by J. R. Rain
“I see,” says Bowen. “So you’ve got some skin in this game. I assume we can find everything to know in the files, so if you’re feeling too involved…”
“No, I’m good,” Val says grimly. Which is just as well, because what remains of Nadya Trapani’s face is up on the screen now. And it’s not pretty; for whatever reason, the killer really went to town on her. That’s where the SID tech guy first saw the toothmarks. “I just want to get the mother that did this.”
A general murmur of approval, even from the higher-ups in the room, greets his words. I sneak a quick peek at Val; he looks very pale and purposeful―and suddenly I just know he’s slept with this dead Nadya chick. You know how you do sometimes? Which I guess causes me a stab of retroactive jealousy, but at the same time I wonder how it must feel to see an ex’s ripped-apart face up there on the TV screen. I mean…I’m as much a professional as Val is, but I know couldn’t stand it, not even in Devon’s case, mad as I still am at him. I’d have to run crying from the room. But not the Gypsy King.
Good to know.
Next up we get to see a long and detailed presentation on the mayor’s daughter, who apparently had been going to Nadya for Tarot and palm-readings and just general love-life predictions for the past couple years, according to her credit card records. Hey, it’s not much different than going to see a shrink, so I’m not judging. And speaking of shrinks, I spot none other than Dr. Phil hovering over by the door, looking, of all things, fearful and nervous. Maybe he’s putting two and two together, too.
What the mayor’s daughter was doing there in the middle of the night―and both she and Nadya Trapani were dressed only in silk bathrobes―remains unexplained.
Lastly, we come to the dismembered corpse of the fifth vic, our John Doe, aka Izaak Drago, the Maltese Wise Man. Why the “Three Wise Men of Malta”, I suddenly wonder? Is the name just a bad translation of “wise guys?” But surely there must be more than just three mobsters on the island―though I’ve Googled it, and there seems to be very little organized crime there. Whatever, there is so little left intact of Drago that the ME’s attempt to reassemble him like Mr. Potatohead isn’t a big success; neither is the department’s attempts to get a set of prints or dental records. His fingers are all missing, along with his teeth. I’m waiting to see if Val ID’s him, too, but he doesn’t. Neither do I, for my own reasons.
The morning drags on. After the Loot―Bowen―sits down, we get the Medical Examiner’s report, which is not for the faint of heart. Even a few of the senior officers look pretty green during the presentation. Then the deputy coroner tries to establish a timeframe based on the evidence and takes a few questions.
Next a blood spatter expert, just like on TV, choreographs the sequence of events for us. The killer or killers apparently climbed the rear outside wall―blood was found all over the razor wire on top of one section―descending to the deck near the pool. There they initially confronted the bodyguard and killed him, throwing the dismembered body into the pool afterwards. This must have caused a lot of noise; why this didn’t alarm the rest of the victims inside the house enough to make them flee the house or go into the basement safe room, which was like a bank vault, nobody is even trying to explain. At least one of them―Drago (the John Doe) ―seemed to have confronted the intruder(s) at that point with an unlicensed Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum, which was later found in the kitchen sink.
“He managed to get off two shots first, neither of which we’ve found at the CS.” The blood spatter guy shrugs. “So either one or both sailed off over the wall or…”
“Or they’re still in the perp,” says one of the lawyers. Veteran cops don’t tend to say “perp” in real life, it’s TV talk.
“Jesus, a magnum could blow an arm off,” mutters somebody else.
The two women were next to die, then Trapani himself, who seems to have rushed from his study firing his own registered HK45, a twin of that carried by his bodyguard. Three shots were fired from it. Two bullets were found in the living room wall. He was killed on the spot, then dragged back into his study and deposited there. That was when the rest of the corpses were systematically mutilated and dismembered. Several were gnawed on and apparently partially devoured. The last handgun was found in the study, under Trapani’s body, which was relatively intact.
A sigh of relief goes up from everyone in the room. It’s hard enough to have to hear all this shit about murder, but the cannibalism…nobody wants to be forced to visualize that, no matter how many years they’ve put in.
Establishing the time of the murders was relatively easy, the ME tells us; what is harder to calculate is how long the crime had taken from start to finish. But given the time of egress quoted by the witness across the street, the best estimate was that it had all happened in a little less than half an hour. Which was almost supernaturally fast for that much carnage to have taken place if perpetrated by a single attacker.
“PCP,” suggests one of the detectives.
“Or salts,” says Ayon.
“We tox-screened the blood we found on the wire,” the deputy coroner replies. “A high level of blood alcohol, but otherwise nada. We’ll have DNA on it tomorrow.”
Tomorrow will be too late for my purposes.
The final presentation of the morning, a psychological profile of the killer, is given by Dr. Phil, who is a recognized expert in the field. I’ve sat in on a couple of his profiling lectures before, and normally he brims with confidence. Today, not so much. He rushes through his bullet points almost mechanically. He even stammers at one point. The basic gist is that we don’t have enough to go on. This is greeted with frustration and disbelief.
“Can’t you at least give us some kind of clue about what we’re dealing with here, doc?” demands the most senior captain in the room. “I mean, what have we got on our hands here? Another Manson family?”
“Sounds more like Jeffrey Dahmer made parole,” says one of the lawyers, and this brings snickers. Dr. Phil just shakes his head, and the long meeting finally breaks up. I swear to God, police spend as much time sitting around conference tables staring at Powerpoints as business executives these days―but the difference is afterwards we’re expected to go out on the streets and get results. Then stay up half the night writing up our reports.
I manage to buttonhole Dr. Phil on his way out. He doesn’t look me in the eye. “I’ve been thinking about it, Dr. Phil, and I’ve decided it might be a good idea for me to meet the others.”
“What others?” he says evasively. A film of sweat breaks out on his upper lip.
“You know, the two other, what did you call us? ‘Thanatics.’ Unless there’s some particular reason we can’t get together for a session. How about this afternoon?”
“I’ll call them.”
“This afternoon, doc.” I’m pretty sure Dr. Phil knows that one of us did this. Maybe even which one. It’s just a wild guess on my part, but I’d be willing to bet that the killer called him when he got back home and came out of his trance. Dr. Phil could claim client confidentiality for not ratting the poor guy out, but it would cost him his career, and he knows it. That explains his twitchiness; he’s freaking out, not knowing when he should spill this or who to. “I’ll give you until”―I look at my watch―“two. Of course, anything that comes out of your office is confidential. That’s understood.”
I’m offering him a face-saving way out, see? He’ll naturally assume I want credit on the collar, but he’ll be relieved to be spared any accusations in the future. You know, like that a patient under his care could have been prevented from doing this…
But now I need to CMA―cover my own sweet ass. Which the Gypsy King gazes at pretty wistfully after we say goodbye for the day, I notice with some pleasure. I go back to the stationhouse with Malena Ayon, grab something from one of the vending machines in the lounge, then go into Captain Quirk’s office and lock the door behind me.
“Jesus Fucking Christ, Dadd―what now?” he says, looking up from hi
s monitor. “I hate these new goddamn touchscreens.”
“We got a situation, Cap. You remember my…um…delicate condition? You know, the no pulse thing?”
“Yeah, yeah. How can I forget? What’s your fucking point?”
“Well, it’s pretty much what you were worried about. There’s been an outbreak of zombieitis in the department. At least two others so far. And I’m pretty sure one of ‘em’s good for the mass murder in Little Malta. Maybe even both.”
“Oh, for the love of…” he groans, momentarily robbed even of the ability to curse. Cappy slumps back in his chair. Then he starts thinking it through. “You’re not―please tell me you’re not thinking of cuffing him and bringing him in, detective. Not in front of the cameras.”
“No. Don’t worry, I’m gonna make it right, Cap; I think I know a way. But I need your help. I don’t have the clearance to go through personnel files.”
He frowns, then finally nods and sighs loudly. “Okay, okay, make it snappy. What do you need?”
“A list of all police out on unscheduled leave today. And any who still have unmarked Crown Vics checked out of the motor pool. For the whole city.”
“And you’re a hundred percent sure it’s an officer and not an admin or a tech or something?” he asks me hopefully.
I just give him my best contemptuous teenage stare on the way out.
t’s a support group of two. Me and a boot. A rookie uniformed patrolman who I later find out is named Brady Howell. He looks like hell; the moment I see him, I think, crap on a stick! Do I look that bad? Because we’re talking hollowed cheeks, red haunted eyes, gaunt appearance―basically, your full movie zombie, minus the gore and fake rotted flesh. Plus he’s got the jitters. How much of that is due to shock and terror on his part and how much to…well, you know, being dead, is hard for me to figure out. He and I don’t shake hands, naturally; we’ve both trained ourselves out of touching other people due to personal temperature sensitivities. Although, ironically, each of us is the only other person in the world it is safe to touch.
Aside from the killer, of course. The third member of our exclusive little group, who isn’t answering his phone, according to Dr. Phil. I can tell at a glance that Howell isn’t involved in this; he’s got the shakes, but his palms aren’t all torn up from razor wire. And he hasn’t stopped a .500 magnum hollow point, either, because there are no obvious holes in him, and all his limbs are attached.
Basically this appointment is just a quick meet and greet; with the pressures of the case, neither of us has more than fifteen minutes to give this. However, on the way out, I pull Howell aside and tell him to wait for me at the elevator. “I think I can help,” I whisper seductively in his ear. I guess because of Val I’m really doing the sexy siren thing to the max today.
Then I check my messages; there’s a text from Cappy that consists of a single name and the words “I don’t want to know.” I go back inside Dr. Phil’s office without knocking.
“This missing member of our little group. Would his first name start with a P, by any chance? And the last name with a B?”
The man looks relieved. He almost beams at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” is all he says.
On the way to the elevator, I get an address for the guy, who’s a sergeant on the Vice squad named Peter Burchhalter. Then I introduce myself to Brady Howell.
“Hey, I thought it was no names only,” he says, swallowing hard. “That’s what he said, anyway. I wouldn’t of―”
“Dude,” I cut him off. “You haven’t thought this through. We’re like joined at the hip now. We’re each other’s best friend forever, pretty much, because nobody else knows what we’re going through.”
“But I thought there was one other guy…”
“There was. There is. But there’s just one problem with him joining our little club.” By now we’re walking out the lobby into Center Plaza. “You’ve heard about the mayor’s daughter?”
“Shit, yeah. It’s all over the news. You mean?”
“Yeah, he did it. But it wasn’t his fault. Where are you parked?” There’s plenty this guy doesn’t know about his new lifestyle, so we sit in the front seat of his squad car, and I carefully explain it to him. As briefly as I can―and, I admit, leaving out a few things. Like the two innocent people I killed last week. He is totally freaking out, weeping and talking about killing himself. Only he can’t figure out how. Worst of all, he says, are the “hallucinations”, by which he means what he’s able to see of the world of the shades.
I tell him they aren’t hallucinations, but this doesn’t seem to cheer him up much. Nor does what I have to tell him about the third member of our little club.
“And you say…he had no control over what he was doing? He was possessed?” The poor guy looks utterly shit-kicked. I know how he feels; every time you think you’ve got a handle on this thing, something new comes along and blindsides you. Like these Soul Eaters. Which I also don’t tell him about.
“Man, you look like crap,” I tell him honestly. “Haven’t you been eating?”
He shakes his head. “I got no appetite, detective. I mean, I’m dead, for Chrissake! I’ve got no heartbeat and I’ve got this big hole in my chest. What if I swallow something and it starts to like, leak out? That’s why I haven’t tried to OD on sleeping pills.”
“Look, you gotta eat.” Now I sound like Tamara. “And especially stay hydrated. Nothing will leak out, I promise. I mean, the bullet that killed you didn’t nick your esophagus or pancreas, did it?”
“I don’t know,” he says ashamedly. “I―I haven’t looked.”
“Is there an exit wound? Can you remember who shot you? Did you get a weird scratch on your arm first?”
He just shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. I can’t think! My wife keeps nagging me about all that. I mean, I had to tell her because she noticed how cold I was right away―she wanted to rush me to ER.”
“You’re lucky to have somebody who cares. Hold on, I have a doctor friend who’ll check you out.” And I give Harper a call. Now he’ll have someone new to write his medical articles about. And to experiment on.
On the way to the hospital, I tell the boot how he can avoid being summoned by putting salt in his pockets. His wife will have to monitor him pretty constantly at night. That’s going to be tough, he says―they have a six-month old baby, and they’re both up half the night with it. I advise him to move as far away from here as he can and find a day job where he won’t pull night shifts. “Look. I didn’t know you had a kid. That changes everything. I’ve seen what happens to innocent bystanders when you’re one of us, and believe me, you don’t want that.” Hell, look at what almost happened to my cat. Not to mention the Trapani kid.
For the first time, I feel really guilty about having dragged Tamara into this―and Val Tabori. I’m putting their lives at risk whenever they’re around me. I’m a menace to society.
“But where can I go? What can I do? What about you―are you moving someplace else?”
“No. But I don’t have a wife and a baby to worry about.”
I park in the hospital visitor lot and kill the engine. I’m beginning to think I should look into a monthly parking pass.
“I guess we could move back to Duluth,” he says dubiously. “Maybe I could get a job with the Park Service. They close down at night.”
“Maybe I’ll ask you for a reference sometime,” I tell him. Northern Minnesota sounds like the perfect place to be a mulo; you’d fit right in socially. And nobody would even notice your body temp.
As usual, the sight of Harper makes me feel a reflexive twinge of guilt. Because I’m now screwing Val, not that that’s any of his business, despite the adoring looks he keeps giving me. But I always feel it anyway, I guess, because I dumped him―plus I cheated on him once or twice with women, okay? You know, that cute housemate. My conscience is made even worse by knowing just how many consults he blows off or examinations he delays every time I come t
o see him. After he checks out Howell, Harper asks me out to dinner, and I tell him no way; nights are out for me now, even for Val. Just too damn scary until Gana Kali is six feet under. Besides, last time I looked, Harper was still a married man. But I hate the hurt look on his face when I say no.
So we’re standing awkwardly together in the neuro surge ward main hallway when I hear a familiar voice. “Rishya? What are you doing here?”
It’s Rabbi Tamara, dressed in her dark grey work pantsuit.
“What are you doing here?” I realize that I have absolutely no idea what rabbis do all day. I mean, I know what she does at night: she answers messages, calls old ladies to make sure they’re not dead, writes emails, and works on her weekend sermons, or whatever they’re called in Hebrew. And watches over me.
“One of my congregation was just rushed into ICU next door,” she says. “My board of trustees took a vote whether I should come here and wish him long life. It passed eleven to nine.” A joke.
“You’ve been hanging with Dr. Sid again,” I tell her; then introduce her to Harper, who is barely polite to her before going back to work on Howell. He obviously suspects that she’s my lover. Any other guy who knows you’ve been into other women is usually totally turned on by the idea―and immediately starts wheedling for threesomes. I have no doubt that’s how the Gypsy King rolls. But not Harper. His jealousy was always non gender-discriminatory and equal opportunity; basically, he always saw everyone I spoke to as a potential rival.
“If I lose this job, I can always go to work for Duracell,” says Tamara on the way out. “That doctor guy is so in love with you.”
“I know,” I groan as we walk toward the elevator lobby along the yellow floor stripe. “But he’s just an ex. And a married one at that. I need his help, though.”
“You mean, you told him, too?” Now it’s Tamara who sounds jealous.
