Skin the Cat

by R Sean McGuirk

  “Thoughts, boss?” Debbie asked as she slipped on surgical gloves and disposable shoe covers. I pulled my eyes off Gadford and weighed what remained of Cynthia.

  “I think Charles Greymore is going to shit himself- that’s what I think.”

  I slipped a pair gloves and stood by the Jacuzzi, shining my light into soapy water where chunks of mushy potpourri swirled in dirty water. My illuminated beam followed caught a trail of water streaked across the tile, from the tub to the vanity chair. “Debbie, check it,” I said pointing. “Stand right here. Look. See that?”

  “She was dragged from the tub to the chair.”

  “Precisely,” I said. “But think for a second, what’s missing here?”

  I clicked off my light, tore open a square of nicotine, and chewed as a fleeting wave of anxiety broke over me. Just like the one I got with Adrianna’s husband Bill Silk- right before I fucking woke up in the hospital. I shook off the idea, but could feel the panic still lurking somewhere inside me, wondering about the prescription I’d tossed in the garbage. Debbie crouched down, and her eyebrows jumped, and she threw me a sideways glance. “The struggle is missing,” she muttered. “There are absolutely no signs of struggle.”

  “And?”

  “The killing is ritualistic,” Debbie said coming to her feet, squinting side to side. “She had to be knocked out. Pulled here to there, then zip-tied with no fight.”

  “How?”

  “By what means?”

  Debbie eased closer to the corpse, studying Cynthia’s head, the skull, taking in different angles. “No sign of blunt force trauma. It has to be chemical. But there is no rag, nothing that indicates chloroform.” She looked over her shoulder. “Stan, I think we need to be looking for a needle prick somewhere on Mrs. Greymore.”

  I gave her a nod of agreement. But Gadford didn’t acknowledge the request. He’d spotted something and moved in close and slow like a bloodhound. He knelt down, careful not to disturb a single hair on the corpse, using plastic tongs to pull and tug beneath her shoulder blade where it met the chair. “What the hell?”. A corner of stationary appeared, then an entire blue folder. He opened it in his hands. “You guys aren’t going to believe this shit.” His mouth fell open. This is Cynthia Greymore’s private medical chart.”

  “Medical?” I echoed, thinking I didn’t hear him correctly.

  “It’s the complete history of every cosmetic surgery and medical intervention she’s ever had,” he said flipping over the pages, glancing back and forth at the corpse. “And it appears every surgery...has been undone?”

  “Holy fuck,” Debbie gasped. “Wasn’t Adrianna Silk done the same way?”

  “The method is identical,” Gadford said. “But last time we didn’t have the benefit of a surgical history to compare it to.”

  I stepped in. “These women have been unzipped. The plastics removed. I get it now.”

  “And these women know each other,” Debbie said, filling with exasperation. “They’re both members at Chumley’s. Must be a little problem over at the club or between patrons?”

  Gadford was leaning deep into Cynthia, searching the incisions with a light and one eye closed. “These are cuts are meticulous. Very procedural. Professional.”

  “Okay,” I scratched my jaw, unfolding the thought in my mind. “Same social circles. And someone sets out to take back their beauty. A person with a surgeon’s touch. Someone shouldering more than just a personal grudge.” I swung my head around. “Debbie, who’s on detail at the hotel with Carlina Malhotra right now?”

  “Officer Chad White,” she said.

  “Call him right now.” My heart ticked an extra beat. “Get Carlina on the phone.”

  Debbie dialed, the phone ringing on speaker. “Officer White here.”

  “It’s Debbie Nichols,” she said calmly, evenly. “Chad, I need you to put Carlina on the phone.”

  There was some hesitation. “You mean go get her now? Like go up the steps and knock on her hotel room?”

  Debbie rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Is something wrong?” He asked, voice giving vague concern.

  “Nope,” Debbie fanned her fingers over her crewcut. “Just have a quick question.”

  The phone filled with muffled mumbling until Carlina finally came on. “Hello?” she croaked, a woman groggy and possibly disoriented. Out like a light in the middle of the day, her lack of inflexion making me think about her drug abuse history, but knowing there was no way she could get product into that room. No way.

  “Carlina,” I stepped up to the phone. “This is Detective Shade Bardane. Real quick. Those women at your club, where do they get their surgeries?”

  “Surgeries?” she repeated.

  “Yeah,” I nodded like she could see me. “Breast augmentation, tucks, liposuction, botox procedures. You know, cosmetics.”

  “Well,” her voice sank, going heavy with some strain, saying it but not really wanting to. “My husband.” She gave a deep, loose cough. “He does all their work. Why?”

  “Put Officer White back on the phone.”

  “What does my husband have to…”

  “Please put Officer White back on the phone.”

  Officer White must have heard, the noise of the phone being jerked away with Carlina protesting. “Yeah?”

  “There’s been a new development in the case,” I said. “Carlina’s life is far more threatened than we realized. Stand by her door at all times. No one goes in except for law enforcement. And that means anybody- family members, friends, anyone at all.”

  “Got it Shade.” I nodded at Debbie who clicked the phone off, and we turned to discover Gadford staring at us, his index finger aimed at Cynthia Greymore’s throat. “It’s right there,” he said. “See that dot? Right here? She was injected.”

  “Did Adrianna come up positive on toxicology?” I asked.

  “No,” Gadford shook his head. “But then again, a tox only shows what we test for. I mean, Adrianna didn’t die of an OD from the standard culprits.”

  “You see anything else?”

  “Well,” he peered in at the wounds, shining the light with his nose just inches away. “This has the same signature as the last. The blood lividity suggests the victim was killed before the murderer dissected her. Just like Adrianna Silk.”

  I turned to Debbie, giving my back to Gadford and a couple of other officers scattered standing nearby. “Let’s go over to the Malhotra’s residence,” I whispered. “Right fucking now.”

  Rumbling down the road in Debbie’s truck in a cyclone of wind, one hand on the dashboard, I called Wadsworth.

  “Hey Shade,” he answered with mild dread. “Give me something good.”

  “Svidi Malhotra looks to be our killer,” I said watching Debbie steer, her eyes flicking at me in intervals as I spoke. “We might have a disgruntled plastic surgeon who wants to take back his work.”

  “Take it back?”

  “Yeah, like reversing his surgeries on his clients.”

  “Reverse?”

  “Think, I don’t like you anymore, so I’m taking back those nose-jobs by cutting off noses. Like that.”

  A moment of hesitation, the voice constricted. “Are you fucking kidding me?’

  “No.”

  “The victims?”

  “Cynthia and Adrianna were done the exact same way.”

  “Sounds personal, you know. Crimes of passion?”

  “Exactly,” I shouted over the wind as Debbie sped up. “The bastard seems bent on some revenge crusade.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said rolling up my window. “The facts are his wife appears to be struggling with serious substance abuse issues, she has a clinic that’s financially ruined, and the pair was recently expelled from that private club.”

  “Chu
mley’s,” Wadsworth huffed.

  “Yes.”

  “A disgruntled physician from India and in the same social circles skinning these woman?”

  “Exactly.”

  The old man was overwhelmed with little to say and paused. “If you say so.”

  No sooner than he answered, a raccoon darted into the road and with just one hand on the wheel Debbie veered left, then gave a hard right, tires squalling and casually resumed a straight line, as if nothing had happened, the animal vanishing into the grass line unscathed. “Good God,” I muttered, looking at her wide-eyed. She looked back grinning.

  “So what now?” the Chief asked.

  “Debbie and I can’t shake out a motive.” I glanced ahead into the road, still shaken, bracing myself for the next deer or varmint to leap out. “Clearly Malhotra is pissed and cutting women to shreds for it. And getting kicked out of a social club seems a bit extreme. Then again, people are killing these days for far less.”

  “When we catch his ass, we’ll be sure to ask him.”

  Wadsworth hung up without saying goodbye. I rolled the window back down. The sun was holding lower angles each day, summer fizzling out, the sun shining like a spotlight in my face. I closed my eyes. Lilly and Brant. We needed to do some back-to-school shopping. They needed pencils and paper. And shoes. This homicidal maniac was putting a damper on any early Autumn mood. Getting through each day was starting to feel like pulling teeth.

  “I’m confused,” Debbie spoke over the wind gust, throwing exaggerated hand gestures. A gum wrapper lifted off the floorboard and got sucked out the window. “If Svidi turns out to be the perp,” she wagged her hand back and fourth. “Did he also kill Tadpole, Tadpole’s father, and Fast Eddie? I mean did this guy kill everyone in different timeframes?”

  “The MO’s are entirely different,” I shook my head. “There’s no way.”

  “Yeah,” she rolled her window halfway up to reduce the wind roar. “On one side, we have two victims assassinated with guns, two with a bomb and now ritualistic scalpel killings. Not to mention the newest victim Cynthia Greymore is- or was- married to the prime suspect possible tied to the first set of murders.”

  “Yep,” I said spitting my gum out the window and watching it bounce down the road. “It’s safe to say Svidi Malhotra and Charles Greymore are somehow connected. I’d love to get both men in one room, load them up on truth serum and figure out exactly what the fuck is going on here.” I interrupted myself. “Hey Debbie is there any good places around here to buy kid’s shoes?”

  She shot me a look, then shrugged. “I just by that shit online, boss.”

  We pulled into the Malhotra’s driveway entrance, where a white framed mansion sat crouching behind golden cypress and magnolia trees. Debbie scanned the roofline and studied the white columns of the front porch. “One thing’s for certain. There’s no shortage of money with these people.” On either side of the front steps, massive stone planters brimmed over with withered flowers, the blood-red color drained from their blooms. Peering inside the window, dark silhouettes of furniture sat undisturbed, looking lonely against the light spilling in from the rear windows. We walked down the length of the drive where I stopped and pointed. “Take a look at that.”

  The mailbox sat so over-stuffed with bills and parcels that the door couldn’t be shut. An official US Post Office ticket taped to the side indicated no additional mail would be delivered until called with a request. Around back, a sprawling wooden deck meandered along the width of the house, covered in dry leaves. The rear lot gave away to sparse forest where a deafening chorus of tree frogs bellowed by a tiny pond covered in slick moss.

  “It’s the heat,” Debbie nudged her head. “It agitates them.” She disappeared and then quickly called for me. “Check it out boss,” waving me to the back door this time. “This window is right above the kitchen sink, it’s cracked open. Smell.” I leaned in and sniffed. The pungency of rotten food hit me in the face and I took a step back.

  “Let’s go interview neighbors and find out if they’ve seen anything,” Debbie said.

  “Honestly,” I shrugged. “We can. But I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one’s been here for a very long time.”

  30

  I Don’t Talk

  “There’s no way it’s him,” I purred on my knees, fully naked, taking Officer Chad White back into my mouth as he stood and moaned, pants yanked down to his ankles. The truth? Svidi had seen the video. Me having sex with Greymore. There were other men there too. Now think of the rage bred in by centuries of male-dominated India, where a man was capable of anything. If Svidi were ever proven by law to be some crazed lunatic killer, I’d make a run for it and start over fresh in some island paradise. Maybe St. Croix. Or Fiji. Possibly even Aruba.

  “What did Shade want?” The cop said, losing his balance, falling back on the bed, lying back fully exposed as I crawled over him, using my hands now.

  “Sounds like they want Svidi for the murders,” I said, massaging my hand, the cop groaning, and stopping me for a second.

  “Wasn’t your husband a trained killer or some shit back in India?”

  “Technically,” I murmured, getting my hand back on him, pumping. “He was in special operations a hundred years ago but Svidi is a fucking coward. He doesn’t have the grit to be a homicidal maniac,” I paused. “I don’t think.”

  “Special ops?” he murmured, eyes tightening with my grip. “Those guys are real killers.”

  “Whatever.”

  “If you don’t believe he’s connected to the killings,” Officer White’s moaned now. “Then why are you even here?”

  “I’m just lying low while I make other plans,” I smiled. “My marriage is garbage. What’s your excuse?”

  The officer’s face flushed red with shame as I caught him thumbing his wedding band in my peripheral vision. It was the guilty reaction of a man with an intact marital relationship, left without any real excuse for getting some on the side. I tugged down on his pants again and this time he grabbed my wrists, locking them in place.

  “Just so you know,” he wheezed, trying to sit up, me not letting him. “What we’ve been doing here? This? Not cool at all. You are under protective custody. Understand? And I’d like to remind you, you are not allowed to leave here for the time being. I’m not stupid. The drugs? I know what you’re doing. If you get busted, I’m the one that loses everything.”

  “Chad,” I said making full eye contact and thinking he doesn’t know shit about losing anything let alone everything. “The difference between me and any other woman you’re screwing is that I know how to shut the fuck up. I don’t talk. Period.”

  “I’m not talking about getting caught fucking you,” he laughed, throwing my hands off him. “You know I’m watching you, but you sneak off anyway. When you finally get busted out on the street, I’m going to lose my entire career.”

  I hesitated and looked away, and came back to him. “Listen, I’m not going to get caught.”

  “Oh yeah?” he grinned pushing me to the side, coming to his feet, pants still wrapped at his ankles. “Where in the hell do you keep going, anyway?”

  “I have needs.” I grabbed him back into my grip, the cop giving off a long, low moan, me not letting go. “Do we or don’t we have a deal Officer White? You get the fuck of a lifetime. I don’t get treated like a prisoner. Friends?”

  “I swear,” he said, his voice cracking as I squeezed harder. “If you get busted on my shift, I’ll make sure you pay an ugly price.”

  “Ohhh,” I shrieked with glee. “Is that a threat? I just love threats.”

  I shoved him hard and he fell backwards on the bed. Before he could protest, I mounted him, knees splayed, and pushed him in.

  31

  A Place that Crawls

  The heat.
Dehydration. My brain sizzling, like it might peel open and turn into a flame. A heat exhaustion headache blooming inside my skull. The ride didn’t help matters. A real bucket of bolts, the economy shit-box Chevy S-10 pickup truck bucked and skidded across the empty creek bed like it might lose a wheel any second. Over the embankment and back on the access road, a ribbon of gravel dust followed the truck like it might be on fire. This and me not wanting to attract any attention from hyper-alert country cops that tracked and hunted deer on the weekends like bloodhounds. Real inconspicuous. I might as well be honking the horn too. Even Forest Ranger’s out here were armed and given powers of arrest. So I kept up the constant head scanning, balancing the loaded gun in my lap, trying to be careful not to blow my balls off. I finally spotted the entrance, pulling past one of those self check-in wooden volunteer donation boxes screwed to a post. Kentucky Ridge State Forest campground was a real shithole. And this was good because the place was stone-cold empty. No electric hook-ups, no running water, Porta-potty only.

  Pulling the truck into the tree-line at the far edge of camp, I camouflaged it with broken limbs and leaves, and burst into an immediate total body-sweat with the effort, the low sun still roasting the mountainside as it sunk into the west. I was being paranoid. There was no reason to hide the truck. Midweek at the end of summer break was hardly an ideal time for families with kids to go camping. Flash-mobs of crazed parents were crowding discount stores back in town, hunting down the last few remaining back to school items. The place was deserted. I was the only soul here, a rugged wilderness stretching around me, both vast and vacant, where far above turkey vultures circled the heights, catching updrafts of heat. I was finally safe and alone. Then the Biddimeyers showed up.