“That’s good to hear.” She gives him a warm smile.
“I am also glad you found a place for your vocational talents,” he says, and they both grin at this, and his cast takes on a bit more serious tone as he says, “Otherwise we would have never met.”
She nods, looking down, a light blush trying to have its way with her smooth, pale skin. He finds it very charming.
“I suppose it keeps you rather busy?” he asks, bringing his cup up for more of its contents.
She looks back at him, her hands going to her own mug, though just holding there, relaxed, “Somewhat, I suppose,” she shrugs, “I also spend two nights a week at the gymnasium teaching a self-defense class for women.”
He blinks, eyes peering at her in a deeper fashion, “Very impressive, Lilja. You really are a woman of many talents, aren’t you?”
And she gets that shy smile and threatening flush to her skin.
“I’m just me,” she says.
He can do naught else but give her a warm smile at that pronouncement.
“How long will you be here?” she suddenly asks, eyes fully upon him, her mug raised, and she has another drink after asking.
“Oh,” he replies, as though considering this for the first time, “I’m not sure. As long as it takes.”
She nods, also savoring her drink, then swallows.
“You like books,” she observes.
“I do,” he nods, thoughtfully, “Something we seem to have in common.”
“Who are some of the more interesting authors you’ve read?”
“Ah, well, I have spent a bit of time studying the works and life of the Marquis de Sade,” he answers after a brief time of pontificating.
“Oh …,” she comments, a moment of silence falls as she waits to see if he continues with the subject or moves on to something else.
“Are you familiar with him?”
“Some,” she nods.
He notes the hesitancy, but he decides to push it further and gauge her reaction.
“I studied him in college in an Ethics class, of all things. I cannot say I agree with all of his .. philosophy, but he is an interesting man, and an excellent writer, even if his subject matter is not always agreeable.”
“The word sadism is derived from his name and actions,” she informs, “What was not agreeable to you?” and she turns those big, bright eyes on him again as her cup is tilted up for another sip.
“Well, not to spoil our conversation, but he did write about a lot of violence, even toward children and babies, as well as sexual acts performed without consent. He seems to have had no boundaries when it came to his writings. Some scholars think he was a revolutionary, testing society, which he still does to this day.”
“And what do you think?” she quickly asks.
“It’s a very touchy subject,” he begins to carefully answer, “If one is engaging in fantasy, writing, and so forth, then I do not think that many boundaries do apply, if any. We should not be convicted for our thoughts. Actions are entirely different, and I would never condone actually undergoing many of the activities about which he writes. Doing such things to people against their consent is abhorrent to me.”
She nods, contemplating, looking away. She blinks, brow furrowing the tiniest bit, “I did not know all of that about him. I just thought he wrote about things like binding women and whipping … them,” her intonation slows suddenly, and she looks back up at him, realizing what she is saying, and a blush does take her at this, though she makes an effort to keep herself together.
He smiles warmly at her awkward display. “He did, at that. He is the ‘S’ in ‘S&M’ after all.” He watches her closely, and he is pleased to see that she does not show any signs of disgust at this. Instead, she looks back at him, a shy smile growing on her lovely lips.
*****
Detectives Pasztor and Mahler have seen many corpses in their day, both being veterans of not only the police force in general but also as homicide inspectors. They do not show any outward signs to the condition of the body, though their distaste is evident. The other person here, the well-fleshed Coroner McNeese appears most unfazed, and she should after her own education and experiences.
“The thorax has been rent quite savagely, initially torn open by three large wounds, ranging from ten to thirteen inches, the condition of the flesh indicating this was not a bladed weapon, nor were they done by the same hand.”
“What?” Mahler asks, looking up from viewing the printed report which lies bound in a heavy stock covering.
“It wasn’t a knife or dagger or similar bladed weapon. I consulted an old friend of mine who ended up getting into veterinarian medicine, and she agrees that this looks like it was caused by claws.”
“Are you saying an animal did this?” Pasztor chimes in.
The examiner just gives a little shrug, her lips sort of edging up on one side, before she turns back to the remnants of the carnage. “Those three wounds sufficiently opened to the abdominal cavity, and further, similar wounds show the excision and evisceration of most major organs.”
“Uhm,” Mahler begins, and all eyes set on him; he manages to continue his train of thought, “Did anything look like it was done by teeth?”
“A good question, Detective Mahler,” McNeese nods, “Open-minded, good, and I did check, but no, though it is obvious more than one weapon was used, none indicate teeth or bites.”
“How many weapons were used?” Pasztor asks.
“It is difficult to tell, but I would guess at least four.”
“So many?”
And another shrug before she goes back to the body, pointing with a ballpoint pen, “The face was gashed in all directions, the nose, cheeks, eyebrows, ears, and left eye being largely removed. The poor woman is virtually unrecognizable, but we thankfully had dental records for a match. Both arms have extensive and jagged wounds, hands showing wounds on top and inside, two fingers removed completely, two more hanging by a thread, as it were. This would indicate to me that the victim was taken unawares but had enough life to take a defensive posture. I would suspect shock and death were quite quick.”
“Mmm,” Pasztor gives a grunt and nod, which causes the coroner to look over; the man glances at her briefly, then she continues.
“The legs were not spared, either, the left thigh stripped of skin, fascia, and muscles as far as the knee. The right leg shows less serious wounds in more of a horizontal pattern across the thigh.”
“She has been savaged,” Mahler remarks.
“Indeed,” she agrees, then exhales loudly. “It’s all in the report there,” she gestures toward it with that same pen, “With much more detail, of course, and pictures.”
“Definitely a murder,” Pasztor intones.
“Not if it was an animal, Detective Pasztor,” McNeese is quick to point out, and the two men fix their eyes on her, which she merely returns with her own, steady gaze.
“Was it?” Pasztor asks in the ensuing silence, a touch of demand to his tone.
“There is no forensic evidence to suggest it was an animal, but we’re still processing. It is quite a mess.”
“That’s for sure,” Mahler agrees.
“There also seems a lack of evidence from the killer. We’ve yet to find any hair, skin, blood, etcetera that was left on the body by the killer, and that would be reasonable to expect in this sort of attack. Even if the victim stood no chance, with this sort of savagery, one may expect the killer to harm himself or at least leave behind some sort of biological evidence.”
“Or herself,” Pasztor pitches.
McNeese looks at him a moment, then nods, a sort of concession within the obvious tension between the two.
“Or herself,” she allows.
*****
It does not escape her notice that the collection over which she holds curatorship holds an unusual popularity of late. Certainly the compendium is well regarded within certain circles, but such groups generally prove rather small. Th
ere are showings of both a public and private nature from time to time, but her work is largely composed of care and management. After having spent so much time with Skothiam, she now finds herself speaking with another polished, well-dressed gentleman who shows similar interest.
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Professor Malkuth,” she says, and Denman gives her a charming smile.
He then turns, looking about the room, and she flicks her eyes over him in a quick, studied observance. He wears a well-tailored, chocolate brown linen, double breasted suit, though this time he is without a vest. The shirt is a rich blue, though pinstripes of a cream color diffuse this rather than making the garment appear actually lined. His necktie is a darker blue, given over to not quite as dark red dots. He even has a matching piece of fabric sticking up from the coat’s chest pocket. His shoes are obviously quite fine, polished, and bearing of such a dark brown as to almost appear black. She also notes that he is manicured, his nails quite long for a man’s.
Beyond the notes of appearance, she senses an arrogance and aloofness from him, as though he always holds control. She does not garner that this is a lack of self-confidence, no, he is used to being in the possession of power. He is used to getting his way.
He speaks, not looking back at her, still gazing out over the books, “Where are the most valuable ones held?”
“In the rear, under lock and key, generally not out for viewing unless under prior arrangement,” she says.
“A pity,” he comments, then turns, looking at her.
He still wears that obvious charm in his expression, and she can tell he is trying to get her to agree to show the so-requested books.
“I dropped by the other day, but you were out,” he tells her something they both already know.“I do hope everything is alright.”
“You said you just started this session? In the Philosophy Department?” she changes the subject.
“Yes,” he smiles further, taking a few steps nearer her, though still a sufficient distance away.
“What is your interest in rare books, Professor Malkuth?” she continues after a short pause.
“I am interested in the knowledge contained within them, Ms. Perhonen. I am not a bibliophile,” he remarks, “But some of the more interesting knowledge is found in older, rarer books.”
She offers no response to this, merely looking at him, holding place where she is, back straight, eyes taking note. He can tell she is being guarded, and he wonders why. Is it personal, or is she really just that much of a stalwart guardian of these tomes?
“Perhonen,” he muses, “Such a lovely sounding name. Quite rare, in itself. I’ve never heard it before.”
“Thank you, though I would think one knowledgeable in philosophy might realize the implication of thinking something is rare merely because it is out of one’s awareness.”
He lets a larger grin crawl over his lips, brought together now to hide his straight, white teeth. His hazel eyes narrow, flesh rising up and out near his otherwise sharp cheekbones.
“Well said, Ms. Perhonen,” he concedes, then he lets a deep breath pass through him, his expression dropping as he looks around. “I am interested, of course, in some books in particular, but I am generally eager to plumb the secrets of the old and rare. Such does not always result in anything worthwhile, but it is still a valuable effort.”
He has wandered about a bit as he talks, then stopping to set his eyes back on her once he finishes speaking. He is trying to offer something to her.
“Which books?” she asks, dryly, though still being polite.
“Oh, I’ll not bore you with that list, but perhaps I may send it to you sometime, and you could let me know. A woman in your position may even be able to help me find them if they are not here, hmm?” he puts on a shadow of his former charming smile, well-tended eyebrows rising slowly.
“I am generally rather busy, but if the school decides to pursue a particular book, then I would be involved.”
“May I at least send you my list?”
“Yes,” she offers a single nod.
“Thank you,” he turns to fully face her, “And where might I send that?”
“I believe you know my work email address.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” he gives an affectation of an awkward grin. “Thank you for your time,” he says, after collecting himself, which happens in nearly an instant.
She gives a single, silent nod in response, watching as he walks by, heading toward the door. He, of course, pauses, his hand in the process of reaching out for the handle, slender digits poised in the air, turning back to look at her.
“You are a very beautiful woman, Ms. Perhonen,” he boldly comments, “Would you like to have coffee or lunch together sometime?”
“Thank you, Professor, but I do not date work colleagues.”
“Ah, I see. Well, again, thank you for your time. I’ll be sending you that list,” he says, and then he is gone.
She takes a moment to process the interview. She wonders if he even knows the name of the Book, knows if it is even here, but it is still rather remarkable that this man shows up on the faculty roster this semester and also comes calling to her for this information. Of course, it may have nothing to do with the same book that Skothiam presently researches, but she finds that even less of a chance.
And now she wonders why she lied to him about the rarer tomes. They are in the rear of the room, in their display case as always. It would have been acceptable to escort him back there and let him look at them behind the glass. Why did she lie?
In the back of her mind, she knows exactly why.
*****
The report had been filed, and though it had taken some finagling, Detectives Sladky and Contee managed to procure the assignment to drive out to the small, isolated township to investigate a possible sighting of the vigilante. This sort of thing is most definitely out of the ordinary, but the local law enforcement there had shown that they were indeed very cooperative, filing the requisite paperwork and requests for assistance. All of it had been arranged and endorsed by Interpol Agent Gaspare Duilio.
They had considered just taking a day and driving out there, off the books, but it had been strongly intimated that they make it as official as possible. If they end up catching the vigilante, which they’d really rather not do, then they’d need this trail and evidence to get a conviction.
They are quickly passed through the small, quaint headquarters and admitted to the office of the man in charge, Constable Nedza.
“Come in, come in,” he greets, seeming rather open and cheerful, his light colored, button-down shirt open at the neck, and he gives both hearty handshakes and offers them a seat, “Would you like a drink? Some coffee, tea, something stronger?”
“No, thank you, we’re fine,” Quain quickly answers for them both.
“How was the drive over? Not too long, I hope,” he says with a broad smile.
“It was pleasant enough,” comes a response from the same detective.
“So, about your ninja problem …,” Alec says, and Quain holds his eyes closed.
Still, the Constable shows amusement, breaking out into a healthy chuckle, “Yes, the ‘ninja’ problem. Very good. But it is not a problem we have, it is a problem of our mutual employer, no?”
The other two sort of blink, casting sidelong glances, then looking back at the ruddy, smiling man.
“Right,” Quain acknowledges to a degree.
Nedza looks at them, then stands. “We’re a simple town here,” he begins, walking around, heading to the door, and obviously inviting the two to follow.
The visiting detectives rise up from their chairs, moving in the man’s wake as he heads out into the main chamber of the small station. The few officers in here are engaged in the types of things one may expect – talking to one another or on the phone, filling out reports. The constable heads to a metal filing cabinet, opening a drawer, and sifting through the files. He then turns to the room.
“Where is the Potchak file?” he calls out.
“Right here, boss,” responds a man at a desk, tapping on a file, then going back to juggling a phone call and a cup of coffee.
The three traverse the short distance to the desk, and the constable picks up the folder, handing it over. Quain takes it, opening to leaf through the contents, gaining an occasional glance from Alec. When he finally looks back up from his cursory perusal, he notices the constable looking at him with an expectant grin.
“Thanks,” he says to the grin.
Nedza nods once, emphatically, as though he may have just done his best work. He then spends a moment looking between the two, waiting. “So, do you want to see the house where all this happened?” he finally pitches into the silence.
The two prove agreeable, so they head to the constable’s vehicle, a white Dacia Duster with a luggage rack and floodlights, bearing of lettering and insignia that indicates its municipal function. It wears the dirt of many adventures, a caked-on brown coloring showing near the wheel wells, diffusing somewhat toward the windows.
They get an introduction to the town as they make the short drive over, and many of those they see offer friendly waves. It is apparent the man knows his district and that he is known. Quain begins to get the feeling that much of the town may be in Gnegon’s pocket.
They walk up the creaky steps of the farmhouse and into a scene of obvious violence.
“There’s where he blew in the window,” Nedza points, “And that window is where he came in, shot up the place pretty good. Oh, one guard got hit out back when he was taking a piss.” He shakes his head, sympathetic. “Your ‘ninja’ is good,” he adds, smirking at the two.
“What about this assassin that was brought in?” Quain asks. “How good was he, really?”
“Oh, very good,” Nedza pronounces, speaking low from his gut, his common smile dropped as though this were sufficient evidence to back up his claims. “Former Alpha Group, from Georgia, I think, trained in combat Sambo and Systema. From what I know, he did not come cheap.”
Dance of the Butterfly Page 9