Dead Ringer

by Allen Wyler

  His victim muttered, “Fuck.” The word barely audible.

  “Here, let me help you.” Standing, Gerhard grabbed the man’s shoulders, turned him into the doorway, and let him take his place on the cement stoop. Then he folded the man’s body up, facing the door, so it looked like just another street bum sleeping it off. He could feel strength ebb from the bum’s muscles with each weakening heartbeat. Working quickly, he removed the man’s filthy raincoat and draped the tattered raincoat over the dying body. Then stepped back to admire his work. Perfect. No one would disturb him before he returned.

  Gerhard bounced the black Chrysler, headlights off, over asphalt chuckholes deep enough to expose the alley’s original bricks. He braked beside the doorway and body, slipped the transmission into park, letting the motor idle. He dragged the dead body over to the car and scanned the alley one more time. If someone approached and asked what he was doing, he would explain that he was trying to get the guy to a hospital.

  Not a soul in sight.

  He popped the trunk and muscled the deadweight into the car, carefully closed the lid. It locked with only a muted click. Then he made sure to collect the bottle and dump the residual fluid over garbage sacks in a neighboring Dumpster. Soon as he got back to DFH he’d carefully rinse it out before tossing it in the recycling bin.

  Then he was off again, no sweat. Except he would’ve preferred the Suburban.

  THE DECAPITATED BODY LAY on stainless steel, feet splayed to either side in the awkward way a corpse could manage. The table, a real beauty, had a half-inch ridge along the border to contain fluids. It sloped four degrees toward the foot where a drain emptied via black rubber hose into another drain in the cement floor. A retractable rubber hose with a chrome shower nozzle dangled from the ceiling.

  First thing Gerhard did after cutting off the dirt ball’s clothes was rinse the body with cold water. Which only slightly lessened the gag-me stench. Incinerating the clothes also helped. Even after doing all this, the fucker still stunk like hell.

  Gerhard wore a disposable “bunny suit,” goggles, and rubber gloves because you never knew what diseases lurked in these dirt balls. But as bad as they were, nobody was as contagious as the whores. AIDS, hepatitis, drug-resistant TB—you name it; they had it. Just one more reason to take them off the streets. Which, if you looked at it objectively, was a real public health service. And just another reason to be careful to minimize the spatter. Dead people don’t bleed more than what gravity allows to leak out, but there was always splatter. Especially when using the band saw to detach the head, which was already removed and wrapped in cloth and in the quick freeze.

  He had XM radio tuned to music from the Forties. His favorite for working. Big band shit like Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Lionel Hampton. He loved those guys. Loved them almost as much as black-and-white World War II movies he watched. He sometimes wondered why he was attracted to those years, especially seeing that they happened before he was even born. Maybe it was because life appeared to be purer then, what with everybody putting their shoulder to the war effort, everyone focused on a common goal of fighting Japs and Nazis. Not the chaos you have nowadays from terrorism and the fear of natural disasters.

  Gerhard sat on a rolling stool, the shit bag’s arm draped over the edge of the table, working on the fingernails. He would have them perfectly manicured before detaching the arms to eventually be used in a demonstration somewhere. They were already earmarked for a meeting of orthopedic surgeons. Next to him stood a small stainless steel Mayo stand with a basin of soapy water, clippers, a pick, and buffer. After washing the hands he always cleaned and clipped the nails into perfect shape. A good manicure was a thing of beauty.

  Ditto didn’t require him to put so much work into the nails, but there was something about a corpse’s fingers that he couldn’t allow to be dirty. To him, fingernails and toenails were an index to personal hygiene, a reflection into the person’s inner self.

  There was something fascinating about fingers. You never knew what skills they contained. They could be short and stubby or long and elegant, nimble or klutzy. Play a virtuoso violin or break rocks with a sledgehammer. Their touch could be soft and caring or calloused and crude. It was, well … fascinating.

  It reminded him of reruns of What’s My Line? The object of the game show was for the weekly panelists to guess contestants’ jobs within a certain number of questions. Wasn’t easy either because the producers went out of their way to dredge up really weird shit, like the only guy in the world who did nothing but inseminate polar bears. The first thing the panelists did was inspect the contestants’ hands because they gave away so much information about the person.

  Hands were more important than people thought. Hell, lose one and see how well you do. It’s probably more disabling than losing an eye or an ear or a kidney. Lose both and you’re totally fucked. Can’t even wipe your own ass. Imagine what kind of a fucked-up deal that would be.

  Gerhard began whistling “In the Mood” along with Glenn Miller’s band.

  The round military clock on the tile walls showed 1:32 a.m. The time really didn’t matter. Soon as he finished he’d grab a bite, then sack out. He preferred it this way, “free-ranging” his circadian cycle. Sleep when needed and be available when the job demanded it. And he was being paid well too.

  Life was good.

  33

  WENDY MARCHED STRAIGHT TO the DFH receptionist’s desk and locked eyes with the woman. Ah yes, time to slap that smug smile off Ditto’s lying face. She’d fantasized about it the entire drive here. Walk in, hand him the warrant. Take that, asshole.

  She wasn’t sure what bugged her more—knowing he lied to her about the vehicle or that goddamn superior attitude he radiated. Like he was smarter than everyone else. Arrogance was what it was, and she hated that. Not over-the-top Hannibal Lecter style arrogance of self-appointed intellectual superiority. She figured Ditto for a simple greedy, self-absorbed, cunning businessman. If you considered his line of work, he had to be careful. But 99 percent of the time arrogance got you in trouble because you ended up thinking you were smarter than those who hunted you, and you made mistakes. This time it was the Suburban that would be Ditto’s undoing.

  Wendy was convinced he’d used that vehicle to transport his victims and the crime techs would find incriminating evidence in it. You couldn’t just go around plucking people like Ruiz off the street and never get caught. Yeah, now she was going to shove the warrant right up his ass without any K-Y Jelly. She smiled at the visual of a rolled-up warrant sticking out of his butt.

  “May I help you?”

  “Detective Elliott to see Mr. Ditto.” She flashed her ID.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Ditto is busy at the moment.”

  Of course he is. “When will Mr. Ditto not be busy?”

  The receptionist didn’t bother checking the monitor or an appointment book, just returned a flat-eyed stare. “Oh, he’s busy. All day.”

  “In that case, I’m here to impound the black Suburban registered to this company. Just tell me where it is and I’ll have it picked up.” She recited the license number from memory.

  The woman stood, swallowed, and glanced down the hall. “One moment. Maybe there’s a way he might tear himself away to speak with you.”

  FACE ETCHED WITH CONCERN, Ditto hurried down the hall toward the reception area, his secretary hustling to keep up. He was dressed casually in gray slacks and a pale blue button-down dress shirt. No tie. Penny loafers. Black hair slicked straight back. His goatee and moustache perfectly trimmed.

  Ditto glanced around as if making sure the area was free of clients before saying, “Stella said you intend to impound the Suburban?”

  “That’s right. Here,” Wendy said, handing him the warrant. “Where is it?”

  He unfolded the paper to read it. “I don’t understand. What could you possibly want with it?” A smile hinting at the corners of his mouth.

  “I thought I explained that last week.”


  Ditto glanced at his receptionist, then back at Wendy. “No, not really.”

  It gave her the impression this was an acting job, put on for his receptionist’s benefit. Wendy said, “Did you ask around, see if any of your employees had it out the night in question?”

  “Yes. Exactly as you requested. But no one admitted to it. Still”—he paused to stroke his goatee, as if seriously thinking about it—“I suppose it might’ve been used without being signed out.”

  “So, where is it?”

  Ditto’s confident smile returned. “Over at Freemont Detailing.” He made a big deal of checking his watch. “Hey, it should be ready to be picked up by now. Want the address? Might want to use them sometime yourself. They do a very thorough job.”

  “It was just detailed?”

  “Yes, of course. We always keep our vehicles spotless. They represent our business. You know, first impressions and all.” Ditto started to turn and go back to his office but stopped and added, “I’ll call, make sure it’s paid in full. Just let me know when you’re ready to bring it back so I can make sure the garage is open. Is there anything else I might help you with, Detective?”

  “Yeah, there is something else.” You smug son of a bitch. “I need copies of the records for the heads used in Hong Kong last week.”

  Ditto held up the warrant. “Nothing in here says squat about records.”

  He was right. It didn’t. How did he know without even looking at it? Wendy forced a smile at the receptionist and Ditto. “You’ve both been very helpful. Thank you.”

  34

  WENDY SAT ON CONCRETE steps facing the circular Seattle Center Fountain, Key Arena behind her. In front of her, Memorial Stadium loomed beyond the changing skyward sprays of water from hundreds of pressurized jets choreographed to the theme from Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. The warm temperature had lured a group of young mothers here. They clustered on a bench, chatting animatedly, keeping one eye on their squealing barefoot children who were running random patterns through the artificial rain from the fountain.

  Wendy held an untouched Starbucks iced latte. It served as more prop than drink. It was tasty but contained enough calories to blow her entire day’s allotment.

  Travis was late. Typical. Always had been, probably always would be.

  Then she saw him approaching, also holding a white Star-bucks cup. Tall, lanky, sunglasses, denim jeans, black T-shirt under a black leather bomber jacket. Shit, he looked good. Too good. But he always had. Even when they were married and she knew he was sleeping with other women.

  “Still looking good, kid.” He settled onto the bench beside her, leaned forward, elbows on knees, both hands holding the cup, forming a triangle.

  Wendy was still admiring him. “Nice shades. What are they, Porsche?”

  He couldn’t suppress a grin. “Yep.”

  That was another thing about Travis. Buying accessories he couldn’t afford. But he always had a sense of style. She could never quite decide if he bought things that looked good on him or just had one of those faces that made everything look good.

  “What’s up? Got something for me?”

  She turned to him and was immediately hit by a rush of anxiety. She’d requested the clandestine meeting because of wanting a good dose of reality testing. She needed to talk to someone she could trust, and Travis, her direct report in Internal Affairs, was that person. Was she crazy? How would it sound, this first translation from suspicion to words? But she had to bounce the ideas around with him. She scanned the area for someone watching, which she knew was paranoid, but working IA undercover while assigned to another detail did that to you. She looked at her shoes. “Bear with me on this. It’s circuitous and has nothing directly to do with our investigation. Okay?”

  “Yup.”

  “For six months, maybe longer—I don’t have the means to check—there’s been a bump in the number of working girls missing. Maybe even some other kinds of street people. It’s hard to tell.” Wendy assumed he realized what she meant—that those were the people least likely to be reported.

  “And?”

  “I got this nudge in my gut. It tells me some of them shouldn’t be missing.”

  Travis turned toward her a bit more, his eyes shielded by the shades. “People go missing every day. Especially the kind you’re referring to.”

  “The kind? You can say the word. Prostitute.”

  “Sure I can. Prostitute. It’s just you get so damn defensive about it.”

  “That’s not the point here.”

  “Then what is the point?”

  “I know some of these girls. They were friends when I was on the street, so I know there’s no reason for any of them to just up and leave. And there are no missing persons reports on several of them.”

  “What are you implying? They’ve been murdered?”

  She was thankful he didn’t sound cynical. “Yeah. Exactly. Like maybe there’s another Gary Ridgway in the area.”

  He nodded slightly, sipped his coffee. “Any bodies to show for it?”

  And there it was, the major stumbling block to her theory.

  “No. Not yet. But remember, they never did find all the ones Ridgway admitted to, even after he showed the King County cops where he’d dumped them. Things happen. Animals eat them, bones get scattered or covered with brush or are in an area never noticed. In his case, there were other missing girls he never admitted to—now cold cases—and still other missing girls never accounted for.”

  “But some of those Ridgway cases were over ten years old. Like you said, a lot of things can happen to a body in ten years. How long have your girls been missing?”

  “Just a few months,” she admitted.

  Travis sipped his coffee again, said nothing, leaving her hanging out there feeling defensive.

  She needed to shore up her position. So she told him about the string of coincidences, like Ruiz vanishing and about McRae seeing Baer’s head in Hong Kong. How a cop had run the DFH Suburban license plate near where Ruiz worked and how DFH had supplied the Hong Kong demonstration. Then she went into Bobby Ditto and how he denied the Suburban had been out of the building the night in question.

  “The really troubling thing,” she said, “is he had the vehicle detailed before we could inspect it.”

  Travis sipped his coffee. “Meaning what?”

  “Here’s the thing: I don’t trust the guy. Either he was incredibly lucky or maybe he has a friend in the department and got tipped.” There, that was out too. And she knew it would sound paranoid.

  “A snitch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go on, I think I interrupted you.”

  She went on to explain DFH’s business in detail. She told him about her interview with Professor Boynton and said, “He raised some very interesting questions, like how he gets so much material to be so successful.”

  “What are you saying? He’s a Gary Ridgway?”

  “Crossed my mind. I mean, with the Suburban and all …”

  Her phone rang. She dug it out of her leather purse, checked caller ID, and felt the chill of another coincidence. Lucas McRae. She stuffed the cell back in the bag and let the call roll over to voice mail.

  Travis asked, “Let me see if I got this right. You’re saying Ditto is killing people for their bodies?”

  “Yeah, that’s the bottom line.”

  Travis seemed to think about it. “I have to admit, when you tell the story in that sequence, there’s a faint ring of possibility to it. Problem, of course, is there’s nothing whatsoever to back up your theory.”

  “But it’s a possibility, right?”

  He shrugged. “Anything’s possible. But why tell me about it? Why not someone in CIB?” He was referring to the Criminal Investigations Bureau, which was command structure for the Missing Persons Unit.

  Wendy realized she’d missed the other important point. “What if Ditto’s snitch is somehow linked into someone in CIB?”

  Travis’s ey
ebrows rose. “Have someone in mind?”

  “No. But the point is Ditto not only knew the vehicle was going to be inspected, he also knew the limits of the search warrant.” She realized she’d left out that part, so she circled back over it.

  “Thought you said he read it?”

  “Nah, he just glanced at it. Never really read it.”

  Travis shook his head. “Haven’t changed a bit. Still paranoid, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t start in with that. Thing is, Ditto knew I didn’t have a warrant for any records. He knew before ever looking at it. How could that happen if he wasn’t tipped?”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  See, that was the problem with intuition. You knew things without having to deduce them. Wendy replayed the scene in her mind, looking for whatever it was that caused her impression. “He was too calm. Here’s a guy with no criminal record who’s got a cop wanting to impound his SUV. That’d make the average citizen very nervous, maybe even make them call a lawyer. Not this guy, no way. He knew the exact limits of my warrant. No, he had to have prior coaching from someone.”

  “Maybe he just got lucky, took a guess. It happens, you know.”

  “No. There’s something hinky with Ditto. I know it.”

  Travis smiled at her. “Then prove it.”

  “Easy to say, but I can’t see how. I’ve been over this a thousand times now.”

  “This guy McRae, anything more you can get from him about the head?”

  How many times had she considered that too? She’d even gone back over the interview three times, and there was nothing there. “Don’t think so.” Then again, it’d be nice to see McRae in person again, even if only professionally. “But I’ll go over it again with him, just for drill.”

  Travis patted her knee, ready to stand up, but then seemed to think of something. “Instead of someone in CIB, why not someone outside of it? To explain the warrant business.”

  “You mean like the judge?” She hadn’t thought of that. “I made the request through Redwing, and he said he went straight to the courts.”