Straw Man

by Patrick Logan

  The closer Lisa got, however, the more she started to think that it was covered in something—not clothes, but dirt or a stain or lacquer or something. The mannequin’s exterior didn’t look like the traditional fiberglass or molded plastic she was used to.

  What the hell is that?

  “Norm?” her angry hiss was now bordering on a frightened whisper. Lisa reached out and touched the statue’s hip only to draw her fingers back as if scalded. The texture wasn’t smooth as she’d expected, but almost like leather with a heavy patina finish.

  Squinting heavily—she preferred not to wear her glasses at posh events such as these—Lisa focused her attention on the mannequin’s face. What she’d initially taken for cracks in the plastic, a result of shoddy construction or sub-par storage conditions, perhaps both, started to look more and more like thick sutures.

  Lisa craned her neck forward, moving her face even closer to the mannequin, careful not to make contact again. This time when she pulled back, she stumbled and bumped into one of her displays.

  “No,” she moaned, all the blood draining from her face. “Noooo.”

  The mannequin behind her wobbled then eventually toppled, but she made no move to grab it.

  All Lisa Fairchild could do is stare at the hideous face before her, at the ragged eye holes torn from what resembled human flesh.

  Chapter 2

  “We’re gonna have to ask everyone to move away from the exhibit and relocate in the front room,” the police officer who had responded to Norm’s 911 call instructed.

  This was exactly why Lisa had hesitated before giving her husband the go-ahead: some asshole rookie cop with bigger balls than brains making a scene out of nothing, effectively ruining not just the show but any chance Lisa had of making a name for herself.

  She scowled.

  To her dismay, Norm had refused to call in a favor from someone higher up the food chain, a judge or one of the other geriatric bureaucrats he went golfing with every Sunday. The last thing Lisa wanted was to inconvenience their guests. She hadn’t grown up with this crowd as Norm had, but she was smart enough to know that inconvenienced rich people were about as likely to make a large purchase as the enthralled impoverished.

  “Can’t you just take this… thing… out back and get rid of it? Toss it in a dumpster? It doesn’t belong here.”

  The cop looked at her, then scratched a chin that looked as if it was still three or four years from being able to grow any stubble.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Lisa rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her narrow chest. Despite her annoyance, she resisted looking at the abomination. Prank or not, it was hideous.

  “Something that doesn’t belong here.” When it became clear that this reply wasn’t going to get the police out of her hair any faster, she added, “It’s just some sick joke. Take it to the crime lab or whatever, just make sure you go out back. I don’t want anybody to have to look at it again.”

  Norm put a hand on her waist, but Lisa stepped away from her husband.

  Oh, now you want to help me? You should have helped me before by calling one of your friends instead of this mental midget.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we can’t move it. This whole gallery is going to be shut down until we figure out what the hell it is.”

  “Yes, officer, I understand. I—we—were just hoping—”

  Lisa cut her husband off.

  “This is opening night,” she said, leaning forward and squinting at the cop. “Do you know what that means?”

  It was a rhetorical question—this officer had likely never even set foot in a place like this one, let alone participated in a silent auction of this magnitude—but she let it hang in the air to prove her point.

  “Of course, you don’t. Well, let me tell you something, you can’t shut us down. Not on opening night.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, Lisa wished she could take them back. There was a fine line between voicing her displeasure and poking a starving bear.

  “You better keep her under wraps,” the cop warned, his boyish expression hardening.

  Now it was Lisa’s turn to be offended. She knew that they were heading down a slippery slope of no return, riding a greased saucer down a ski hill, but she was unable to control herself.

  “Don’t you speak to me like that. Don’t you dare speak to me like that.” Her finger predictably came out and started to wag. “Do you know who I am? Do you even—”

  “Calm down, sweetie,” Norm said softly.

  Lisa’s eyes darted toward her husband and she felt her cheeks start to burn.

  “Don’t you tell me to calm down either, Norm. This is my night. I won’t let either of you two ruin it!”

  Most of the remaining guests who hadn’t yet been relocated to the foyer were now looking at her. But rather than calm Lisa down, get her to check herself, it served to feed her hysteria.

  I should have taken two Xanax instead of one. And this cop should know his fucking place.

  “This. Is. Opening. Night,” she repeated, a full stop between each word. “If you ruin it, I’ll take the lost proceeds out of your salary… but I bet that will barely even cover the fucking catering cost.”

  “Alright, I’ve had about enough of this,” the cop proclaimed, raising his voice. The man turned to the gathering crowd. “Everyone, I need you to stop sipping your cocktails and head to the front.” When no one moved, he gestured with both hands. “Move! Now!”

  “Norm, do something. He’s fucking ruining it.”

  But all Norm did was make a face and shrug.

  “For fuck’s sake, if you don’t—wait, who’s that?” Moving against the flow of traffic was a man in a pea-coat. He had dark circles under his eyes, thin brown hair, and a characteristic gait. “Do you know him? Norm, do you know that cop or detective or whatever?”

  Evidently, Norm’s eyes had gotten as bad as Lisa’s, despite his recent cataract surgery.

  “I don’t—I—maybe?”

  The man gave the rookie cop in uniform a nod as he neared, but when the latter tried to say something, the newcomer immediately shut him down.

  Good, someone in charge. Someone who can clean up this mess and save my night.

  The closer he got, the stronger the reek of cigarette smoke became. Lisa hated the smell of smoke and smokers in general, but she resisted crinkling her nose and forced a wan smile onto her face. She had to change her approach. It wasn’t just that her previous method had failed, but it was clear that this man wasn’t someone who could be bossed around, wasn’t someone with about as much experience as a virgin with no hands.

  “Sergeant Henry Yasiv,” the man said in a baritone voice. He came into focus and Lisa realized that while he was experienced, he wasn’t quite as old as she’d first thought. “I’m guessing this is your exhibit?”

  Even though the sergeant’s words were directed at Norm, Lisa was the one who replied.

  “It’s mine,” she corrected. “My husband might have been a little overzealous when he called 911. I just need you guys to remove this so I can salvage what’s left of tonight.”

  A curt nod, then the sergeant turned his attention to the thirteenth mannequin. While he scrutinized the skinsuit, Lisa scrutinized him. Everything about Sergeant Yasiv seemed to be a contradiction. He was young but clearly experienced. He was tired but still moved with the ease of a well-rested man.

  Lisa began to wonder how he had become Sergeant. The problems in the NYPD, and before that in the mayor’s office, had long since stopped being a topic of gossip, but at one point it was the only thing that Norm’s cronies would talk about.

  The real question was, was Yasiv a part of the old guard or new? And if the answer was the former, how much would it cost to fix tonight?

  “I’m afraid your exhibit is now closed.”

  And with that answer, Lisa’s hopes were dashed. Even Norm didn’t have enough money to pay this man off.

  Fuck.
/>   “It’s just a prank,” Lisa pleaded.

  The sergeant didn’t answer; he simply pressed his lips together and continued to scan the mannequin.

  “Norm…”

  “Yes, uhh, Sergeant Yasiv, is that it? We were hoping that you could use some discretion here.”

  Lisa stared at her husband.

  Discretion, really? That’s all you’ve got?

  “Discretion isn’t my job. My job is to find out why there is a mannequin covered in human skin on display at your art exhibition.”

  Lisa suddenly felt nauseous.

  “Human skin? No, I don’t—it’s—it’s just a prank,” she repeated softly. “Just one of the other wives acting bitter.”

  Again, the sergeant said nothing.

  “Can you please call the DA? District Attorney Mark Trumbo? Let him know that Norm Fairchild wants to speak to him.”

  Finally! Finally, you step up, Norm. It’s about fucking time.

  All eyes were on the sergeant now, including those who had disobeyed the rookie cop’s order to leave the room. The man opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought differently and closed it again.

  “Tell the DA that Norm wants to speak to him,” Lisa repeated.

  Sergeant Yasiv appeared conflicted and when he spoke next, he lowered his voice. Lisa wasn’t sure if this was for his benefit or theirs.

  “I’ll tell you what, I can use discretion, especially when it comes to your guests. But what I can’t do, is just take this out back and throw it in the trash. I’m going to call in the CSU to take a look. I’ll tell you one thing though; I’d be very surprised if this is just a prank.”

  Lisa’s heart sank.

  “You’re shutting me down? You can’t do that,” she whimpered.

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  “I can… I can also shut down the entire block, have twenty of my guys park out front with their lights flashing, and then drag all your guests down to the station.” Lisa resisted taking the bait. “Good. Now, you can tell your guests that they’re going to have to stick around for a little while longer or I can. It’s up to you.”

  “You do it,” Lisa snapped, finding her voice again. Her eyes moved not to the foreign mannequin but to the other twelve.

  Wasted… all my hard work is wasted. And for what? Why do I even bother?

  “Your choice,” Yasiv said with a shrug.

  “I’m going home,” Lisa told Norm. “You deal with this shit.”

  When Norm’s expression reverted to its natural state—sullen constipation—Lisa turned to leave, unwilling and unable to meet the gaze of her patrons.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Yasiv informed her, stepping to block her path. “You’re not going anywhere, either.”

  Chapter 3

  “What a piece of work,” Yasiv grumbled as he turned his back on the woman in the long dress and observed the mannequin once more. It was hideous beyond reproach, even considering the tastelessness of the rest of the exhibit. Yasiv had never had time for art, nor anything more than a passing interest in it, but La Nuit des Femmes seemed to be more exploitative than beautiful. And if it celebrated anything at all, it was the number of zeros in the Fairchilds’ bank account rather than the female form.

  And, in a twisted way, this made the impostor fit in perhaps even more than some of the other outfits on display.

  The hideous tapestry that covered the mannequin was stitched together in multiple places. The thick sutures connecting the large swashes of fabric, if that was indeed what they were, were applied by someone with experience: the gaps were nearly non-existent, and if it weren’t for the intrusive nature of the sutures themselves, the face would have appeared almost unblemished.

  The ragged holes where the eyes, nose, and mouth had been, notwithstanding, of course.

  And it was this level of expertise that had initially steered Yasiv away from the conclusion that Mrs. Fairchild had so readily come to: that this was just a prank. He certainly hoped it was, and if that were the case, Yasiv would haul ass out of here.

  He sighed and lowered his gaze.

  “Yasiv?”

  “Yeah,” he answered dryly, turning to face the man who had called his name. He didn’t need to see who it was to know who had spoken; very few people, especially within the ranks of the NYPD, referred to him only by his last name.

  Most opted for Sergeant or the less preferred ‘Sarge’.

  Yasiv recalled when he’d first met Detective Stephen Dunbar, then just a computer tech buried in the 62nd precinct basement. Slim, pale, and glassy-eyed from spending all his time behind a computer screen, Dunbar had been insulated from the crimes that he was tangentially involved in investigating.

  A lot had changed since then.

  For one, the man had put on a considerable amount of weight, and color had developed in his cheeks, but his eyes were still glossed over. Dunbar had been a detective for less than forty-eight months, but years on the force were like dog years: while everyone on the outside aged once per rotation of the earth around the sun, they aged seven.

  There had also been a time when Yasiv and others had thought that Dunbar was too soft to cut it as a detective.

  They were wrong; the only softness to the man was his pudgy middle and the skin that hung over the sides of his belt.

  The rest was hard as a rock.

  “All the guests are in the main foyer, like you asked,” Dunbar informed him without provocation. “Had to station a few uniforms on the exits—caught several of them trying to sneak out.”

  “As long as we keep the valets and wait staff here, they’re not going to get far.”

  Dunbar exhaled loudly.

  It was his night off, too, and judging by the man’s wrinkled jacket and the speckling of dirt on the cuffs of his slacks, Yasiv figured he’d pulled Dunbar out of bed when he’d called.

  “Why don’t we just get a paddy-wagon here and ship them all off to the precinct?” Dunbar asked, his gaze drifting down the hall toward the foyer. What had started as idle chatter from the guests had since changed; their tone was becoming more agitated and annoyed. He expected that this would only increase the longer they were forced to wait.

  Yasiv frowned.

  He wanted nothing more than to do exactly what Dunbar suggested, but that wasn’t the way things worked. When you were a grunt, a foot soldier, even a detective, you could just knuckle down, bury your head in a case, and compromise nothing to get the job done. When you made it to sergeant, things changed. Convictions became more important than arrests. And convictions required the coordination of many departments, not just the boys in blue.

  Yasiv hated Norm Fairchild for name-dropping District Attorney Mark Trumbo, but now that the man had, he couldn’t ignore it.

  “Yasiv? You okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “So… you want me to call in the paddy-wagon?”

  Sergeant Yasiv shook his head.

  “No, just keep ‘em here for now. And try to keep ‘em happy. Give them water, snacks, whatever the caterers have. Just no booze.” Yasiv cocked his head to one side. “No cell phones, either. Let’s keep this in house as best we can, for now.”

  Dunbar raised an eyebrow.

  “You sure? I mean, we could probably—”

  “I don’t want to make a scene,” Yasiv said flatly.

  Dunbar shrugged.

  “Okay, okay. CSU should be here any minute, by the way.”

  “Good,” Yasiv said absently. Dunbar stood next to him for a moment longer, expecting further instruction. When none came, the man walked off and the sergeant once again turned to the mannequins on display. Only this time, he focused on the exhibits that Lisa Fairchild had put together.

  He’d observed two, the first a fat black woman sporting what looked like a medieval corset, the second a bird-like woman dressed in a bright yellow raincoat, when two CSU techs appeared at his side.

  One glance at their head-to-toe plastic outfits a
nd Yasiv chuckled, thinking that if they stood still, they might become the fourteenth and fifteenth members of this faceless group.

  “Sergeant Yasiv?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Which one… which one is it?” the male, who looked far too old to be a technician, asked, genuine confusion on his face. The woman to his right, who was half the man’s age if that, looked equally perplexed. It was clear that like him, they were unfamiliar with this category of ‘art’ and were therefore unable to identify the impostor.

  How did the old saying go? If you’re at a poker table and can’t identify the fish within the first ten minutes, then that fish, is you?

  Yasiv moved his head to one side, signifying for the duo to follow him. He weaved through the mannequins and stopped in front of the one that was draped in flesh. If it was a fake, it was hauntingly real, an expert job, one that belonged on the set of an expensive movie directed by a holdout from an earlier time, a purist who preferred makeup to digital effects.

  He couldn’t be sure if it wasn’t just his eyes, but the color of the face seemed to have changed since he’d first arrived, transitioning from something close to Dunbar’s complexion circa his computer tech days to a more pallid gray. Disturbed by the twisted, open mouth that lacked lips, Yasiv’s eyes drifted downward. The breasts were like empty sacks, the skin hanging loosely from the androgynous mannequin beneath. They were slightly lopsided, and the left nipple was roughly twice the size of the right, but within the realm of what Yasiv might have considered normal, given the circumstances. Sutures separated the chest into two halves, leading down to a tuft of pubic hair between the legs. There, they branched off, taking a sharp left and right and wrapping completely around the upper thighs.

  There were no feet or hands, which would have been the best indicator of the donor’s age. Instead, both the wrists and ankles ended in rough holes, like ill-fitting jeans or the cuffs of a well-worn sweatshirt.