by Barry Lyga
Jazz turned and saw that Howie’s face was covered in blood.
CHAPTER 4
For a split second, Jazz thought someone had attacked Howie, but then Howie tilted his head back and said, “Oh, no. Crap!”
Howie had twice-weekly shots to boost his clotting factor, but he was still prone to random nosebleeds. This one was a real flood, twin red rivulets running out of his nose, gushing over his mouth and chin. Howie had the report in one hand and the photocopy in the other, his arms spread wide to keep him from bleeding on either of them. Jazz dashed over and cupped his hand under Howie’s chin to catch the blood before it could hit the floor. Even so, a few drops spattered against the cold tile, almost perfect circles of red.
Howie’s blood was warm, especially in the cold freezer. Special kinda warm, Billy said, and Jazz grimaced, then used his free hand to pinch Howie’s nose shut and stanch the flow.
“Danks,” Howie said.
“How long since your last desmopressin shot?”
“Uh…Dursday?”
“Must have been the cold in here,” Jazz said. “Back up to the other room. There were some Kleenex on the desk.”
They carefully edged out of the freezer and back into the office, Jazz still pinching with one hand and cupping with the other, all while watching his feet so as not to smear and track the blood all over the place. Blood was the worst bit of evidence to leave behind: Blood is chockablock with DNA, and it’s almost impossible to remove every trace from most surfaces.
Ten pints, he thought again. Ten pints. How easy to lose track of a few drops, and a few drops were sometimes enough to give you away.
Once they were in the office, Jazz had Howie drop the papers and take over pinching duty. He couldn’t walk around with bloody gloves, and he couldn’t just throw them away covered like this, so he stripped them off and rinsed them in the nearby sink, watching the rusty red water swirl down the drain. It was hypnotic, taking him back to a time he could scarcely remember and yet could never forget: his own childhood. His own childhood, and another time when rusty red water had swirled.
Billy Dent’s fathering skills—such as they were—resembled brainwashing techniques more than parenting. As a result, Jazz mostly remembered bits and pieces, like now—a memory of blood running into a sink drain; the pungent smell of it thick in his nose; a sharp, stained knife resting in the sink. Jazz had a terror of knives left in sinks. He couldn’t stand seeing them there. At home, every time he used a knife, he had to clean it and stow it in a drawer or knife block immediately; just the sight of a knife in a sink made him shiver and quake.
Nice job, son…Nice, good cut. Clean…
—just like chicken—
He forced himself back to the present, drying his hands and tossing the gloves into one of the morgue’s medical-waste containers. Then he helped Howie jam some tissue between his upper lip and his gums—a big blood vessel ran through there, the one that supplied the nose with blood, so putting pressure on that would stop a nosebleed faster than anything else.
Sure enough, soon Howie’s bleeding ebbed, and then stopped entirely. “Sorry,” Howie said miserably, stooping to pick up the papers.
Jazz grabbed them instead. “Don’t worry about it.” But deep down, he was worried. Despite taking all the precautions with gloves and caps, now they risked contaminating the place with Howie’s DNA. “Toss your gloves and tissues into the waste container, then take the bag. We’ll take it all with us and burn it.”
They put on fresh gloves and got back to business. Jazz wiped up the blood spatters in the freezer and tossed the tissues in with the rest of Howie’s waste. It bothered him that he was leaving evidence behind—without some sort of oxygenated bleach, those blood spatters would still show up under Luminol. Of course, the odds of anyone deciding to spray down the morgue freezer and switch on an ultraviolet light were pretty minimal, so it’s not like it was evidence that anyone would ever find or use. Still: Billy Dent’s First Commandment was “Thou shalt not leave evidence.”
“Stay out there,” Jazz said when he saw Howie coming back to the freezer. “I’ll finish up in here. I don’t want you gushing again.”
He replaced the report, then took one final look at the body. She’d been young. Pretty. She was, he couldn’t help thinking, the kind of victim Billy had preferred. Billy wouldn’t have even minded her fighting back. That just made it more fun. More challenging.
He checked that the body was in the same position he’d found it in, then zipped up the bag, returning her to the darkness.
“They don’t know who she is,” Howie said from the door, where he was flipping through the copy of the report. His upper lip was still stained red. “Can’t they just take her fingerprints?” He paused. “Well, most of her fingerprints?”
“Not until she comes out of rigor. That could take a while. Might even be another day.” Jazz left the freezer and shut the door, careful not to lock it, since they’d found it unlocked. Details mattered. “And it takes a while for fingerprints to come back, anyway. If there’s nothing in the state database, they’ll send it to the feds. And fingerprints are only good if you have something to compare them to. If she’s not in the system, they won’t get a hit.”
Howie nodded thoughtfully. “They found her naked,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Do you think whoever did this…Do you think he did stuff to her?”
Jazz swallowed hard. He knew Howie was asking about Jane, but somehow he couldn’t help thinking of Billy’s victims. Howie was pretty good about not asking for details of what Billy had done to his victims or what growing up with Billy had been like. But then again, if he wanted details, all he had to do was go to any of the websites devoted to Billy Dent. Or turn on a random cable channel during sweeps for a two-hour documentary on “Butcher Billy” (the preferred nickname these days, it seemed). Still, it was one thing to read about hacking and slashing and beating. The other stuff—the sex stuff—was usually glossed over. Sexual assault was the preferred term, a conveniently neutral phrase that allowed the audience’s imagination to run amok without the hair-sprayed, shiny-toothed news anchors having to sully the airwaves with actual descriptions. It covered a vast multitude of sins that would have made Howie puke.
“Not according to this,” Jazz said, taking the report. “No evidence of sexual activity or anything like that.”
“Well, there’s that,” Howie said, sounding relieved. Jazz wondered at that—was it really so much better to be unmolested, but still murdered in a horrible fashion? To die in pain and terror, stripped, left in a field, your fingers cut off? But as long as you weren’t raped, well, that was all right, then? Did it really matter at that point?
“Why leave her naked, then?” Howie asked.
Jazz wondered. Not why the killer had taken her clothes, but what he’d done with them. He had his trophies—the fingers. Had he burned the clothes? Buried them?
He thought of Arthur John Shawcross, a real sick puppy if ever there’d been one. Killed a bunch of people in upstate New York. He used to fold his victims’ clothes and leave them near the bodies. Sometimes he would have the victim fold her own clothes. It probably made the poor women think they would be getting dressed again as long as they cooperated. Made them more compliant, thinking they would live.
Had Jane Doe thought that? Had she willingly stripped down and put her clothes aside, thinking she would live if she could just suffer through a rape?
Those bruises on her hands…No. Not Jane. Jane had fought like hell, he knew.
“Any number of reasons,” he told Howie as they moved around the morgue to make sure everything was back in place as they’d found it. “Could have been to slow the cops down. It could mean that he’s trying to humiliate her. He might have hated her. Maybe she snubbed him, or maybe she looked like someone who snubbed him, so this was his revenge. Or maybe he wanted to do something to her but couldn’t perform, couldn’t get it up, so he decided to embarrass her by leaving her naked.”
“That all makes sense.” Howie paused. “Well, crazy sense, y’know?”
“Sure. But most likely he just didn’t want to leave any evidence behind. See all these seams and linings in your clothes? They can gather trace evidence, and even if it looks clean to you, you could be carrying around all kinds of stuff. Heck, every hour three or four hairs just drop out of your head. That’s a lot of evidence.”
Howie put a hand to his head, as if he could hold his hairs in place. “Is that why your dad shaved his head sometimes?”
“Yeah. Well, and he thought it looked cool, too.”
“Excuse me,” said a new voice. Howie shrieked like a little girl, and even Jazz jumped at the sound.
The rent-a-cop! There was no way it had been an hour! How could he have—
Standing at the door was anything but a rent-a-cop. It was the real deal—the deputy Jazz had seen earlier. The one standing off to one side at the crime scene. He blocked the one door out of the morgue, his hand resting on his holster, and he looked anything but vulnerable.
Jazz and Howie sat on a bench in the hallway of the funeral home, cuffed together. The cuffs were too tight, even though Howie had immediately brought up his hemophilia, and a bruise was already forming on his wrist. Howie bore it with his usual stoicism.
“My mom is gonna kill me,” he whined. “Seriously. She’s gonna see this bruise and be like, ‘How did you get that?’ And then I’m gonna have to tell her that I let you talk me into this crazy idea and then she’s gonna…”
Jazz tuned him out, instead watching the deputy, who was poking around inside the morgue, just barely within visual range. Making sure nothing was out of order or missing. He’d already confiscated the copy of the report in Jazz’s possession.
How had he so misread this guy? At the crime scene, he’d seemed nervous and fidgety. Now he was just fine. He—
The deputy came out of the morgue. “You kids are in a lot of trouble,” he said. “You moved the body, didn’t you?”
Jazz shrugged.
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Howie demanded.
“Well, yeah,” said the deputy. “I took your wallets when I cuffed you. Remember?”
“Oh. Right.”
The deputy grinned. “Don’t go thinking that just because your buddy is some kind of local celebrity that you’re going to get off easy.”
Jazz laughed. Local celebrity? That was the first time he’d ever been described that way.
“You think this is funny?” The deputy turned his attention to Jazz. “This is serious business here. Breaking and entering. Contaminating evidence. Theft. What did you think you were doing here?”
What are you doing here? Jazz wanted to ask. It’s never a bad tactic to put someone on the defensive, if you can. No deputy should be lingering around the morgue at night.
But before Jazz could say anything, a door opened at the other end of the corridor and G. William trundled in, dressed in jeans and an old Windbreaker, his hair a bird’s nest of tangles and offshoots.
“Oh, great,” Howie muttered.
The deputy looked up, mingled relief and concern flashing across his face. “Sorry to get you out of bed for something like this, Sheriff. But being as it’s my first day and all, I didn’t want to assume too much authority right off the bat. Especially since I know you have a…” He stumbled for a moment. “Well, a relationship with one of these guys.”
G. William stood before Jazz and Howie, hands on hips. “Well, well. Looks like you boys have met Deputy Erickson already. Just transferred in from out of state. Lindenberg, right, Erickson?”
“Yes, sir. Just up past the state line.”
G. William grinned at the boys. “Grooming him to be my second-in-command. Damn good cop, wouldn’t you say?”
“Lucky, more like,” Jazz said.
Erickson stiffened.
“He didn’t track us down,” Jazz pointed out. “He didn’t have an inkling that something was going on in the morgue. He just wandered in there and saw us. Speaking of which, why was—”
“You’re missing the point here, Jazz,” G. William interrupted. “The point being that I don’t care how or why he got you. What matters is that you’re busted. Now. I’m gonna ask you how you got in here, and if I don’t like your answer, I’m gonna ask Howie, because I know Howie will tell me the truth. Won’t you, Howie?”
Howie gulped.
Jazz thought quickly. There was no point getting Lana in trouble by telling G. William how they’d sneaked a copy of the key out right in front of her. “I made a dupe last month,” Jazz said. “When you had that car-accident victim in here. I was curious.”
G. William’s eyes narrowed and he looked from Jazz to Howie and back again. Then: “Erickson, take Howie upstairs and start the paperwork on him. Be careful on account of his illness.”
“Got it.”
“Jazz, you and me are gonna talk.” He led Jazz into the morgue as Erickson led Howie away. Jazz tried not to let the wounded-puppy look on Howie’s face affect him. He had more immediate concerns.
“So, you were just curious about that body last month, eh?” G. William said once they were in the morgue. “And did you satisfy that curiosity?”
“Yes.”
“Really? You got up close to it, saw everything you needed to see? Got your eyeballs nice and bloody with it?”
Sure, why not? “Yes, G. William. I saw it. I was wondering what—”
G. William laughed and slapped his thigh. “I have got to tell you, Jazz. I’ve been a cop for most of my life, so I’ve been lied to a lot. And I’ve been lied to by some real pros. But you, kiddo, you are the best liar I’ve ever had the pleasure to bust in a lie.”
“I’m not—”
G. William waved a hand. “No, no, save your breath. Save it. You’re busted, Jazz. You’re totally convincing, and you would have had me, but for one thing. That accident victim last month? He was an orthodox Jew. In accordance with his family’s wishes, we had a rabbi sitting in here with the body all night, until we could get a Jewish funeral home to take it away.”
Jazz groaned.
“And Rabbi Goldstein might not be all that spry these days, but he would have noticed you skulking around the body, I think.”
“Howie shouldn’t get in trouble,” Jazz said immediately. “I made him come along. He does whatever I tell him to do. Do what you want to me, but it’s not cool to ding Howie.”
At that, G. William softened. “You keep surprising me.”
“Meaning what? That maybe I won’t turn out like my dad?”
“I never said that,” G. William barked, pointing a stubby finger at Jazz. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth. You’re the one who walks around town acting like you’re…you’re fated to be just like Billy when you grow up. I never accused you of that. But I have to admit,” he went on, now looking around the morgue, “busting in to this place at night doesn’t exactly rank high on the ‘normal guy’ scale.”
It was time to come clean, whether Jazz liked it or not. Until G. William was satisfied, he was going to hold the threat of Howie being booked over Jazz’s head, and Jazz didn’t want to have to deal with Howie’s mother freaking out about her baby being arrested. And, of course, he actually didn’t want Howie to be arrested in the first place.
“I wanted to see if you guys missed anything with the Jane Doe,” he admitted. “I needed to see for myself.”
“And helped yourself to a copy of the preliminary report while you were at it.”
Jazz shrugged. “It’s not like it had anything important in it.”
“Nope. You should have waited to break in tomorrow night, after the full autopsy was done. Got impatient, eh?”
“It’s a serial killer, G. William. You have to believe me—”
“All I have to do is wake up in the morning and go to bed at night, Jazz. Everything else is optional. Come on.” He gestured for Jazz to follow and led him out of the morgue, then up to the
police station. Howie sat shackled to a chair next to Deputy Erickson’s desk, looking miserable. Erickson was trying to figure out something on the computer; Lana stood behind him, pointing at the screen.
When Jazz walked in she looked shocked, even though Howie’s presence must have clued her in. Jazz tried flashing her “The Charmer” and, sure enough, Lana responded with a smile, even though Jazz was cuffed, too.
“Hi, Lana.”
“Uh, hi, Jasper.”
“Enough chitchat,” G. William said. “We’re gonna cut these two loose—”
“Score!” said Howie.
“What?” said Erickson.
“Like I was saying,” G. William repeated with ill-concealed annoyance at the interruption, “we’re gonna cut these two loose. With a warning. And we’re confiscating their key.”
“But, Sheriff…” Erickson was out of his chair, practically knocking over Lana. “They were breaking and entering. They could have taken evidence or—”
“You caught ’em, Erickson. You stopped ’em. That’s enough for me. Part of being a good cop is knowing when something is too much effort for its own good. We put this one’s name in a police blotter”—he pointed at Jazz—“and believe me, we’ll spend the next week doing nothing but answering questions about Billy Dent’s kid. We don’t have time for that nonsense. Not for something that boils down to the equivalent of a kids’ prank. Let ’em go.”
“Thanks, G. William,” Jazz said quietly.
“I didn’t do it for you, kid. Did it for my own sanity. I’m heading home.” He paused at the door and turned back. “Oh, and Jazz? Howie? I catch you two pulling any more shenanigans and I will not be inclined to go easy on you. Hear?”
“Yes, sir,” Jazz said.
“Sir, yes, sir!” Howie barked, saluting with his free hand.
Lana returned to her desk (not before stealing another look at Jazz, of course) and Erickson grumbled as he released Howie from the cuffs.
“Careful!” Howie said. “Watch it!” His wrist was mottled with bruises from the cuff and from Erickson’s fingers.