Straw Man

by Patrick Logan

  “So, he probably had a key, then. How did he access the cameras?”

  They were just tossing ideas around now.

  “I don’t know. Like the mall doors, the security room was locked last night. It was also locked when he went to get the footage today.”

  “Whoever did this locked the door behind them?”

  “Guess so.”

  Screech scratched his chin.

  “We gotta find out who has a key to the mall and the security room.”

  Dunbar said, “On it.”

  “Also, see if you can go back to before the cameras went dark, look for Robert or anyone else who was acting suspicious around the security room and the store.”

  Once again, Dunbar agreed. It was strange telling an NYPD detective how to do his job, but Screech was the one with the authority here.

  I could get used to this.

  Screech recalled what Drake had said before he’d run off with the rest of DSLH.

  “Oh, and I’ll do some research into local taxidermists.” Screech cocked his head. “On second thought, I’ll be right back.”

  Dunbar looked up at him, expecting clarification, but Screech left the man hanging. He exited the makeshift command center that they had set up in the manager’s office at the mall and walked down the hall toward the department store. He passed ten NYPD officers on the way but none of them so much as nodded in Screech’s direction. They knew who he was, of course, Sergeant Yasiv had seen to that, and they were clearly not happy that an outsider was in charge of this investigation, especially now given the heightened media attention. Still, they gave him space and respect, which was all he needed.

  Screech wasn’t surprised to discover that Dr. Nordmeyer hadn’t even taken the mannequin down yet. She was still dusting the skins as if they were the fossilized bones of some long-extinct beast.

  “Dr. Nordmeyer?”

  Predictably, the woman went about her business as if Screech wasn’t even there.

  “Dr. Nordmeyer?”

  This time, the ME turned and glared at him, upset that she’d been interrupted. Screech had no interest in wasting anyone’s time and got right to the point.

  “Might seem like a stupid question, but this is the same guy, right?”

  Dr. Nordmeyer’s expression remained flat.

  “I won’t be able to tell for certain until I finish up here and get back to the morgue.”

  If the police officers were pissed that DSLH had taken over the investigation, the ME was absolutely livid. Dr. Karen Nordmeyer’s deep-seated hatred for Beckett extended to anyone who thought favorably of the late doctor.

  “Yeah, but it’s the same type of sutures, the same stitching pattern, am I right?”

  Dr. Nordmeyer shrugged.

  “Typically, I can only ascertain cause and manner of death, and in this case, I believe that both are going to be very difficult to know for certain.”

  Screech sighed, losing his patience.

  “Yeah, sure, but if you were to guess—”

  “I’m not in the business of guessing, Mr. Thompson.”

  Mr. Thompson… for fuck’s sake.

  Screech massaged his forehead.

  “Listen, I just want your opinion, not a fucking affidavit.”

  The curse must have shocked the woman because she answered the question, for once.

  “I’m not one-hundred percent sure, of course, but this pattern is similar to what I found on the other display.”

  It took Screech a moment to realize that Dr. Nordmeyer was pointing at something toward the rear of the mannequin. He moved to get a better look and saw a diamond-shaped shape made with dirt or charcoal on the mannequin’s lower back.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Pre-mortem bruising, made from what I suspect was a fence of some sort.” Screech opened his mouth to ask more questions, but Dr. Nordmeyer wasn’t done yet. “But your friend—your colleague—is convinced that these marks were caused by pressing up against a cage. Was quite rude about it, in fact. But I, for one, have never seen a cage like this. Typically, cage bars are vertical, not diamond-shaped. I think it was made by a fence.”

  For someone who wasn’t keen on speculating, Dr. Nordmeyer had a fairly strong opinion on this fence versus cage debate.

  Screech didn’t know why it mattered either way.

  “Wait—my colleague? Who said it was a cage? Drake?”

  Dr. Nordmeyer shook her head.

  “No, the other one. The foul-mouthed woman.”

  Despite the circumstances, Screech smirked. There really was no better way to describe Hanna. The smile quickly vanished, however.

  Cage? Why would Hanna be confident that these marks were made by a cage?

  Screech had been distracted by the whole Petrazzino saga, but he had noticed that Hanna had been quiet when they’d all convened at the mall. Until she’d insisted on heading with Drake to question Robert Tiedeman, that is. Screech made a mental note to ask her about this later, and to confront Drake about why he didn’t feel it prudent to mention this cage issue. It could be nothing, but it could also be something. And they were partners, not employees.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, backing away from the mannequin. “You find anything else, please let me know.”

  Dr. Nordmeyer ignored him and returned to dusting.

  Screech went back to the command center, deep in thought. Dunbar was busy working on his laptop and didn’t look up when he entered the room.

  With his mind still on Hanna, Screech pulled up a list of taxidermists in NYC. There were only a handful, which didn’t surprise him. Killing animals for sport and mounting their carcasses on the wall had fallen out of favor with the general public. He made a note of these companies and then decided to search for something else, instead: cages.

  Cages that were large enough to contain animals, such as bears, wolves, and maybe even tigers.

  And humans, of course.

  Chapter 53

  For the first few minutes after Robert Tiedeman had been handcuffed and thrown onto his sofa, Drake said nothing. As per his request, the two police officers, and Leroy and Hanna, also remained silent. Normally, Hanna would have scoffed at both the nature of the request and the request in general, but not this time. She seemed to be inspecting Robert closely as if she had some way of peering into his mind to determine if he was the sick bastard behind these skinsuits.

  It was almost clichéd the way Hanna squinted at him, first with one eye then the other, taking in the bruise on the man’s cheek, courtesy of Leroy who must have let up, the clean-shaven face, and the overall handsome appearance. Drake knew that there was no insight to be gleaned from this old-school tactic—he’d seen murderers who were stoic, others who were brazen, and practically every possible personality type in between—but there was a benefit to letting Robert squirm. The more uncomfortable the man became, the more likely he was to speak out of turn. But after nearly five minutes of silence, it was clear that this wasn’t going to be the case with Robert.

  “I want you to tell me what you were doing at the art gallery the other night,” Drake asked in an even tone.

  Robert answered immediately.

  “Serving cocktails just like everyone else. Doing my job, keeping the one percent happy.”

  Hanna grunted but Drake ignored her.

  “What else were you doing at the party, Robert?”

  “That’s it, just serving drinks.”

  Everyone in the room knew that this was a lie, but Drake didn’t press Robert on it. Not just yet, anyway.

  “Where were you at the end of the night? Why weren’t you with the rest of the wait staff?”

  Robert shrugged.

  “My shift was up, so I left. Just took off, you know? Tried to beat traffic.”

  The man lowered his eyes. None of this made sense. Lisa’s art exposition was scheduled to last four hours; no shift would end right in the middle. As for traffic? It was around midnight when the mannequin was d
iscovered. Leaving later would have been the smarter play if avoiding traffic was your actual goal.

  And this didn’t even consider the most important fact that Robert seemed to have overlooked.

  Drake cleared his throat.

  “Your shift was up? Yours?”

  Robert didn’t look up.

  “Yeah,” he said, but his reply lacked the enthusiasm of his previous answers. He was cornered and knew it.

  “I don’t think so,” Drake continued. “In fact, you weren’t supposed to be there at all, were you, Robert?”

  Robert sighed. Drake could see in the man’s face that he’d given up the ruse.

  “Fuck… I mean, I just wanted some extra cash, man. That’s all. I need the work.” He waved his hands around the family room, which was messy and disorganized. It reminded Drake of a frat house. “I got bills, man. I mean, I can’t even get a good job because of some trumped-up bullshit charges, and that—”

  Drake silenced the man with a wave of his hand.

  More lies.

  “Bullshit. You weren’t going to get paid. Your catering company had been commissioned for eight waiters to host the exhibit, not nine. And guess who the ninth was?”

  “Naw, I mean, I might have not, like, punched in or anything, but I was there… and the guy in charge? He said if I—”

  “Why don’t you stop fucking lying to us?”

  Drake didn’t immediately recognize the voice and craned his neck around.

  It was Hanna.

  It’s not a fence… it’s a goddamn cage.

  “I—I—I’m not. I—I—I—” The man collapsed into himself.

  “Tell us about the girls,” Drake demanded. “About the mannequin.”

  Robert stiffened.

  “No. No. I don’t know anything about that. Man, for real, you gotta believe me. I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “Believe you? Everything you’ve said since I knocked on your door has been a lie.”

  “But—”

  “No, no ‘buts’. You lied to me about why you were at the gallery… it wasn’t about extra cash, was it?”

  Robert’s eyes widened.

  “It—it was! I swear… it was just about the money, but…” he looked skyward. His expression was a cross between someone trying desperately not to cry and someone with chronic constipation trying to squeeze out a turd.

  Drake decided that it was finally time to lay his cards on the table, face up.

  “It was also about having sex with Lisa Fairchild in the broom closet, am I right?”

  “Ohhh,” Robert moaned. “You know about that?”

  Drake leaned forward.

  “Robert, you need to start telling me the truth. One more lie out of your mouth, and I will instruct these officers to haul your ass away. You want to go back to prison? Do you what they do to people who hurt women in there? You think—”

  “Okay, okay.” Robert really was crying now. He was trying to hide it, but his cheeks were wet with tears. If this was an acting job, it was an Oscar-worthy performance. “I was there for the money, but—”

  “Robert—”

  “—no, no, for real. I swear. But you’re right, I wasn’t going to be paid for the work. Not that work, anyway. A man—aw, fuck—a man came up to me, asked me if I was working the gallery event. I wasn’t scheduled to work it, but I was curious, you know? Like who is this guy? Why does he care? So, I lied, said I was, and he said—get this—he said that I was the person in charge’s ‘type’. I didn’t even know what the fuck he meant at first, but then he said that if I sleep with her, with Lisa, he’d give me a thousand bucks. I know, fucked up, right? Some real indecent proposal shit. But what the hell, I needed the cash. Thing was, I couldn’t get anyone to swap shifts with me. Like, nobody. Dude, every event people want to swap out, but not this one. So, I thought, fuck it, I’ll just go anyway. I mean, usually, there’s a manager, this fucking twat Ben Dokes, who gets his little fucking checklist out and marks off when employees show up. Then he goes and whacks off in the parking lot or whatever, comes back and clocks everyone out when the shift is up. All I had to do is wait for Ben to leave then slide in. I was wearing my uniform… nobody said nothing. And—and that’s all I thought I had to do. Just go. I mean, how the fuck was this guy gonna know if I actually banged this Lisa broad? So long as I had proof of being at the event, I could just lie. It wasn’t like he was going to be there, know what I mean?”

  Drake had no idea what Robert meant—he was still three sentences behind. This was either the most elaborate lie that had ever been contrived, or Robert had lost his mind.

  “Why in the world would a stranger pay you to sleep with Lisa?” Leroy asked, and Robert glared at him.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Didn’t think of asking?” Leroy continued.

  Robert crossed his arms over his chest and sank even deeper into the couch.

  “Needed the money.”

  “Yeah, you said that—many times.” Leroy licked his lips. “And you did it, right? Sleep with her?”

  Robert made a face and refused to answer. Drake was about to demand a reply when his phone buzzed. Thinking that this was as good a time as any for a break, he gave Leroy a signal to remain silent, and then stood and left the room.

  “Yeah?” he said, answering his cell.

  “Drake, the footage from the mall… it’s the same as the art exhibit: the cameras went black last night and came back on after the mall opened,” Screech informed him.

  Drake was disappointed, but he knew that even though he was speaking in a low tone, everyone in the room behind him was listening in. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Good, that’s good,” he said into his phone.

  “Good? What are you talking about, Drake?” Screech said, anger creeping into his voice. “Cameras were all black, no footage at all. We have no idea who set up that… thing.”

  “Yeah… great. Anything else?”

  “Is… is Robert there with you?” Screech asked, finally catching on.

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, okay. Get this, though. Dunbar rolled back the tape and two days ago a man stopped in front of the department store. He never went in, just stared at the window where the mannequin was placed. Wanna guess who this man was?”

  “Robert Tiedeman,” Drake said without hesitation.

  “Robert fucking Tiedeman,” Screech confirmed.

  Drake’s grin became genuine.

  “Thanks,” he said and then hung up. Still in the hallway leading to the family room, Drake looked directly at Robert.

  “What? I told you the truth. I don’t know who that was, or what they said, but they’re lying.”

  Drake slipped his phone into his pocket and walked over. Hanna and Leroy were staring at him expectantly, as were the two cops.

  “Robert, you ever been to Eastwood Mall?”

  The man’s face contorted.

  “Eastwood? Yeah, I guess. Sure. Everyone has.”

  “What about Lexington Designs?”

  “What?”

  “Lexington Designs… it’s a high-end clothing store in Eastwood.”

  “No, I never—” he paused as if changing his mind mid-sentence, “—I mean, I’ve never been inside the store, but I know of it. But listen, you gotta listen, I didn’t do this crazy shit, this Straw Man or whatever skinsuits… man, that fucking shit is nuts. I didn’t do it.”

  “I believe you, I do,” Drake said mockingly. “Some random guy told you that he’d pay you a thousand bucks to sleep with Lisa Fairchild and a mannequin shows up there, that very night. A couple of days before that, you’re on camera in front of the very department store that becomes the site of the next mannequin. All just a shitty coincidence.”

  “Naw, naw, I know what you’re tryin’ to do here,” Robert said. He started to rise, and one of the officers instantly stepped forward and grabbed him by the arms.

  “I’m not doing anything. I’m not
even a cop.” Drake nodded at the police officers. “But they are. Take Robert to 62nd precinct, have Yasiv interrogate him.”

  Robert struggled.

  “You can’t do this, man. You can’t.”

  “Take him away.”

  Robert was fuming when the officers dragged him down the hall. They were almost at the door when Hanna spoke up. She was behind Drake and had to project her voice.

  “What did he look like?” she asked.

  “Yasiv will get all the details,” Drake informed her. But this wasn’t enough for Hanna.

  “Hey, Robert, what did the man look like? The one who asked you to fuck Lisa?”

  Robert turned and Drake signaled for the officers to let the man answer.

  “I don’t know. Tall—he was tall, middle-aged. Had blond hair, slicked back. Had these weird gray-blue eyes. Fuck, I dunno. Just some regular guy.”

  When Hanna didn’t say anything, Drake looked over his shoulder at her. The woman’s mouth hung open

  “Take him,” he said quickly. “Take him to the station.”

  The officers nodded and pulled Robert outside.

  “I didn’t do this, man. I didn’t do this crazy shit.”

  Drake waited for the door to close behind them before addressing Hanna directly.

  “What is it, Hanna? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s him,” she gasped.

  “You mean it’s Robert? He’s the one behind this?” Leroy asked.

  Hanna shook her head.

  “No, not Robert. The other man, the one who told him to sleep with Lisa. That’s the Straw Man. He’s—he’s back.”

  Chapter 54

  In the hour or so that Drake and his team had spent with Robert Tiedeman, their case had exploded. Seemingly every radio station was reporting on the Straw Man and his macabre skinsuit displays, and Leroy had informed them that hundreds of dot com sleuths were posting about it on their blogs.

  This upset Drake nearly as much as Hanna’s haunting words, both at the morgue and then as Robert was being taken away. Even though he had joked about the media being helpful for garnering more leads, this explosion in press coverage had just made their task infinitely more difficult. It had nothing to do with the fact that their unsub now knew that they were gunning for him—clearly, anonymity wasn’t a major concern, given the very public presentations—but rather a numbers game. The more people who knew about these crimes, the more people who would offer their opinions. And opinions were like assholes: everyone had one and, in Drake’s experience, most of them fucking stank.