Straw Man

by Patrick Logan

  “Yeah, they belonged to women—trust me. But the real question is, where did they come from?” All eyes were on him, so Drake continued. “Best case scenario, what we have here is just a twisted hoax, someone working for a—I dunno—body farm or a funeral home removed the skins and decided to mess with the Fairchilds.”

  “Really? You fucking kidding me? I don’t know what kind of practical jokes you grew up with, but I’m used to whoopee cushions and baby powder in the hairdryer. Human skins? Yeah, not really on the agenda,” Hanna remarked.

  It was an outrageous idea, but it reminded Drake of a case in which three NYU college students thought it would be fun to steal a cadaver’s head from the morgue and put it on their professor’s desk. Outrageous for sure, but not inconceivable.

  “Not my idea of a good time either,” Yasiv said, breaking the awkward silence. “But you’re right. We need to find out where the skins came from. I have CSU and the medical examiner working overtime to see if they can answer that question. Want me to send Dunbar to the morgue to follow-up?”

  Drake thought about this for a moment then shook his head.

  “It’s probably better for Screech and Dunbar to review the video footage from right here in the gallery.” Drake looked around and immediately spotted three cameras in the foyer alone. He pointed at one of them. “Start with these, then work the neighborhood. I’m guessing that most stores around here have security cameras of some sort. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the asshole who set up the mannequin showed their face. If not, then, well, we have the pictures that your officer took tonight. Screech and Dunbar can compare those to the images from inside the gallery, make sure that everyone who was here was supposed to be here. By then, hopefully the ME will have some answers for us.” Yasiv’s upper lip curled. “What? You said I could run this investigation—”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s the medical examiner. She’s… different.”

  Drake was familiar with Dr. Karen Nordmeyer—or Dr. Karen Cuntmeyer as Beckett used to refer to her.

  “Yeah, that’s why you’re going to be by my side when I go there tonight. And we can chat along the way, too.”

  Both of these options made Yasiv visibly uncomfortable. To the man’s credit, however, he simply nodded. Drake still wasn’t over the fact that Yasiv had not only dragged Beckett’s name through the mud, but he’d tried to bury Suzan Cuthbert, as well.

  “Aye, aye, captain, but what about us?” Hanna asked.

  Drake’s eyes drifted from Hanna to Leroy and back again.

  “Leroy, you help Screech and Dunbar get set up back at the shop.” Before the man could complain or make some remark about how he wasn’t an errand boy, Drake added, “it’s best if we keep this as quiet as possible until we know exactly what we’re dealing with. Hanna, you have your car?”

  Hanna nodded.

  “Alright, good—follow us to the morgue.”

  Having completed dishing out his orders, Drake took two steps toward the front door, surprised that no one had challenged him yet. It was only a matter of time, he knew.

  “And what about the gallery?” A woman who looked a lot like Lisa Fairchild, but was sporting a pantsuit instead of a dress, asked.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The woman held out a manicured hand that Drake just stared at. She pulled it back.

  “Justine Aria. I’m the Royal Art Gallery manager.”

  Drake’s eyes narrowed.

  “When did you get here?” He couldn’t remember seeing Justine when he’d entered nor recalled noticing her among the sequestered guests.

  “Just now. I need to know when I can reopen this—”

  Drake felt his temperature rise.

  “Who let you in? This is an active crime scene.”

  “It’s also my gallery, so—”

  Drake ignored the woman and glared at Yasiv.

  “What the fuck are your men doing? Letting people in and out? Shut this place down! Tell your officer to shut this fucking place down before I do!”

  Chapter 12

  “Any word from our mutual ‘friend’?” Yasiv asked from the passenger seat of Drake’s Crown Vic.

  Drake kept his eyes locked on the road ahead and set his jaw.

  “Beckett’s dead.”

  Yasiv inhaled as if preparing to speak, paused, then drew another breath.

  “What about his girlfriend? What about Suzan Cuthbert?”

  Even though Drake had been the one who suggested having a ‘chat’ back at the gallery, he found himself opposed to the idea now. While a considerable amount of time had passed since Beckett’s and Suzan’s departure, the wounds were still raw.

  “For someone who spent the better part of six months hell-bent on putting both of them behind bars, you seem to be very concerned about their well-being.”

  “I was just wondering,” Yasiv said dismissively.

  Drake wasn’t ready to let the man off that easily. He’d opened the box, and, as far as Drake was concerned, Yasiv was now obligated to root through the contents.

  “Wondering? Really? Why’s that? Is it eating you up inside that you let them go?”

  “No, I was just—”

  “Did you change your mind, Yasiv? Or are you gonna go all HAM on Beckett and Suzan again? Even though they’re dead.”

  “Drake, I didn’t mean to—”

  The floodgates had been opened, and Drake was helpless to stop the flow.

  “What? Send them into exile? Make them fake their fucking deaths?”

  “You know what? Fuck you. They made their own decisions. Beckett murdered people, Drake. Oh, I know, you think he was some modern-day—”

  Drake wrenched the wheel to the right and slammed the brakes so hard that both of them rocked forward, their bodies pressing up against their seat belts.

  “Listen to me: Suzan is my late partner’s daughter and if you so much as mention her name again, I’ll fucking strangle you.” Drake knew that some of his anger was misplaced, that it should be directed inward after what had happened with Jasmine, but it was impossible to control. Shit, he was a father now, and his investment into Baby Clay’s life to date amounted to the culinary equivalent of tossing a raisin into a giant bowl of carrot salad.

  Yasiv glared at Drake and for a second the look in the man’s cold eyes suggested that he would challenge him on his threat. Deep down, Drake half-hoped the man would, but Yasiv didn’t bite.

  Drake and Beckett had definitely had their ups and downs, but he genuinely missed his old friend. And the ex-ME was gone because of Yasiv.

  Why couldn’t he just fucking leave Beckett and Suzan alone?

  “I brought you in to help with this case, I don’t need this fucking attitude,” Yasiv grumbled.

  “Really? Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor,” Drake countered. “You called me in because you were in a bind. Speaking of which, how much am I—are we—getting paid for this job, Yasiv? How much coin does the NYPD have to shell out for… what did you call me? A Special Consultant?”

  Yasiv’s scowl intensified.

  “Is that what this is all about? Money?”

  “It’s not all about money, but I have a business to run. Unlike you, I don’t get a paycheck every week. When I left the NYPD—”

  “When you left? You mean when you quit. You couldn’t handle the NYPD and it chewed you up and spat you out.”

  Drake saw red and his right hand shot out, aiming for Yasiv’s throat. The sergeant was prepared, however, and he deflected the blow toward the dashboard. Drake immediately lashed out with his other hand, this time succeeding in grabbing the collar of Yasiv’s shirt and twisting it tightly. The sergeant was quick and retaliated by grabbing Drake by the throat. They glared at each other, each hissing from having their windpipes constricted. Just when it felt as if this might go on forever, Drake released his grip.

  Yasiv immediately followed suit.

  “Don’t talk about Clay, don’t talk about Suzan, and don’t talk
about Beckett,” Drake warned, but the anger was gone from his voice.

  Yasiv sighed and his shoulders slumped. He offered Drake a subtle nod.

  “I’ll make sure you get paid,” he promised, “but you have to bury all this personal shit. You’re right, I called you in because I was in a jam. I’m not denying that. But I also called you in because I know you can help, that you can solve this. Don’t get me wrong, I hope Lisa’s right, that this is all a joke. I just don’t… I mean, I don’t know. It feels wrong. It feels bad.”

  Drake finally looked away from the sergeant and pulled back onto the road.

  “Yeah, I feel that, too,” he admitted. The instant he’d laid eyes on the horrible skinsuit, Drake had felt a twinge in his gut. He didn’t have the same intense feelings that his last partner did, didn’t have the insight of a Chase Adams, but every once in a while, his experience manifested as a dull grinding deep down in the pit of his stomach.

  And like Yasiv, he had a terrible feeling about this case.

  They drove in silence for several more minutes before Yasiv said, “Go around back of the morgue. Someone might recognize your car and start asking questions.”

  Drake grunted an affirmative but wasn’t happy about it. It was clear that the DA wasn’t the only one that wanted to keep things quiet in New York City. There was likely a police-wide mandate to bury anything that might make front-page news until the DA was elected mayor. Drake reluctantly pulled into the rear parking lot, taking his usual spot next to where Beckett used to park. Seeing the empty space where the man’s Tesla had been a near-permanent fixture brought about more stirrings in his gut.

  Fuck you, Beckett.

  Drake sighed.

  Beckett was a grade A asshole, a mouthy, cocky, annoying piece of shit.

  But Drake missed him dearly.

  “Fuck,” he whispered as he opened the door and started to get out.

  Yasiv stopped him by grabbing his arm. Only this time, the action wasn’t aggressive but conciliatory.

  “We good, Drake? Because I don’t want this—” the man pointed at both of them. “—to happen again. I don’t want it to jeopardize this investigation.”

  Drake stared at the sergeant for a long time before answering. He still held a great deal of animosity toward Yasiv for forcing Suzan and Beckett away, but when he closed his eyes it wasn’t their faces he saw. Instead, he saw the ragged eye holes torn out of human skin. He saw the upside-down ‘Y’ incision on the face. He saw the sagging breasts, the lopsided nipples, the torn ankles and wrists.

  Drake pulled free of Yasiv’s grasp and stepped into the cool night air.

  “Yeah, we’re good,” he grumbled. “Until we find out what happened to these women, we’re good.”

  Chapter 13

  As expected, Hanna was already waiting for them inside the morgue. Based on the way the woman drove, Drake guessed that she’d been waiting for a half-hour. Maybe even longer.

  “Took you guys long enough,” she said. Her expression changed after observing their faces. “Oh, mommy and daddy had a fight?” Hanna pouted. “Am I going back to the orphanage?”

  “Drop it,” Drake snapped, which was the complete opposite approach that he should have taken.

  “Are you going to hit me again, Daddy?” Hanna mocked, oblivious to Yasiv’s presence. “Don’t forget to use a phone book so it doesn’t leave a mark.”

  “I’m surprised you even know what a phone book is.”

  Hanna shut up, but Drake suspected this was because they were making their way toward the room where Beckett used to perform his autopsies and not because she had gotten her fill of ribbing him. They were all a little tense, missing Beckett for their own very distinct reasons.

  Drake reached the large double doors first. Instead of pushing right through, he peered through one of the square, inlaid windows. There was a row of cooling lockers at the back of the room as well as several gurneys lined up in front of them. Two had what he assumed were corpses laying on top, both covered in identical white sheets. Partially blocked by a diminutive figure in a green smock was a black body bag that Drake recognized.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Hanna looked skyward and squeezed by him. She pushed the door open, and they all followed her into the room. The scent was stronger than Drake remembered: a mixture of formalin and bleach. It was also a hell of a lot cleaner than when Beckett was in charge.

  “Dr. Nordmeyer?” Sergeant Yasiv said.

  The woman didn’t answer. She was busy manipulating the body in front of her.

  “Dr. Nordmeyer?” Yasiv repeated, louder this time.

  The woman jumped and whipped around. She held a scalpel out in front of her and the sergeant immediately put his hands up and stepped back. Drake did the latter while Hanna just stood there and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Who are you?” Dr. Nordmeyer demanded, waving the scalpel.

  In a lot of ways, Dr. Karen Nordmeyer reminded Drake of Lisa Fairchild. They were both small in stature with mousy features and both were pains in the ass. The only significant difference was that Dr. Nordmeyer had giant ears that jutted out the side of her head like a car zipping down the freeway with its doors open.

  “Easy, easy, I’m Sergeant Henry Yasiv with the NYPD, 62nd precinct.”

  “Badge,” Dr. Nordmeyer said sharply.

  “Okay, okay.” Yasiv pulled his badge out and flashed it. “And this is Damien Drake, a PI who—”

  “I know you,” Dr. Nordmeyer hissed, the blade still held up in front of her. “You’re one of his friends.”

  “He—they—are both private investigators who are helping out on this case.”

  “But… but…”

  “Dr. Nordmeyer, we all want the same thing here. Please, they will be helping with this case and I expect you to extend them the same respect you would any member of the NYPD.”

  Dr. Nordmeyer’s face underwent a series of convoluted expressions but eventually, she lowered the scalpel.

  “What’s your name?” she demanded, turning her attention to the only other woman in the room.

  “Hanna.”

  The medical examiner waited for Hanna to add her surname, but it wasn’t in the woman’s nature to do what other people wanted her to do—she remained silent.

  “Good, now what can you tell us about the skins?” Yasiv asked, clearly wanting to move forward.

  Drake cringed at the way the sergeant referred to the victims as ‘skins’ but there was no better way to describe what he’d seen.

  “The epidermis and partial corium?” Dr. Nordmeyer asked.

  There was also that, but Drake didn’t think it would catch on.

  “Yeah… the ones on the mannequin.”

  Dr. Nordmeyer shot Drake a vicious look before turning and indicating the gurney with the scalpel blade. Drake moved to get a better angle, ignoring the not-so-subtle way the ME ensured that there were always at least a few feet between them.

  The body bag had been cut at the sides so that it resembled more of a thick black bed sheet than a sack of any sort. The mannequin was otherwise nearly identical to what Drake remembered seeing back at the gallery. The main difference was that the stitches around the thigh and down the chest had been removed as if they’d interrupted Dr. Nordmeyer while in the process of deconstructing the awful creation. The chilling expression on its face was still the same.

  Drake’s natural protective tendencies came to the fore and he tried to block Hanna’s view of the gurney. She was having none of it and came up right next to him.

  “We have at least three different donors,” Dr. Nordmeyer informed them, her tone switching to professorial. “Each section of the face belonged to a different person, and here—” she indicated the sternum with the end of the scalpel, “—we have two donors, one per breast. Two for the legs, as well.”

  “Can you tell which part belonged to which person?” Hanna asked, seemingly undisturbed by the horror before them. “What I mean is, c
ould we have many more than just three victims?”

  Dr. Nordmeyer’s nose twitched.

  “Can’t tell for sure. Epidermal pigmentation suggests that there are only three, but there could be as many as five or six different individuals.”

  Drake’s gaze drifted to the mannequin’s face, to the haunting eye sockets.

  He sucked in a sharp breath.

  As many as six…

  “Can you tell us where the skins are from? Anything about the victims?”

  The ME looked at him as if he had three heads.

  “I can tell you that they’re all dead.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  “What I think Drake means, is how recently were the skins removed?” Yasiv clarified. “Can they be from cadavers? Could someone have just dug up recently buried corpses and made… this?”

  Instead of answering immediately, she flipped over part of the chest and indicated the dark underside.

  “This one is very fresh,” she informed them, reaching up and grabbing the lamp that hovered over the gurney. She pulled it close. “These darks spots are dried blood. But this one,” Dr. Nordmeyer indicated the other side of the chest, “is a little older.”

  “How fresh?” Hanna asked.

  “Tough to say, for sure. This one, maybe a few days. The other a week, depending on storage conditions. You can see that whoever did this removed most of the subcutaneous veins and fat, but there was no visible attempt to cure the skin.”

  “What?” the word just slipped out of Drake’s mouth.

  “Curing, the first step in making leather,” Dr. Nordmeyer said, as if everyone should be familiar with how leather was made. “After scraping, the skin is covered in a layer of salt to cure it. I see no evidence of that here.”

  Drake felt his stomach curdle.

  “So, could someone have just dug up the bodies and done this?” Yasiv repeated. He sounded almost desperate now. “If they were exhumed right after they were buried, I mean. Or maybe the bodies were stolen from the morgue?”

  Dr. Nordmeyer stepped away from the gurney and walked over to one of the others. Without hesitation, she pulled back the sheet revealing the corpse of an elderly man lying beneath. He had milky eyes, thinning hair, and a large, distended belly. So far as Drake could tell, there were no external injuries of note.