Grimm: The Chopping Block

by John Passarella

  On the front of the torn sheet of paper, someone had drawn a design with a thick black marker. An arc or curve with acute triangles running along the outside of the curve. Below the geometric shapes, the same hand had written a message or a line of code, but most of that line was on the missing section of the paper. Only the top remained. Four letters or numbers, with a gap between the third and fourth. The first one might have been a five or the top of a boxy S, the second an eight or the top of an O, and the third could have been a one, an uppercase I or an L. After the gap, the fourth item looked like a tiny inverted V, which seemed unlikely.

  Nick looked up from the paper and noticed a man staring back at him from across the street. Wearing blue coveralls and smoking a cigarette, the man stood in front of an automotive shop that faced the north side of the vacant lot. Obviously his place of employment. But when he noticed Nick’s attention, he flicked the cigarette away, turned abruptly on his heel and hurried into the open garage bay. Mildly suspicious behavior for an innocent bystander, or an average crime scene gawker.

  Nick sealed the scrap of paper in a spare evidence bag he kept in his jacket, then shoved the bag and his gloves back in his pocket and crossed to the north edge of the lot. He followed the fence until he came to a gap with only an X of strung crime scene tape to block his way. He ducked between the arms of the X to leave the tape in place, crossed the street and approached the dingy white cinderblock building. Instead of employing a mounted or freestanding sign, the owners had painted the name of their business directly on one broad expanse of wall, in red script letters that had faded to near-illegibility over time: SWARTLEY BROS. AUTO REPAIR.

  Nick glanced up and down the street, taking in a series of warehouses and manufacturing facilities whose fortunes seemed to have faded. Those in the immediate vicinity ran only skeleton crews, judging by the handful of cars in too-large parking lots. A few appeared to have shuttered entirely.

  If not for the open garage bay and the presence of the smoking mechanic, Nick might have assumed the auto shop had also gone out of business. Riddled with potholes and broken chunks of concrete, the front parking lot presented a clear tire and axle hazard. No better way to discourage potential customers. Grime coated the windows that looked out from the back office and reception area.

  Nick walked up to the open garage bay and peered inside, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior. A rust-pocked gold Camaro occupied the single lift. Scattered around the cluttered garage, Nick spotted a couple air compressions, hanging pneumatic lines, a rolling jack, a brake lathe, a tire changer and wheel balancer, an air conditioner recharger and a headlight aimer. Some of the heavy equipment appeared out of order. Some hand tools, including an air gun, loose wrenches and a mechanic’s lamp, had been left on the floor.

  A mechanic wearing a camouflage-patterned trucker’s hat, blue denim shirt and grimy, frayed jeans stood near a large red wheeled mechanic’s tool chest stationed against the left wall, its many drawers closed—the lone exception to the prevailing rule of sloppiness in the shop.

  “What can I do you for, mister?”

  Nick’s hand dropped to the gold shield on his belt.

  “Detective Burkhardt, Portland PD.” Nick said. “Like to ask you a few questions.”

  The man came away from the wall, approaching Nick, but stopped beside the lift. An embroidered name tag on the breast pocket of his denim shirt identified him as Ron. He had deep-set brown eyes in a narrow face with a pointy chin covered with spotty stubble. Holding a grimy rag, he went through the motions of cleaning his hands and nodded toward the vacant lot.

  “Regular party going on over there.”

  “Wouldn’t call it a party,” Nick said. “It’s a crime scene.”

  “How about that,” Ron said, nodding. “We don’t get many police patrols out here.”

  “Don’t suppose you saw anyone on that lot recently?”

  “Couple boys riding mountain bikes.”

  “Before that,” Nick said, irritated. “In the last couple weeks.” He glanced toward the doorway leading from the garage bay into the reception area. “You’re Ron Swartley?”

  “That I am, Detective.”

  “Your brother here?”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Saw someone standing out front, smoking a cigarette.”

  “That against the law now?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Could’ve been me out there,” Ron said. “Can’t seem to quit the filthy habit.”

  “But it wasn’t,” Nick said. “Man I saw wore blue coveralls.”

  “Sounds like Ray, all right,” Ron said. “But I must have missed him.”

  Nick looked around the one-bay garage, which verged on claustrophobic with the clutter of heavy equipment in the aisles and loose tools underfoot.

  “How?”

  Ron shrugged. His gaze flickered up to the Camaro on the lift.

  “I was cleaning up.”

  Worst excuse ever, Nick thought. His irritation and anxiety had reached a turning point. His hand moved toward his Glock 17, pulling it free.

  A blur of movement flashed in the periphery of his vision before he could bring the gun to bear. Nick spun, instinctively raising his left forearm to shield himself from the blow before he fully registered what was happening.

  Ray, the smoking mechanic in the blue coveralls, rushed him while swinging a crowbar.

  Nick managed to deflect most of the blow, but the metal clipped his scalp, setting off a blinding flashbulb in his skull.

  In the instant before the impact, Ray had woged into the form of a Reinigen.

  Nick’s foot shot out for him to catch himself but his shoe came down on a loose air gun, which slid out from under him, taking his balance with it. His Glock fell from his hand, spinning away to come to rest under the tire changer.

  Ray swung the crowbar overhead like an axe.

  Nick caught the shaft of the crowbar and held tight, using his weight and Ray’s momentum to pull the man over him and away.

  Ray slammed sideways against the air conditioner recharger. The crowbar clanged off of something metallic and skittered across the concrete floor.

  As Nick scrambled to his feet, Ron charged him with a utility knife he apparently had hidden in the hip pocket of his jeans. The extended razor blade gleamed as it slashed at Nick’s face.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bruno Farley, the barrel-chested Wesen butcher with his own human livestock pen, crossed the slaughter room and opened the walk-in cooler. Inside, only three human carcasses remained. Beheaded, disemboweled and skinned, they hung from meat hooks on a U-shaped track. He grabbed the one Chef had chosen and tagged earlier, and lifted it off its hook. Chef had already claimed the organs and sweetbreads. Slinging the gutted carcass over his shoulder, the butcher walked to his preparation table and laid it out.

  With the last week upon them, he’d have to pick up the pace to meet demand. From now until the end, he should have at least six carcasses ready for butchering at all times. That should keep him busy until it was time to move on.

  He opened the large drawer under the worktable and took out his twenty-five-inch meat saw, a meat hook with a welded metal handle, his solid metal meat cleaver, and a few carving knives. Before he began in earnest, he checked the edges of the blades and sharpened two of the smaller ones, which he’d need to slice every last scrap of meat from the bone. Whatever he overlooked would come off in soup pots and roasts. They never wasted anything—except the bones.

  Slamming the meat hook into the flesh to hold it in place, he cut his way down the length of the carcass with the meat saw in his right hand. He then bisected both halves below the ribs to complete the quartering process. Lifting a top quarter—not quite the same as the forequarter of a beef carcass but close—he hung it from a sharp hook on a gambrel suspended from the ceiling. He fixed the other top quarter beside the first so he could focus on the hindquarters. Each arm sagged down—
fingers curled as if clutching spare change—and spun independently of the other, following the movement of the separate hooks. A butcher’s mobile.

  Setting the handsaw aside, Farley picked up his largest carving knife and sliced the top of the right leg clear of the hip, repeating the process for the left. Then he switched to his cleaver and, with powerful overhead swings, chopped both legs in half. Not the best cuts of meat, he pushed them to the back of the table. He cut off rump roasts, then flank steaks, before sirloin steaks and the tenderloin for filet mignon. He arranged these cuts on the back of the table, which he would wrap later and keep refrigerated until Chef came for them.

  He brought down the right top quarter, sliced an arm free, and chopped with the cleaver to split the arm in half. With his strength, one blow—whock!—was sufficient to sever the bone. Farley enjoyed the decisive sound the cleaver made with each true cut.

  Tossing the pieces of the severed arm to the back of the table, he switched to a smaller knife to cut the rib meat away from the bone—more detailed work. Hunched over the table, he heard a quick knock on the door—unlocked since he was alone.

  A familiar voice called, “Bone pickup!”

  “Fine,” he grumbled as he ran the keen knife edge along a rib, stripping away the meat. Sometimes they wanted the ribs. For this carcass, Chef had requested the meat alone.

  Absorbed in his work, he kept his back to Fixer, who wheeled in the hand truck with the squeaky wheel. If Farley had to ask him to oil the damn wheel one more time, he’d part the man’s hair with the business end of his cleaver. Show some damn pride in your work, man! But he sighed and said nothing. In a few days, I’ll be free of that jackass.

  The bane of his existence began whistling an annoying tune as he buckled straps around the metal bin, securing it against the hand truck. The bones tended to accumulate during the feasts and the butcher hated clutter in his slaughter room. On balance, he was glad to be rid of them.

  “This the whole shebang?” Fixer asked. “Or does Chef have a few left over in his soup pots?”

  “Far as I know,” Farley said, “that’s everything.”

  “Guess I’ll ask him. Just to be sure.”

  “You do that.”

  “Looks like I’ll need to find a third dumping ground.”

  Regretting his decision to speak, he asked anyway. “Why is that?”

  “Haven’t you been watching the news, Butcher? Police discovered both locations. Too risky to go back.”

  Farley couldn’t resist a dig. “Maybe if you had hidden the bones better…”

  The man scoffed. “Why? Week from now, nobody here will give a crap.”

  This time, Farley remained silent. The man excused his sloppiness as expediency. Farley hadn’t hired the poor excuse for a fixer. He certainly wouldn’t waste time arguing with him. He’d much rather spend that time gutting the man. Too bad he wasn’t human. Otherwise, Farley would ask Chef to add Fixer to his menu.

  “Relax, big guy. It’s almost over.”

  Farley heard the door click shut. He paused in his work, eyes squeezed shut until the grating sound of the squeaky wheel eventually faded away. With a sigh of relief, he resumed work on the rib meat.

  * * *

  Though Hank’s neck and shoulders ached from the grind of riding crutches all over the great outdoors of Portland, he kept the discomfort to himself. Once people in the department saw him on crutches, they cut him slack he neither requested nor wanted. Some of them probably thought he should be deskbound until the cast came off. Not that they would ever voice those opinions, at least not to his face.

  On the surface, everyone was accommodating and understanding. But the last few days had made him rethink his bravado and stubbornness. Every so often, he hoped—well, hope was definitely too strong a word—but he certainly wouldn’t complain if the next homicide they caught had gone down in a modern office building, with smooth tiled floors and elevators.

  On the plus side, his crutches had led him to discover a second set of bones at the vacant lot, something the uniforms and techs had missed. In that instance, his disabil—his temporarily reduced ability—had helped move the investigation forward. And Nick had given no indication that Hank’s mobility predicament had—

  Nick?

  Hank scanned the groups of uniforms and techs, looking for his partner.

  The last time he’d seen Nick, he’d been bagging a piece of paper away from the others. Then he must have wandered off for some reason. Maybe something he’d seen on the paper. Following a lead, but not something that had raised any red flags. Guess he decided to give me a breather.

  Supporting his weight on his good foot, Hank reached for his crutches and slid them under his arms. He headed in the direction where he’d last seen Nick, working his way methodically down an uneven slope. From his new vantage point, the only thing he saw was a white cinderblock building across the street from the side of the lot, a disreputable looking automotive shop.

  Of course. He’s interviewing potential witnesses over there.

  Pausing, Hank took out his cell phone. Two bars—now one. Poor reception, but he speed-dialed Nick and waited through the static-filled ringing until the phone bounced to voicemail. He hung up. Dropped the phone in his jacket pocket and hurried across the lot.

  Like a hobbled mother hen, Hank thought. Probably worrying over nothing.

  Still…

  * * *

  Nick blocked Ron Swartley’s right wrist with his left forearm, avoiding the slashing razor blade in the utility knife. Almost in the same motion, Nick drove his fist into Ron’s gut, staggering him. Before the other man could recover, Nick gripped his knife hand and forearm and drove the limb against his knee, knocking the blade loose. Then he drove a shoulder into the Reinigen and shoved him hard.

  Ron stumbled backward and banged into the wheeled tool chest, clutching a few of the drawer handles to stop himself from falling.

  Nick moved forward to press the attack but heard Ray charging from behind him. He only had time to turn around halfway—enough to see that Ray was unarmed—before the rat-faced Reinigen leapt onto his back.

  Spinning, Nick caught Ray’s right arm and flung him toward his brother, using the man’s own momentum to hurl him forward.

  Ron had pushed himself away from the tool chest at the same moment his brother collided with him. In a tangle of flailing limbs, they both went down, one of them pulling the tool chest down on top of them with a crash of metal tools, clanging and pinging all around them like a rain of hardware hail.

  The spilled collection of metal created many potential weapons, either handheld or projectile, so Nick decided, for the moment, to postpone fishing his Glock out from under the tire changer.

  He was a Grimm. He could handle two obnoxious Reinigens.

  As Nick strode toward them, the brothers pushed and pulled each other, shoving the overturned tool chest out of the way. Ray climbed to his feet first, and bolted toward the back door of the garage bay. Rather, he tried to bolt. Nick caught him by the collar of his coveralls and hauled him back.

  “Not so fast.”

  Ron sprang up from hands and knees and threw himself bodily against the back of Nick’s legs. Falling suddenly backward, Nick lost his grip on Ray, who, given a second opportunity, slipped out the back exit. A moment later, Nick heard a dirt-bike engine roar to life, a shower of gravel pelt the back wall of the shop, and the engine whine into the distance, fading away.

  But Nick had more immediate concerns.

  Looming over the detective in full woge, flashing his enlarged incisors, Ron had a long stainless steel wrench clutched in his hand. Impatient, he lunged forward.

  Nick planted the sole of his shoe in the Reinigen’s gut and shoved hard. Ron’s body whipped backward, falling over the tumbled tool chest, and the back of his head whacked against the wall.

  Nick pushed himself up on his elbows.

  Ron groaned, tightened his grip on the wrench and tried to rise up from
the tool chest.

  “Freeze!”

  Stone faced, Hank stood on the threshold of the open bay, balanced on his crutches, pointing his Glock at the sprawled Reinigen.

  “Drop your weapon!”

  Wincing, Ron let the wrench slip from his hand. It clanged against the concrete floor.

  “You okay?” Hank asked Nick.

  “Fine.”

  “Your head’s bleeding.”

  Nick raised his hand to his scalp, just above the hairline where the end of the crowbar had caught him, and felt a laceration. Not too deep, but he’d probably need a few stitches.

  “Flesh wound,” he said with a shrug.

  Rising, Nick felt a little lightheaded, hoped he hadn’t sustained a concussion, but wasted no time cuffing Ron Swartley and dragging him to his feet.

  “Reinigens,” Nick said. “Brother Ray escaped out back, on a dirt bike. This one is Ron.”

  “I’ll call it in,” Hank said. “Got enough patrol units in the area. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “What’s this?” Nick said, staring down at the overturned tool chest. Amid all the tools, screws, bolts and other metal paraphernalia, he noticed a baggie stuffed with pills. He crouched down and lifted the tool chest upright, then staggered back in a moment of dizziness.

  “Nick?” Hank said, concerned, as he wrapped up his call and put his phone away. “You don’t look okay.”

  “I’m all right,” Nick said, while attempting to blink away a few spots in his vision. Blood had run down the side of his face, and big drops splattered on the floor. Scalp wounds tended to bleed a lot. He backed away from the stacked evidence to avoid contaminating it. “Looks like the Swartley Brothers had a little side business.”

  From one of the large bottom drawers of the tool chest, several other baggies had fallen out, along with bundled stacks of cash.

  “Jackpot,” Hank said.

  Nick pushed the mound of baggies apart with the tip of a ballpoint pen from his pocket to examine the collection of pills.

  “We got oxycodone—a lot of oxy—and, for variety, some Vicodin and Xanax. Different baggie for each dosage. What’s oxy go for these days, Ron? Dollar per milligram?”