Skin the Cat

by R Sean McGuirk

  Debbie’s eyes widened at the possibility. “Greymore has money and power,” I said. “All these other guys don’t have a pot to piss in. Carlina allegedly has a drug problem according to her husband. These other guys may have had substance abuse issues too. Addiction requires funds, cold-hard cash. Enter the guy with all the bucks, Charles Greymore. I would say somebody wound up owing Greymore more than they could pay him. Or just really pissed him off.”

  “Owed him like what?” Debbie asked, pulling her pen and notepad from her truck. “Money? I doubt it. The guy is loaded.”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “Everybody hates getting ripped off and the wealthy have the most to lose. How does the idea of getting robbed make you feel?”

  Debbie clicked her pen against her teeth, thinking it over, her eyes rolling in arcs at the nighttime sky. “If somebody took my shit and wouldn’t give it back, I would feel threatened. Like my sense of security or even pride had been put at hazard.”

  “Agreed,” I nodded at the smoldering shambles of the house. “Then whoever is behind this feels so threatened they have turned blood thirsty.”

  Debbie fell in, “And the murderer is doing his best to eliminate that threat.”

  “In quite a messy fashion,” I watched the smoke rise from the scattered wreckage. “But very effective no doubt.”

  Debbie grinned, eyes deep set, square jaw taking on a softer geometry. “At least we have some short-term job security.”

  I raised my eyebrows at her, reflecting again on the colder aspect of being left alone in the world. “Debbie can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure boss.”

  “I don’t have a way back home,” I said feeling the cold tinge of my outsider reaching inside.

  “I can give you a ride Shade,” she gave my shoulder a squeeze, eyes unblinking. “I won’t ever leave you behind.”

  “Debbie,” I leaned against the truck, hands jammed in my pockets, staring at my shoes. “Do you ever compartmentalize anything? Like- people?”

  She hesitated. “Hey boss.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means sticking people or things in boxes- to make life easier.” I raised an eyebrow and looked at her. “More manageable.”

  She shook her head. “I’d never stick you in a box, Shade.”

  I took a deep breath and tilted my head at the sky. “Thank God.”

  24

  Skin…

  The rich stand uniquely alone in that they might be the only demographic that truly believes they can shit all over people and completely get away with it. The wealthy actually worship the world of things, as if the molecules spinning inside physical material literally have some kind magical power. The Land Rover, the Porsche, the private club, the exotic travel, the sprawling homes, none of these renders anyone untouchable. Yet they believe it. That somehow grossly indulgent purchases elevate them into a higher plane of existence, a master species safely insulated from the rest of human kind. I wonder if the illusion of greatness hits the frontal cortex like the Ebola virus, unraveling the coils of the brain just before it fully hemorrhages, distorting all logic and crushing all human dignity. I need you to understand this and I need you to understand it now. Litigation is not a weapon. Your attorney with skinny arms and legs wrestling phones for a living is not a bodyguard. And laws written in ink and paper contracts can’t protect you. The twelve-dollar-per-hour fake cop in the guard-house of your gated community won’t put his ass on the line because he hates you too. Oh, and your country club, no matter how exclusive, is not a safe place to hide. Beware your ego and whom you choose to flatten next. See, I can wait for days or even weeks on end. You can’t see me. But I can see you. Quiet as a corpse, tucked in the shadows of the dark just watching, fondling this brilliant, tiny, ugly blade. Notice how I don’t make a peep? My silent vigil is a real exercise in my devotion to your mortality. I’ll sit here so long that you’ll finally forget all about me. Then I come digging forward with this scalpel. Blood is the great equalizer.

  The sudden noise made me leap inside my skin. The phone ringing. The voice in the front hall brimming with kiss-your-ass enthusiasm. “It’s a lovely day at Lucinda’s Retreat and Massage. This is Lucinda, how may I serve you?”

  The long, black BMW crested the hill, the silver-blue headlights beaming like lasers. The client swerved to the curb, exited the sedan and strolled just outside the front entrance, stopping short to tuck her phone into her pocketbook. Hands on the front door’s push-bar handle she hesitated, and stepped back staring. She moved sideways to the bay window, pressed her face inward, cupping her eyes to try to see inside the silver tinting. I leaned forward and peered right into her eyes, noses touching on either side of the glass. She was intuitive enough to be mildly spooked, the way a gazelle gets jumpy as it nears a watering hole where a lion awaits. Hidden here, I couldn’t resist, and nicked the tip of my scalpel against the glass- right at her throat. She stood straining her eyes, not moving a muscle, but not seeing shit. Suddenly satisfied, she let off and circled away, the front entrance door hitting the bells as she swung in. Muffled chattering filled the foyer, the toney inflexions of entitlement bounced and tripped off marble walls, the owner selling the rejuvenating magic of this month’s eucalyptus seaweed-wrap, so phenomenal, oh how amazing, blah, blah, blah, exchanges of giggling, and whimsical head tosses. All the while I crept deep into the hallway, the darkness swallowing me whole.

  “Follow me please,” the Lucinda sang in the hallway, as footsteps grew louder on approach. The door clacked open and the two women stepped into the room with me. The owner softly dimmed the lights, and the undulating pulse of ocean waves drifted low over a hidden speaker system. The client dropped every stitch of clothing where it fell in a circle about her feet. No modesty at all. Just stood there bare-ass naked in front of the other woman, having a conversation. Her full breasts sat free and open, the full vulnerability of flesh suspended right before me, the shape of each making my heartbeat hammer in my chest, me struggling quiet my breath sounds.

  “You know the drill,” Lucinda flitted her eyelashes. “Lay down on your tummy here. Let’s get your head support adjusted right about here. Relax your legs just a bit, yes into a more natural position please, that’s it.” Giggle. “How’s that? Yes? Good. Okay- perfect.”

  I knew the client intimately, well…clinically. Her surgical history included breast augmentation, collagen lip injections, multiple Botox treatments, and oh yes, how could I forget the famous butt-lift? Poor flat-ass. That’s what they called her at Chumley’s behind her back. Poor flat-ass. Ah, all perky now, another miracle brought to you by cold hard cash. The room took on the scent of sandalwood as ocean waves lapped at low tide and seagulls sang on the hidden speaker system. After several minutes, Lucinda applied the final wrap and meticulously placed heated creek rocks at various stress points while Adrianna moaned softly. With a deep squeeze, Lucinda whispered soothingly into her ear, “See you in a few. You deserve this. Truly. Enjoy.” She retreated and clicked the door shut behind her.

  I stepped out from the shadows, the sloshing ocean waves helping to mask the sound of my movements. Yes, you do deserve this. The black satchel slipped easily off my shoulder and I rested it on the floor. I unzipped it slowly without making a sound and gently arranged a two-pound rubber mallet, plastic zip ties, a ball-gag, smelling salts and a few syringes each of Fentanyl and a waking paralytic called Vecuronium. The scalpel sat in its sheath on my belt, ready for action. She moaned as she repositioned and I froze. She went still again. This is this and that is that…

  Donning latex surgical gloves, I got a nice grasp on the mallet, stood over her, raised it high in the air and whipped it down as hard as I could, cracking her right on the skull. Her head shot up with spine extended, and she let out a huge groan. I let the mallet fly again. Crack. This time she passed-out. A quic
k tug of the sheet, I flipped her over face up, popped the ball-gag into her mouth, cinched the belt tightly behind her neck and fastened her to the table with dozens of zip ties, being extra careful to immobilize every joint. When I snapped the smelling salts, her eyes cracked open bird-brittle bright. She recognized me immediately and her eyes bulged with fear. She writhed and twisted against the bindings until I brought up the rubber hammer like a threat. She didn’t make a move, the saliva dribbling from the corners of her mouth, and trickling down her neck.

  I pulled up a stool and allowed a gentle smile to touch my lips, my eyes settling into a calmer state, inhaling a deep smooth breath. “Your husband is…how do you say it? A dirty birdy? He can’t keep his hands to himself. Or his tongue in his head. You know, when he marches into the men’s bar at the club and takes what’s not his.” She moaned and shook her head no. My eyes went big, mocking fake surprise. “Oh yes! It’s true. Don’t tell me you don’t know what he’s been up to back there? Such a nasty boy.”

  I slid the curved blade from my sheath, and ugly hook designed for deep, fibroid tissue incisions. At the sight of the glinting scalpel, she began trying to twist and shriek. “Look, don’t take this personally,” I smiled. “You are only paying your husband’s debts. A debt that can’t be paid with cash. But I promise to be fair to you. I’m going to kill him too. Your only sin here is that you confused your diamonds and bank accounts with self-worth. See, you’re not better than anyone. The blood that pumps in your veins is the same blood that pumps in mine. Blood is the great equalizer. And faith without works is dead. Now hold still. This is really, really going to hurt.”

  I sang a little tune, leaning in close, my lips almost touching her earlobe. This is this and that is that, but there’s more than one way- to skin the cat. Lightning quick, I plunged the blade deep into Adrianna’s throat and dragged it in a long, straight line all the way down to her groin. She let loose like a wild animal, bucking, writhing and after a moment finally fell still. The sloshing of ocean waves against the silence brought me a newfound peace.

  The fragrance of sandalwood oil mixed with the iron stench of spilled hemoglobin came together like a curious cocktail. Like something too fruity spiked with bad booze. When Debbie caught sight of the mutated corpse, she groped the wall for balance which caught Gadford’s attention. He studied her dryly, his eyes going clinical as he tracked her path to the hallway where she vomited into a trashcan. He stood on his heels as rigid as a wooden plank, his tone threatening while he jabbed his finger all around. “I swear to God,” he demanded. “If anyone fucking spills body fluid in my crime scene, I will do everything in my professional power to have you terminated.” The few haggard faces present nodded robotically, ignoring him, not being able to take on his bullshit and the mangled corpse at the same time. Bottom-line, this was not good. Story Mount was filling up with dead people, and were all feeling caught on the wrong side of history. The bearded pathologist brought a pair of tweezers to his eye, scrutinizing a single fiber up close.

  “That a hair?” I asked.

  “Clothing,” he huffed as he inserted it into a baggie and marked it. “Which doesn’t say much. Think how many women amble in and out of here each day, clothes off and on, bodies rubbed, shedding like animals all over the damn place.”

  Luke appeared in the doorway. “Jesus,” he said pressing his palm over copper-red stubble, eyes drawn back, face losing its color, going ashen at the sight of it all until he finally looked away from the gore, talking at the wall. “Any idea who the fuck that is?” He paused. “I mean- who that was.”

  Squatting low, disposable footies on my feet, I studied the layers of meat. Primitive. Brutal. And very fucking personal. The woman had been skinned. The way a hunter draws the pelt off an animal with a blade. Judging by blood pattern and lividity, the only saving grace is that she appeared to have been killed before she was peeled. Luke’s voice came back again, echoing the question again. “Do we know who that is Shade?”

  “Officially?” I sighed. “Thanks to the clown-circus of media outside, we have no idea on God’s green Earth who this is. But between us, according to the contents of the victim’s purse and the proprietor of this establishment Lucinda Mustang corroborating the evidence, this is local heiress Adrianna Silk, married to one William Silk.

  “Hey there, cowboy,” Debbie rasped as she shouldered up to Luke, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, checking that Gadford didn’t notice. “Boss, I just got a text from precinct confirming the Silk’s are on Chumley’s membership roster, in good standing, and apparently close friends with God himself.”

  “That motherfucker’s everywhere,” I said digging my knuckles into my hip to stop the spasm long enough to come to my feet.

  “Who’s God?” Luke asked.

  “In this case,” I said standing straight. “Charles Greymore. But I don’t think we can get a subpoena just because he’s an asshole who owns the town. His personal militia of attorneys will hold out until a grand jury forces their hand. Which it won’t because to date, he’s not directly linked to any of these homicides. And if he is, a photo of him posing with the wrong crowd won’t do the trick. We need hard evidence. Personally, I’m not convinced Greymore’s even involved. Just because a cat has four legs doesn’t mean all animals with four legs are cats.”

  Debbie squinted at me, not getting it. “Come again boss?”

  “There’s more than one scumbag out there,” I muttered and waved her off. “Never mind.”

  “Stan, any ideas?” Debbie asked averting her eyes from the disfigured cadaver.

  “A couple,” Gadford grunted as he hunched over the massage table scanning the victim with a bright handheld light. “Fist, the incisions are methodical. Our killer is someone that knows their way around a blade.”

  “Well that narrows down the suspect list,” I scoffed. “To everyone in Story Mount that owns a knife.”

  He glared at me. Gadford was territorial. He hadn’t given me a fair shake from day one. He rolled his eyes and sniffed. “My other thought is this looks to be a real crime of passion.”

  I worked a piece of gum in my mouth, feeling the nicotine rise in my head, focusing me pinpoint tight, and not liking the guy enough to tell him I totally agreed. Debbie fell in. “Passion?” Her shoulders flinched with a touch of fury. “Where’s the passion in this? She’s been torn to shreds. Skinned like a cat.”

  I sat aside my prejudice, yielding to the teaching moment. “Debbie,” I hesitated, not really wanting to say it. “Stan’s right.”

  He shot me a look of distrust, his inner-country still not trusting my city-outsider. “The brutality here,” he continued. “Is obviously sexually depraved.” He leaned back and tilted his head like he might be studying a painting. “But deeper still one can interpret it as intimacy mutilated or…beauty destroyed.”

  Debbie forced her eyes to take in Adrianna’s new reality, allowing the detective within to unfold, to open a little more. “What do you mean Stan?”

  “Just look at her.” He sliced his hand through the air like a magician revealing that the woman magically sawed in half…really was sawed in half. “This attack is very private, darkly emotional, grossly intimate. I sense something like,” he paused to find the word, looking up like it might be hiding somewhere in the ceiling. Then it came to him. “Revenge.”

  Debbie studied the corpse where it lay bound, ball-gag strapped in her mouth, eyelids half-cracked open, seaweed wraps and creek rocks laying on the floor, her skin removed from the throat down to the knees and tossed on the floor in a crumpled pile like an old suit. Yeah, Debbie was new to this work. But she could tell that we had a serious fucking problem on our hands.

  25

  Who are you?

  When dawn broke this morning I sensed summer slipping away. I could feel it in the air, that dank scent of dry leaves mixing with dew droplets on lawns cast in shadows. The smell hinte
d at autumn, and children returning to school. But as we exited the scene of the homicide around noon, any promise of a newer season was incinerated inside a blazing wall of heat. Squinting in the glaring sunlight, I raked sweat off my brow with my index finger, eyes adjusting from the cool darkness inside, picking a pathway out that ducked the media vans parked here and there. Debbie dragged her feet, making her way feebly over to my car, her head not entirely attached to her shoulders, bobbing like a helium balloon tied on a string. Splotches of sweat broke out all over her pale face, her skin still not taking on a healthy blood flow. I stared at the swooping edge of sky that skirted the Cumberland Mountain ridgeline. “What’s gone wrong with the weather down here?” I asked as I clicked the driver’s door open like a microwave oven, stepping back to allow the initial wave of heat to pass. “I thought late summer in the mountains brought cooler air.”

  Debbie slid on a pair of sunglasses and swallowed involuntarily, still struggling to hold her stomach down. “It’s not like it used to be,” she murmured. “But then again,” she hesitated. “Nothing’s like it used to be.”

  The car ride back played out in heavy silence because we had five unsolved murders on our hands. The first incident more or less solved itself when our main suspect was blown to bits. For what we now referred to as the motorcycle trio murders, the official investigation would likely determine Billy Harmony killed Ricky and Fast Eddie. So I could fake some success with Wadsworth on that one, knowing that Debbie’s promotion and me ever working here again still hung in the balance with the mayor’s election coming in the fall. But a new problem unfolded like a nightmare with the new unsolved homicides of Adrianna Silk. Toss in the death of Barry and Billy Harmony, future job security looked to be on shaky ground again. Worse yet, in this country hamlet and its small-town dynamics, what were the odds all these murders weren’t somehow connected? And if they were connected, then we couldn’t technically count the first two murders as being solved. Not by a longshot.