solid wood — the kind of door used primarily on the front or back of a house to prevent intrusion. What made the closet door even more peculiar was the mechanism used to secure it: an electronic lock that required a magnetic keycard.

  Gary Corrigan wasn’t carrying a magnetic keycard.

  Fletcher wondered if the closet contained its own separate security system. He took out his device resembling an ordinary smartphone and moved it around the edges of the closet and the brushed stainless-steel light switch overhead. The green light did not turn red. There was no electronic security. He tucked the device away and snapped open the tactical pouch containing his various lock-picking tools, selecting a heavy circular ring made of aluminium. It housed four powerful magnets that could bypass any electronic lock.

  He slipped the ring over the door handle and then, slowly, turned it clockwise, waiting for the magnetic fields to find the metal parts residing inside the electronic lock… there. Now a quick twist counterclockwise and the lock clicked back. Fletcher flipped the light switch as he opened the door.

  31

  Here was a long walk-in closet of recessed lighting and custom-made white shelving, shoe racks and cabinetry. The back held a tall built-in bureau with six drawers. Beside it was another Louis XIV-designed chair, this one covered with ivory linen and with cabriole legs of distressed wood. An antique side table sat next to the chair, its top holding an empty highball glass and a half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon.

  Fletcher turned his attention to some plastic garment bags hanging from steel rods on either side of the closet. There were eleven bags, and the spaces between them were perfectly even. Each bag faced the aisle of light brown carpet, turned at a slight angle so it faced the chair.

  He stepped inside. The air was stale and dust swarmed in the cones of light.

  Within the clear-plastic bags were clothes belonging to both men and women — complete outfits, the clothing combinations artfully arranged on the hangers as though they were on display for purchase in a store. He found suit jackets draped over shirts with ties and silk scarves. Long-sleeves and short-sleeves and T-shirts paired with chinos and jeans. One bag contained a green hospital smock and scrubs.

  The clothes were of various sizes. Sitting underneath each bag was an odd assortment of well-worn footwear- shoes, trainers, boots, even two worn white clogs. Two pairs of women’s shoes were missing heels.

  Fletcher inspected a random garment bag. It held a wrinkled linen sports jacket draped over a wrinkled and torn pale blue Oxford-collared shirt. The garment bag next to it contained a pair of men’s jeans. The pocket was ripped, the fabric above the knees covered with grime and dried blood. The accompanying white T-shirt, dirty and mangled, had underarms marred with yellow perspiration stains.

  He inspected the built-in bureau’s six drawers. Each one contained men’s and women’s jewellery, laid out on black velvet cushions. Some pieces were bent and broken. Others were scratched or missing a small diamond or stone.

  Fletcher sat in the chair. The garment bags faced him.

  Eleven bags containing mangled and bloody clothing. Eleven bags for eleven victims. The garments were killing souvenirs. Trophies. He looked at the highball glass. Its rim was smeared with red lipstick. The shooter, the woman in the fur coat, had used this glass. She had sat in this chair, sipped her bourbon and stared at the clothing of her victims.

  And she had a male partner. She lived with and slept next to a man every day and every night. The man had to be her partner because there was no way she could hide this grisly tableau from him. Fletcher got to his feet, wondering if the pair had designed the killing museum together.

  And how did Gary Corrigan fit into this? He wasn’t the woman’s partner, Fletcher was sure of it. The bedroom’s bureau drawers held XXL jockey vests and boxer shorts. Corrigan had been wearing a form-fitting tank-top vest and Calvin Klein briefs, both in a size large.

  Fletcher removed Corrigan’s iPhone and then reached for the small, boxy forensic unit strapped to his tactical belt. He unspooled a cord and connected the end to the iPhone. The unit’s LCD panel came to life and then began the process of extracting the phone’s data.

  All the clothes in here belonged to adult men and women. He looked at the sleeping figure on the bed.

  Who are you? And why are you tied up to this bed?

  It was time to speak with Gary Corrigan. Fletcher slid the highball glass inside an evidence bag, about to shut it when he noticed a faint black residue resting at the bottom, a small collection of particles resembling cigarette ashes.

  Not cigarettes ashes, Fletcher thought, looking around the closet. The shelves above the hangers were bare. Kneeling, he searched the area behind the shoes. Behind each one he found a sealed plastic bag holding cremated remains. Human ashes.

  The forensic unit vibrated against his belt, the signal that it had finished the download. Fletcher removed the cord and examined Corrigan’s iPhone as he left the closet.

  32

  Entering the dining room, Fletcher was pleased to find Gary Corrigan conscious. The man’s head bobbed and swayed from side to side, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to clear away the pain, tried to focus.

  Fletcher picked up the small kitchen torch sitting in the centre of the table. A press of a button and the bright blue flame ignited, parting the gloom.

  Corrigan sat up, his back ramrod-straight against the chair, his eyes as wide as the saucers decorating the splendid table.

  ‘ “By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,” ’ Fletcher said, lighting the first of four candles wedged in delicate crystal blocks. ‘ “Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.” ’

  The man didn’t a
nswer — couldn’t, even if he had been so inclined, due to the dishcloth stuffed in his mouth.

  ‘The last lines from William Cullen Bryant’s poem “Thantopsis”,’ Fletcher said. He lit the final candle and returned the torch to the table. ‘I doubt you’re praying to God right now, Mr Corrigan, but at the moment you may lack perspective.’

  Corrigan’s licence picture showed an older man with a sagging chin and a bloated face. The man strapped to the chair had noticeably different features. In addition to a subtle facelift, he had gained muscle mass. In the flickering candlelight Fletcher could see the thick fibrous muscles flexing and moving beneath the pale skin. Show muscle. Lots of low reps with heavy weights, their bulk and definition aided by steroids. The diminutive size of the man’s testicles proved he had been on the juice for quite some time.

  Sensing the man’s embarrassment at having his genitalia on display, Fletcher pushed the chair up against the table until the lip of the linen tablecloth covered his lap.

  Fletcher took the chair next to Corrigan. ‘Do you own this house, Mr Corrigan?’

  Vigorous shaking of the head: No, no, no, no.

  ‘I thought not.’ Fletcher picked up a coffee cup painstakingly decorated with hand-painted violets and vines and, turning it over, read the writing printed on the bottom: ‘Haviland Limoges. I’d compliment you on your excellent taste, but I suspect you had nothing to do with the purchase. A man who could afford Limoges china and the antique luxuries inside this house certainly wouldn’t scrimp on his clothing, would he? Your Hugo Boss suit and Hermes overcoat are clearly knock-offs. You can tell by the inferior stitching.’

  Fletcher leaned forward and pulled the cloth from Corrigan’s mouth. The man’s chest heaved as he sucked in air. Inbetween the rapid breaths Fletcher heard the ticking from the antique grandfather clock sitting in the room’s corner. Corrigan glanced at it as he spoke.

  ‘Who are you?’ He had a light and airy voice. Educated. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘As for who I am, think of me as a borrowed angel — your borrowed angel, Mr Corrigan, sent from on high to unburden you of your sins. Now let me explain what I want.

  ‘The path to salvation can be very straight and narrow, but I should warn you, I’m someone who finds dishonesty unspeakably ugly. Please bear that in mind before you answer my questions. If I feel you’re lying to me, I’ll use this on your fingers.’ Fletcher tapped the meat cleaver resting on the man’s dinner plate. ‘If that doesn’t help clarify your priorities, I’ll move on to the more sensitive items residing a few inches south of your navel. Do we have an understanding?’

  The man nodded, swallowing.

  ‘Good.’ Fletcher leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He draped his arm on the table, resting his fingers next to the handle of the cleaver. ‘We’ll start with an easy question. The gentleman tied up in the upstairs bedroom: what’s his name?’

  Corrigan swallowed. ‘Timmy.’

  ‘Does Timmy have a last name?’

  ‘I’m sure he does, but I don’t know it.’

  ‘And why, pray tell, is Timmy hooked up to an IV?’

  ‘He’s dehydrated. Some sort of stomach flu.’

  ‘He has a number of needle marks on his arms.’

  ‘He’s a junkie,’ Corrigan said. ‘Heroin, I was told.’

  ‘Told by whom? The woman who owns this house?’

  ‘What woman? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The one with the black hair pulled back into a bun. The one with the fur coat. Where is she? What’s her name?’

  ‘I don’t know anything. This is my first time here.’

  Fletcher sighed. ‘Does Mr Jenner live here?’

  Corrigan went a little pale.

  Fletcher held up the man’s iPhone. ‘I examined the call log,’ he said, and then placed the phone on the table. ‘Over the past three hours I noticed seven incoming and outgoing calls between you and someone named Jenner. I checked your contacts and saw a listing for Jenner but no first name or address, just a cell-phone number. Enlighten me.’

  ‘I don’t know if Jenner is the man’s first name or his last.’

  ‘Is this his house?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Corrigan stole another glace at the clock. ‘Whatever this is about, I’ve — ’

  ‘Why did you tie your patient’s hands to the headboard?’

  ‘Jenner did that. He didn’t want Timmy to rip the IV out of his arm. I had to get fluids in him. He called me — Jenner — he called and asked that I come over to treat Timmy.’

  ‘You inserted the IV?’

  Corrigan paused a beat, considering the question. ‘I was a nurse a long time ago.’

  ‘Why did you give it up, Mr Corrigan?’

  ‘It gave me up. Cutbacks. The economy.’

  ‘I see. And when did you give up practising surgery?’

  ‘I don’t know what — ’

  ‘Your hands reek of chlorhexidine,’ Fletcher said. ‘You scrubbed your hands in the upstairs bathroom before treating your patient, didn’t you?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I’m a surgeon. It’s a standard antiseptic cleaner. I use it because — ’

  ‘I watched you doing your hand exercises with that rubber-strengthening ball.’

  Corrigan grew still, his face shiny with perspiration.

  ‘Then I watched you pick up your little stack of coins and check your hand for tremors. I’m assuming that’s why you take these.’ Fletcher held up the man’s plastic vial of pills. ‘One is a betablocker, and so is the other, Propranolol. These are the only two medications that, when used together, decrease surgical tremors and anxiety.’

  Corrigan couldn’t mask his surprise at being found out.

  ‘If you’re not a surgeon, Mr Corrigan, then why are you taking these medications?’

  The man didn’t answer. Beads of sweat rolled down his face.

  Fletcher reached for the cleaver.

  ‘ Was,’ Corrigan said. ‘I was a surgeon.’

  ‘But you told me you were a nurse.’

  Corrigan swallowed. Licked his lips and swallowed again.

  ‘Let’s talk about this like two civilized people, okay? I’ll tell you everything I know. It’s not much, but I’ll — ’

  ‘You lied to me,’ Fletcher said, picking up the meat cleaver as he stood.

  33

  ‘ Hold on,’ Corrigan screamed, jerking against his restraints. The dining-room chair tipped back. Its arms banged against the table’s underside and the chair rocked forward. ‘ For the love of Christ just hold on a moment and let me explain! ’

  Fletcher rested the tip of the cleaver against the plate. ‘Why does Mr Jenner employ a surgeon?’

  ‘Former surgeon. I’m a former surgeon.’ Corrigan’s breathing came hard and fast. ‘He employs me to treat people he doesn’t want to bring to the hospital. That’s all I do, I swear to God. Whatever beef you’ve got with him, it isn’t with me, so let’s just — ’

  ‘What, exactly, is Mr Jenner’s business?’

  ‘It’s none of mine,’ Corrigan said. ‘I don’t ask questions, I just take care of the medical end of things. He called and told me to come here, and I did. Timmy was already here and tied up to the bed, that’s the God’s honest truth. Jenner told me to give him the antibiotics, and I did.’

  ‘And Demerol.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. Timmy was going through heroin withdrawal. Jenner wanted him to sleep, so I sedated him with Demerol. Jenner tied him up because he didn’t want Timmy getting his hands on it.’

  ‘Dosage?’

  ‘A hundred milligrammes every two to three hours.’

  ‘IM injection or slow IV push?’

  ‘Push,’ Corrigan said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Who supplies the medicine, you or Jenner?’

  ‘Jenner. I tell him what I need and he gets it for me.’

  ‘And you’re saying Mr Jenner does not own this home.’

  ‘That’s right.’
/>   ‘Who does?’

  ‘I don’t know, I swear to Christ — ’

  ‘I think you do,’ Fletcher said. ‘And I think if I apply the right amount of pressure, you’ll tell me.’

  ‘How many times do I have to say it? I. Don’t. Know. ’

  Fletcher pulled out Corrigan’s chair at an angle, exposing the man’s right hand.

  ‘ You’re asking the wrong man,’ Corrigan howled, squeezing the chair’s armrest. ‘ I’m just a hired hand, I swear to God I’m telling you the truth. ’

  Fletcher rested the blade against the man’s wrist and said, ‘Then tell me the name of the man and woman who own this house.’

  ‘ I don’t know! I don’t know! ’

  Fletcher brought up the cleaver.

  The veins in the man’s neck stood out like cords of rope as he screamed: ‘ I’M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH, I SWEAR TO GOD, JESUS IN HEAVEN, I DON’T KNOW WHAT JENNER DOES FOR A LIVING OR WHO OWNS THIS HOUSE OR WHO’S COMING OVER TO DINNER, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE DON’T HURT ME!’

  Fletcher placed the cleaver on the table.

  ‘What time are your dinner guests arriving?’

  Corrigan struggled to catch his breath. ‘They’re not my guests,’ he said. ‘I have no idea what time they’re coming.’

  Fletcher suspected that was a lie. He suspected that every word Corrigan had spoken was a lie. Given the number of times the man had consulted the grandfather clock, Corrigan was expecting Jenner and/or tonight’s guests to be arriving shortly — perhaps within minutes. The man was stalling to save his life.

  Fletcher picked up the iPhone and placed it on the doctor’s dinner plate.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘We’re going to have a conference call with your employer,’ Fletcher said.

  34

  Corrigan stared at his iPhone as though it had suddenly transformed itself into a poisonous snake. Fletcher outlined how the upcoming conversation would be conducted as he removed his own smartphone and, with it, a cord wound into a tight coil. He placed both items on the edge of the table.