7th Sin: The Sequel to the #1 Hard Boiled Mystery, 9th Circle (Book 2 of the Darc Murders Series)

by Carolyn McCray

  The suspect’s bedroom was, again, much neater than Trey would’ve imagined. The color palette was masculine, but showed an eye for placement, shape and line that would’ve done a design star proud. The artwork above the bed looked to be original, and maybe even done by the suspect himself.

  Dude. Nice.

  But so far, nothing that really screamed serial killer. In Trey’s experience, they tended toward either extreme. Crazy-organized or hoarder-messy, there didn’t seem to be a lot of in-between kind of behavior from most of the real nut jobs.

  And then they came to the second bedroom, which was locked from the inside. It was one of the door locks common in apartment buildings, one that could be popped open with a straightened coat hanger or ice pick. Not finding either handy, Trey slipped the ink cartridge out of his pen and rammed it into the handle until he heard a sharp click.

  The door swung wide, revealing all of the crazy that any of them could ever hope for. Pictures of fingernails, all of them well-manicured, most in shades of either dark red or black, covered every blank space on the walls. It was 360 of insanity.

  There was no overt pornography included. No naked women, no disembodied shots of genitalia, nothing overtly sexual about any of it. Just fingernails. Lots and lots and lots of them.

  “Yeah,” Trey breathed. “I think we may have found our guy.”

  There was a sound behind him. Apparently, the manager had snuck back in and caught a glimpse of the room of crazy. It seemed to have been a bit too much for her.

  She had passed out in the hallway.

  *

  A tiny nudge, and the work was progressing once more.

  The Lord giveth…

  It hadn’t taken much. While those in the higher positions of power were corrupt both morally and intellectually, the two soldiers with boots on the ground were much purer of intent. And infinitely sharper.

  Perhaps too sharp.

  The short one was dull enough, though he had an empathetic streak that might prove problematic. But now that the shaven inspector was involved, the Lord would have to guide His servant’s actions carefully to avoid the successful interference of the forces of the Master of Darkness.

  For no matter how likable these detectives might be, how seemingly upright, they submitted to the power that refused to bow the knee to the Lord of Lords and the King of Kings. The one was living in sin, and the other worshipped his own intellect.

  Neither of those false idols would deliver them from the wrath of righteous indignation. They would not prevail against the chosen of the Savior. The Lord would help His servant to pass through the hands of the unrighteous and uncircumcised of heart.

  Shall the prey be taken from the mighty, or the lawful captive delivered? But thus saith the Lord, Even the captives of the mighty shall be taken away, and the prey of the terrible shall be delivered: for I will contend with him that contendeth with thee…

  The words soothed, smoothing away the tension in the forehead, in the set of the shoulders. The burden was heavy, but it would be lightened, if only the Lord’s servant could prove worthy. And worthiness was the only true goal to which could be aspired.

  Now was the time. The plan was set. The players were in motion.

  Was there pain? Certainly. But nothing of worth was ever done without discomfort. A stiffening of resolve was part of the process. And the process was never easy. Straight is the path that leads to everlasting salvation. Just as Samuel hacked Agag to pieces before the Lord, God required difficult things of those that He chose to do His greatest works.

  And this servant would not be found wanting.

  Ever.

  It was an oath taken that was bound down to the very core of cores. Nothing would keep those waiting on the will of the Lord from doing their duty before Him.

  A trembling coursing through the veins sang of redemption. Of forgiveness for past sins. A forgetting of the wrongs that laid heavily on these unworthy shoulders.

  Salvation waited.

  *

  Jeremy Krauss huddled in his chair in the interrogation room, apparently doing what he could to remain inconspicuous. Unfortunately for him, that time had passed the moment Mala and the two detectives entered that room.

  In addition to the photo decoupage on the walls, they had uncovered twenty bottles of nail polish in varying shades of red and black, as well as more nail files than they could shake a stick at. Mala had to admit, there was something fascinating about seeing a fetish play itself out to a deadly extreme almost right in front of her eyes.

  And now she found it hard to look away from the figure that sat on the other side of the one-way mirror. He was good-looking, in a vague sort of way, his features pleasant, if a little vacant. His hair was dark and well groomed, a three-day scruff adorning his cheeks. Fashion-wise, he seemed to gravitate to neutrals, with a dark black shirt and a grayed-out pair of jeans.

  Basically, he seemed like a normal guy you might run into at a bar on a Friday night. The kind of guy that, if he listened well and acted respectfully, might get taken home for some extracurricular activities.

  Not exactly the type of person she would suspect of being a serial killer with a fetish for fingernails.

  Trey and Darc entered the room, Trey slapping a thick file down on the table between them and the cowering suspect. He pointed to the folder, making a tsk, tsk sound with his lips and tongue.

  “There’s a whole lotta nasty in there, Jeremy.”

  “Hey,” the suspect whined. “I don’t have any idea what this is all about.”

  “Oh, you don’t?” Trey snickered. “I suppose you figure most normal guys have a wall of weirdness hiding behind a locked door in their apartment?”

  Jeremy’s head slumped down. “Okay. I admit it. I’m a freak. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “Freak is mild for what I saw in there, dude.” Trey paused for a moment. “And, man, I gotta ask… Fingernails? I don’t get it.”

  The suspect took a deep breath, then let it out in a huge sigh. “I can’t explain it. I’ve always been… interested… in really nice nails.”

  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with mommy, now would it?” Trey asked, his tone innocent.

  Jeremy’s head snapped back up. “What are you talking about?” His eyes hardened. “You know what? Forget it. I haven’t done anything illegal.”

  “Weeellll,” Trey stretched the word out. “We’ll see what the guys down in forensics have to say about that. All it takes is matching up the DNA on the hairs we gathered from your bathroom to the semen found at the crime scenes, and… well, you’re pretty much screwed.”

  The blood drained out of the suspect’s face, his shoulders slouching forward even further, if that were possible. All of the defiance that had appeared when Trey spoke of the man’s mother seemed to dissipate, leaving the expression of a scared little boy who had been caught doing something truly terrible.

  “I… I…” Tears welled up in Jeremy’s eyes, his face scrunched up in a rictus of guilt. “You… I can’t…”

  “Listen, man.” Trey’s tone softened, and he leaned in toward the suspect. “You’ve got some major stuff going on in there.” He pointed at Jeremy’s head. “Probably enough to get some consideration as a mental case. You know? But we can’t help you out if you won’t work with us here.”

  Darc inclined his head in a solemn nod. “The evidence against you is significant. I place the probability of your conviction for these crimes at 93 percent.”

  The combination of Trey’s empathy and Darc’s dispassionate intellect proved to be a near-irresistible one-two punch. Jeremy laid his head on the table in front of him, a sob shaking his body.

  Trey reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “I want to help you. I’ve been tracking your case for over a year now, and as serial killers go, you’re not the worst I’ve seen.” Trey glanced up at his partner, a significant look passing between them. “Trust me.”

  The suspect’s shoulders shook with the force
of his crying. Mala had seen that response too many times in therapy not to recognize what was happening. The walls of self-deception were low right now. Trey was close to getting to this man’s core. She could only assume that would mean a confession was near.

  Making his voice even more gentle, Trey coaxed the man in front of him. “There’s only a couple of things I don’t get, man. This last one. Her face was torn to shreds. You’ve never done that before.”

  Jeremy’s head popped back up with the force of a jack-in-the-box that had been wound too tight. His eyes were rimmed in red, streaks of tears covering his cheeks. “That wasn’t me. I didn’t… I would never…”

  “Hey, c’mon. You can’t expect us to believe there’re two guys out there taking people’s fingernails.” Trey was striking the perfect balance, his tone soft but disbelieving.

  “No, yeah, that’s not…” The suspect shook his head, wiping at his eyes. “I didn’t do anything to her. I just found her already like that. She was lying there, you know, like that…” He glanced at the crime scene photos, then looked away and shuddered. “But her fingernails were still there… and they were perfect… so…”

  “So you took them?” Trey finished for him. “And then you hid them?”

  “No, I…” Jeremy’s expression seemed confused. “I thought you knew?”

  “Knew what?”

  “What I did with the nails.”

  “Um, nope. Enlighten me, dude.” Trey made a come-here motion with his hands.

  The suspect looked back and forth from Trey to Darc, looking for something that he didn’t seem to be finding. He shook his head.

  “I can’t. I can’t. It’s too… I can’t.”

  Mala felt a chill run up her spine and realized what it meant. A man who had ended the life of dozens of women couldn’t bring himself to say what he was doing with their fingernails.

  What on earth was that bad?

  CHAPTER 10

  Trey had been in law enforcement for a long time now. He’d learned a fair amount in that period. Okay, sure, there were days, especially when Darc did something all savant-y, that he felt like what he knew could fit inside a very small and not very well-cleaned coffee mug—the same coffee mug where most of Trey’s intelligence seemed to come from on some early mornings.

  But on this particular day, facing this particular suspect, that coffee-mug-measure of intelligence seemed to be shrinking down to the size of one of those espresso shot thingies they served at snooty coffee shops around here. Trey decided it was time to take control of the situation before it shrank to thimble-sized proportions. He shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the powerful scent of cleanser covering over something much more foul that lingered in the room. Someone must have thrown up in here earlier.

  “Okay, dude. You don’t hide the fingernails. You don’t bury them, right? You don’t collect them, as far as we could tell.” Trey tried to peer past the shame in Jeremy’s eyes, but the veil was too thick. “Enlighten me. What do you do with them?”

  “I do collect them,” the suspect replied, his eyes shifting from side to side as he spoke. He then rubbed his hands over his face and mumbled something unintelligible.

  “What was that?” Trey probed.

  “I said that I do collect them… sort of.”

  That was a puzzler. “How do you sort of collect fingernails? I’m pretty sure collection is either a do or a do-not kind of situation.” Trey turned to Darc for confirmation. His partner graced him with a sober nod of the head. Okay, so he wasn’t crazy. Or at least not more crazy than the guy on the other side of the table.

  The crazy guy on the other side of the table who seemed to be sinking into a puddle of self-loathing. Jeremy Krauss’s face was screwed up in a grotesque parody of his normally fairly attractive features. The guy was a mess. Good for questioning, not so great for Trey’s sense of empathy. Again, the suspect mumbled into his hands. At least this time it was somewhat intelligible.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Hey, you’re right. You are totally right. I don’t understand.” Trey leaned in closer to Jeremy, his voice soft. “But I want to. Help me out here. What did you do with the fingernails?”

  “I guess it doesn’t make any difference any more. And I’m kind of glad you guys caught me. I don’t… I don’t like being… you know… like this.” He flopped his hands in his own general direction, his motion listless. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “I eat them.”

  “You…?” Trey felt his jaw unhinging a bit, took a moment to shut his mouth, and then continued. “You eat them?” Hmm. That may have sounded accusatory. Perhaps he should dial it back a bit. “I mean, you eat them?” Better. Maybe. Just a bit. But Trey felt the need to clarify, just in case. “The fingernails, you mean?”

  Jeremy nodded. “Yeah. I take them, clean them and then eat them.”

  “You clean them first?”

  “Well, yeah. If I didn’t… well… that would be pretty gross.”

  Trey nodded sagely. “Right. That would be gross, wouldn’t it? Would you excuse me for a moment? I just have to…” He gestured vaguely out the door, stood and made his escape. Trey could tell that he was out of his depth here.

  He darted around from the interrogation room to the observation room right next door, where Mala was waiting, a thoughtful expression on her face. That was promising, right? Definitely seemed promising.

  “You heard that, right, Doc?”

  Mala nodded, her mouth pursed in a pensive way. She seemed to have a lot of those “thinking” kinds of faces. Maybe Trey should cultivate one or two, so people didn’t just assume he had no clue what was going on. That was generally true, but it would be nice if everyone didn’t always think it. The doctor turned to face the one-way mirror, observing the suspect on the other side of the glass.

  “Fascinating. This has to be from early childhood trauma. You said his mother was picked up for prostitution a few times? He may have seen it. Watched her getting ready. That would explain the combination of arousal and extreme guilt.”

  “Yeah, but eating the nails?” Trey scrunched up his nose in disgust. “That’s just all kinds of crazy.”

  “It actually makes a certain amount of sense,” Mala corrected him. “With as much shame as he seems to be exhibiting, he would want to get rid of the evidence of his actions. But he also could be attached to those same trophies, so the logical conclusion…”

  “Would be to eat them?” Trey yelped. He glanced over at the interrogation room to make sure they hadn’t heard his outburst. Jeremy’s head was on the table and Darc was… well, Darc had his normal vacant look on his face, so it appeared that the soundproofing around the room was working.

  “There’ve been stranger cases. Including the one we just worked together, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah, okay. Father John was a nut job to end all nut jobs. But still… he didn’t eat any of his victims.” He felt a shudder take over his upper torso and shook out his arms to get rid of the resultant goose bumps. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter to the case, I guess. Any tips on how to continue?”

  “Be as parental as possible. Treat him like a misbehaving child. The more he feels like he’s being punished, the more likely he is to be pliant.”

  “Parental. Got it.” Trey moved to the door, then stopped. “Oh… Mala?” She turned away from the window to look at Trey. “It’s great to have you back.”

  The last sight Trey could see as he walked out of the observation room was a smile creeping over Mala’s face. The team was back together, and Trey, for one, couldn’t be happier about it. Now if he could just get Darc to stop acting like a love-struck teenager every time he was around her…

  Slipping back into his seat, Trey gazed across the table at the fingernail-eater. Jeremy had lifted his head back up, and was sitting slack-jawed, his expression vacant. Trey could see the tips of his bottom teeth. Were they extra pointy? No. It was just Trey’s imagination playing tricks on him.
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br />   “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” the suspect asked, his mouth turning down into a frown.

  “What? No. No, of course not.” Trey held out for all of three seconds before breaking down and continuing. “Okay. Yes. Yes, I was. How could you eat them, man? I don’t get it. Did they taste bad?”

  Jeremy’s demeanor turned wry. “No clue. I swallow them whole. No taste unless I don’t clean them properly. Only made that mistake once.” He rolled his eyes at Trey, for all the world like a buddy of his from high school that had once gotten them both busted for smoking in the boy’s room at the Catholic school they’d attended. The nuns did not take kindly to tobacco consumption.

  “Whole. Of course.” Trey glanced down at the file in front of him, then over at Darc, who was still zoned out, as far as Trey could tell. He then took his gaze back to Jeremy. “I gotta say, man, you’re not at all what I expected.”

  “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

  “Really? How many people have you talked to about… well, this?”

  “You’d be surprised,” the suspect sighed.

  Trey remembered Darc talking about how serial killers sometimes knew each other. “You mean like other killers and stuff?”

  “Oh yeah. We run into each other all the time. And some of them like to talk. A lot. Like, never shut up kind of talking.” Jeremy paused for a moment. “In retrospect, that may have not been a good idea. I don’t keep secrets well. I start off fine, but once I get to know someone…”

  “You can’t stop talking?” Trey probed, a grin on his face.

  Jeremy laughed, a deep one that shook his shoulders. “Wow. I guess I am that guy, aren’t I? And I thought they were so annoying.”

  “Look, not to get too obnoxious or anything, but we could use some help on some of the cases we’re working on.”

  The suspect leaned back in his chair and scratched his belly, lifting up his shirt a bit in the process, exposing the white undershirt below. “Sure. You seem like a good guy. I’ll help you out.” He lifted a finger. “But I’m telling you now, I don’t know all that much. And what I know probably won’t help you.”