Skin Deep

by Michelle Hanson

  “Is there anything else you need? I really need to get back to work.” Marie forcefully struck the keys on the keyboard as she typed in Cait’s email address.

  “No,” I said and then looked at Cait to see if she had anything else to ask.

  “You’ve been a big help, thanks,” Cait said as she stepped away from the desk.

  We walked to the elevator in silence, and I pressed the “down” arrow. I’d hoped to get more information from the tenants than what we had, but today’s trip wasn’t a complete waste.

  “When we get to the lobby, I want to look for that maintenance-request mailbox,” I told Cait when we stepped onto the elevator.

  She nodded. “I’ll need some time when we get back to the station to look into the email Novak sent the architect. Check out the date and time, IP address. That’ll help us locate where he sent them from. If they’re from West Joseph instead of Florida, then we’ll know what part of the country he’s hiding in, at least.”

  “You can work on that while I read through Wilma Reynold’s case file,” I said as the elevator doors separated. Cait followed me as I walked into the lobby. The late afternoon sun sprawled across the floor, highlighting the marble.

  “There,” Cait said and nodded toward the opposite side of the room. To the left of the elevators, adjacent to the stairwell, was a steel mailbox with a small lock over the lid. Next to the mailbox was a metal door that read “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.”

  “Do you think Novak’s office is down there?” Cait asked.

  “I don’t know.” My shoes clicked against the marble as we walked toward the door. There was a metal latch on the outside, with a large padlock, but it wasn’t fastened. I pushed down on the door’s slender handle, and the cold steel absorbed into my skin as the handle turned. With little effort, I pulled the door open, and a low squeak emitted from the hinges. I peered inside. Bare white walls lined a set of concrete stairs that went down one floor.

  I took a step through the doorway and held the door open for Cait to follow. The stairs zigzagged down to what appeared to be a basement. With my hand on my gun, I took the first step. It was colder here than in the lobby, and the musty scent reminded me of a boiler room, complete with sounds of leaky pipes. The echoes of dripping water bounced around the space every three to four seconds.

  I walked down the cement stairs with Cait close behind me. With any luck, we would find maintenance worker who could give us more information on Novak. But the farther down the stairs we got, the less likely that seemed possible.

  As we reached the bottom step, my eyes widened and a chill raced up my spine. My voice caught in my throat, and I pulled my gun from its holster as I walked into the basement. Along the back wall were two sealed archways. Above those were glass-block windows that let the evening sunlight in.

  In the center of the room, audacious and barefaced, was a dark red stain—almost the color of wine. It was at least two feet wide and slightly discolored, likely from chemicals used in an attempt to clean it up. The stain settled there, saturating the cement floor beneath it, as I stared at the ground. The longer my eyes lingered on the scarlet gore, the more my peripheral recognized the room.

  This wasn’t just a basement, and that wasn’t wine soaked into the ground.

  “Cait….” a shaken whisper escaped my lips. I walked to the stain in the center of the room and squatted next to it. A faint smell of car oil and mint filled my nose as I breathed in. The smell was light enough to stay confined within this room. Even if it wasn’t, this room was completely separate. It didn’t have a single vent along the ceiling. There was no way for smells or sounds to carry through the rest of the building.

  Cait’s shadow cast over the stain as she stood next to me. “Is that…?”

  “Kristen Valeri,” I answered. I knew without a doubt, this room—this tomb—was where Kristen Valeri, Pamela Westlake, and Fionna Michaels had been murdered. Cait and I were standing in the very same spot where their deaths had been filmed.

  As the images of the victims flooded my mind, I understood how they could have been fooled into letting down their guard. The lobby was a perfect front for someone to manipulate their trust. It was absolutely beautiful. Nothing about the lobby or the building gave off any warning signs that danger could be lurking within.

  If I had been one of the victims, I would have fallen for this scam. Aside from not having any aspirations of becoming a big-time movie star getting in the way of my better judgment, I wouldn’t have thought twice about the director’s intentions when I walked into the lobby. Even if I’d been asked to come into the basement, I wouldn’t have hesitated. This building was full of false trust. I couldn’t blame the victims for their naivety—anymore that I could judge myself for feeling as secure as they had probably felt when Cait and I got here.

  We had accidentally stumbled upon the biggest break in the case. This building was all we needed to point the finger at Novak. All we had to do was find him.

  I looked to the right and envisioned where the camera had been set up. There was about ten feet of space between the edge of the stain and the wall, enough room for a camera and Director Novak to audition his victims. A chunk of bile burned in the pit of my stomach.

  It had been Novak this entire time. Someone I’d trusted—someone Flu had treated like family—was actually capable of this.

  I took a deep breath, something I soon regretted, and stood up. A tingling rush took over my head, and the room started to darken. Cait’s hand cupped my left bicep, and she held me steady. “Careful,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” My vision slowly returned to normal. “I just stood up too fast,” I added. “I have to call this in.” I walked to the back of the room. The entire basement was empty, at least to the naked eye. But I knew the bodies of Pamela Westlake and Fionna Michaels were buried within the walls. That just left the question of where Kristen Valeri was buried.

  I lightly traced my fingertips over the bricks that entombed the victims. How could someone do this to innocent people? How could someone do this to anyone? I’ve hated people in my life—truly hated them—but I could never do this. I couldn’t even do this to Lathan Collins.

  If their bodies were still here, it was possible their vehicles were too. The building had its own parking lot. Once we taped off the entire area as a crime scene, Cait and I could check for the victims’ cars. I wouldn’t be surprised if their cars were still here—out back, hidden in plain sight. Every time Novak or his accomplices came here, they would see the vehicles. They didn’t need to keep a lock of hair to relive the rush of the murders. The cars were their trophies.

  I dug into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. “No signal,” I told Cait. “I need to go upstair—”

  I heard the door at the top of the stairs squeak open.

  Cait and I quickly looked at the bottom of the staircase. A soundless stare between us was our only communication. With my gun still in hand, I silently undid the safety. I pointed it toward the staircase as echoed footsteps made their way down.

  One stomp at a time, the thuds grew louder. From the corner of my eye, I saw Cait draw her gun and point it at the staircase too. The footsteps boomed louder still, and then I saw two legs dressed in brown work boots and a navy blue custodian’s jumper.

  I tightened my grip around the handle of my gun. Slowly, the pair of legs grew a waist, and then a torso, and finally a neck and head.

  “Sergeant Evans with West JPD, put your hands up,” I commanded. I had enough probable cause to make an arrest. The fact that this man confidently walked into a room where multiple murders had happened was enough to convince me that he was one of the guilty parties.

  The man looked at me and then to Cait, a wide-eyed stare across his face. He looked confused, as if he didn’t understand how or why we were down here. He froze mid-step as both our weapons pointed at him. He slowly put his hands up, keeping his arms bent at the elbows, and a maniacal smirk twisted from h
is lips.

  He looked vaguely familiar, like maybe he bagged groceries at the store where I normally shopped? Except I knew he wasn’t. At some point, though, I had interacted with him. His rotund belly looked most familiar. It was similar to the masked man’s from the videos. That could have been how I recognized him? But his face looked familiar too.

  The masked man had done the actual killing. Visions of those gruesome slaughters swarmed my mind. Kristen Valeri, strangled with wire. Fionna Michaels, gutted like a fish. Pamela Westlake, practically decapitated with the swipe of a blade.

  “Don’t move,” I said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” I locked eyes with him and aligned my gun with the center of his skull in case he moved. I took a few steps forward.

  The man looked no more than twenty-five. There was an impressionable look about him, like he could be easily manipulated into doing things he wouldn’t otherwise do. He also had a guilty look about him. Sweat immediately formed along his hairline as he watched me put my gun in its holster and reach for my cuffs. He eyed Cait as she kept her firearm pointed at him.

  I slapped a cuff around his left wrist and twisted his arm behind his back as I cuffed his right wrist. He was a big guy, but I had enough adrenaline to take down someone three times his size. I walked him the rest of the way into the basement with little effort. He fully complied with every move. “On the ground,” I said.

  The man knelt on one knee and then the other before sitting on the ground. His light brown hair was drenched in perspiration, and he obediently sat between where Cait and I stood. “What’s your name?” I asked.

  Nothing. He just stared at the concrete floor, tears building with each heavy breath he took.

  “What’s your name?” I repeated. But he didn’t respond. “Can you watch him?” I asked Cait.

  “Yeah,” she quickly replied as she kept her gun on him.

  I ran up the stairs. By the time I reached the doorway, I had two bars—enough of a signal to make the call and still be close enough to Cait in case the man tried anything.

  “This is Evans,” I breathed into the phone when Dispatch answered. Between the adrenaline and the unexpected cardio, I was a little out of breath. “Send over every available unit to eleven sixty-seven Staleman Street, basement level, for a ten-five.”

  “Copy,” she responded and then repeated the address. “Available units are in route. Over.”

  I hung up and jogged down the stairs. Faint sirens rose from the distance. I looked at Cait as she kept her gun on the man, and I nodded. Now that we had Novak’s wingman, it was only a matter of time before Novak surfaced. We actually caught the son of a bitch, I thought to myself. I held back a sneer as a sudden spark of triumph shot through me.

  Once we got his confession—and there was no doubt in my mind we would—this would all be over. The victims’ families would have closure. The citizens of West Joseph would feel safe. And I would finally be able to say I did my job.

  The victims would have their day in court. The people who were responsible for the deaths of Kristen Valeri, Pamela Westlake, Fionna Michaels, and possibly Wilma Reynolds would have to suffer the consequences of their actions. This wasn’t like Lathan Collins. He got the easy way out. He didn’t have to be held accountable.

  Within minutes, a stampede of officers raced down the stairs. As I watched four armed officers surround the man on the ground, I knew justice had won. All the work I had put into solving this case had paid off. I also had Cait to thank. If it weren’t for her, who knows where I’d be? It was more than just her intuition and her Internet expertise that had led us to this moment. If it wasn’t for her encouragement and support this past week, I wouldn’t have made it.

  This victory was as much hers as it was mine. And as much as I wanted to go out and celebrate, we had a long evening ahead of us. We had to exhume the bodies from behind the brick walls; we had to check the parking lot for the victims’ cars; and we still had to interview the suspect.

  After the suspect had been taken upstairs to be placed in the back of a cruiser, Flu arrived. He, Cait, and I stood back as three officers took turns swinging sledgehammers at the bricks. Pieces flew away as dust filled the room. The putrid odor of decayed flesh mixed with rotten apples seeped from the open holes in the walls. The smell was so thick that it clogged my sinuses, and my stomach churned as I held my breath until my lungs ached for oxygen. Cait and Flu had the same foul looks on their faces as they tried to breathe through the stench.

  “We have a body,” an officer called when the debris settled and we could see into the hole. “Female,” he added as he coughed between breaths.

  “We got a body here too,” another officer shouted. He stood in front of the second archway with his bicep under his nose to shield his nostrils from the smell of rotted flesh. “Another female.”

  Flu walked to the first officer, and Cait and I walked to the second officer. I peered inside and clenched my stomach to keep the bile from erupting. There, on the cold cement floor, was presumably Pamela Westlake. The clothes I recognized from her video were saturated with blood. Although she laid face-up, I couldn’t recognize her face—because she didn’t have one.

  Just like Sophia Good, Lisa Johnson, Carmine Jenkins, and Angela Truman, Pamela Westlake was missing her face. Her skin had been completely removed from her head. Laceration marks were carved along the edges of her face. Exposed muscle tissue and chunks of cartilage clung to her skull. Her eyelids were intact, although her eyes were still open. She stared at us. Her blue eyes looked like marbles stuffed into pockets of raw meat.

  “Jesus,” Flu muttered as he stepped back from his victim. I didn’t have to guess as to the condition of the other body. I looked at Cait as an avocado hue washed over her face.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She stood frozen with her eyes closed as her breath came to a steady pace. She shook her head and opened her eyes before she looked at me. “I wasn’t prepared for that,” she confided.

  “No one’s ever prepared for that.” I gave her a sympathetic smile. “Was this your first?”

  She slowly nodded.

  “If you need to leave,” I said, “it’s okay. No one will fault you.”

  “No.” She paused and swallowed hard. “I’m okay.” She walked the two steps past me and joined Flu with the other victim.

  “We won’t be able to positively identify the bodies until we run the dental records,” Flu said in a low voice. He walked toward me, and I got the impression he was blocking me from seeing his victim. “Is yours….” He didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what he was asking.

  “The same as Lathan Collins?” I locked eyes with him. Why would he keep me from seeing the body? After everything I had seen and witnessed, what could possibly throw me over the edge that hadn’t by now?

  “Lena,” Cait called, and I broke my stare down with Fluellen.

  I stepped past Flu and stood next to Cait as I looked inside the tomb. Another body lay on the cold cement floor, clothes saturated in blood, skin completely removed from the head.

  “Fionna Michaels,” I said. I could identify her body based on the clothes from her video. I turned to face Flu. “We’ll stay with them until Crime Scene and the Coroner get here,” I told him.

  I wasn’t going to leave them alone. They had died alone, and they had been buried alone. It was time they were surrounded by someone who cared for them. I wasn’t going to allow Novak and his protégé to make them suffer anymore.

  “Okay,” Flu agreed. “They should be here soon.”

  The three of us stood guard in front of the graves of Pamela Westlake and Fionna Michaels as the responding officers headed upstairs. And as much as I wanted to join them outside—and I knew Cait and Flu did too—we stayed. We stayed for the victims, for their families, and to prove that, even in all this horror, there was still kindness in the world.

  CHAPTER | FIFTEEN

  “HE ISN’T TALKING.” FLU flopped himself int
o the chair across from my desk. He held a manila file and looked at me. “We’ve switched out officers, played ‘good cop, bad cop.’ Hell, I even gave him moral justification for the murders. Still—nothing.” Flu sighed. “Novak has a tight lid on this kid, that’s for sure.”

  “Did you get a name out of him yet?” I looked up from Wilma Reynolds’ case file. I had been staring at her file for more than thirty minutes, but I had yet to actually read a single word of her report.

  After we had returned to the station, Cait and I had brought the suspect into the interview room. She and I had taken turns asking questions, but all he did was stare at us. Even when we’d asked his name, his only response was the same blank, maniacal look he’d given us when we’d found him in the basement. It was like looking at a doll: a motionless face with lifeless eyes.

  Flu thought the suspect’s presumed obsession with me and Lathan Collins was the reason for his silence. So he pulled me and Cait out of the room—and replaced us with himself and another detective.