by Jeff Gunhus
After the FBI agent and the reporter left, entry into the hospital was simple enough. Security was lax and the few cameras on the property wouldn’t matter with his coat collar pulled up and a hat and glasses in place to obscure his face. Maurice had been surprised to see him, more than a little nervous actually. FBI agents, reporters, strangers offering money for information about who takes an interest in a dead girl. While it sounded in theory like a fanboy’s wet dream, it was a lot of pressure for a weasel like Maurice to bear. The kid had already been on edge when Harris arrived, but he really got nervous once Harris cornered him alone in the morgue. The one with the cameras that didn’t work so Maurice and his buddies could play their games with the bodies.
Maurice had not been very forthcoming with the information Harris wanted. Damn intuition kicking in, giving the kid some misguided idea that he ought to hold back to protect the pretty FBI agent. But Harris was very convincing and Maurice finally shared everything with him.
Less than twenty minutes after walking into the hospital, Harris walked back out through a service door, crossed the street to his car, climbed in and drove away, certain Maurice would never be able to identify him. On the way, he tossed the phone Maurice had used to text him into a dumpster. They wouldn’t be able to use it to track back to him anyway, but he liked to be thorough.
While he didn’t have the heady rush from the kill he usually had, there was a certain amount of pride in how he’d done it, especially since it hadn’t been preplanned. Then again, inspiration was like that. It could strike at any time and, as an artist, he just had to keep an open mind so that when it did show itself, he was ready.
As he pictured the scene the police would find in the morgue, he allowed himself a smile. One thing was for sure, he damn-well deserved a steak dinner.
19
Allison came to a stop in front of the young uniformed cop blocking her way.
“You don’t want to go in there, ma’am,” he said, holding out his hand to block her way.
Allison held up her FBI credentials, expecting him to wave her through. He didn’t.
“I understand, ma’am,” the cop said. “I know you can go in there, I just don’t know that you want to.”
Allison felt a surge of anger at the cop’s condescension, her sexism radar pinging at full speed. But then she noticed his ashen face and the slight tremble in the hand he held out in front of her. She understood. Whatever was inside was something the young cop wished he hadn’t seen. The anger drained away and she felt sorry for him.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning it. “I’ll be all right. Thanks for looking out though.”
He hesitated a second, but then lowered his hand.
“It ain’t pretty,” he whispered.
Allison walked past him. “It never is.”
The morgue had a few more uniformed cops, a crime scene investigator taking photos and two homicide detectives in suits talking to a professional-looking man with a hospital nametag. She was surprised how quickly people had been mobilized to the scene. Must have been a slow day.
They blocked her from the crime scene, possibly by accident, or just out of decency to shield the only door into the room from a direct sightline at the body they were all there to discuss.
But as she approached, her credentials in hand, they parted to let her pass. As she took in the scene, she realized the young cop had been right. She really didn’t want to see this.
Maurice was on the floor, legs and arms splayed out in all directions. His head was covered by a plastic bag, cinched at the base by a drawstring. The plastic was transparent and showed his bulging, open eyes staring up like they were asking her a question. His tongue lolled out of his mouth through his yellowed teeth.
More disturbing was that his pants were down around his ankles so that his white, pimpled legs and butt were exposed. Allison took a couple of steps around the body, but she already had a good idea what she was going to find there.
Maurice’s penis was shriveled, drooping on the cool linoleum floor, coated with a glistening layer of lube. A quick look at his right hand showed that it was covered with lube too. It was the kind of crime scene that might be used in the first day of a forensics class. An open and shut scene wrapped up in a bow.
Autoerotic asphyxiation, choking to the point of passing out during orgasm, was fairly common, especially among young, socially alienated males who primarily relied on masturbation for a sexual outlet. From what little she knew about Maurice, she felt pretty sure he wasn’t going home to some nice girl after he was done carving up cadavers for fun with his morgue buddies. No, he fit the profile. And the practice, especially when doing it solo, sometimes led to death when the person misjudged the amount of time they could choke before passing out.
What made the scene even worse was that Maurice had pulled a female cadaver from a drawer to help him out. Not Catherine Fews, but another one. Something a little fresher.
Allison stifled a gasp. Not because of the sight of lube on the dead woman’s naked breasts. Not because she wondered what else Maurice had done to the rest of the body. But because across the length of the woman’s chest, carved into her flesh in capital letters with a scalpel, was a single word. A word that told the world what was going through Maurice’s mind as he masturbated his last time.
ALLISON.
20
“You were the last to see the deceased?” the detective asked. His name was Neil Briggs. He was African American, his head shaved, wearing a thick goatee as if to prove he could grow hair. The tone of his voice told her as far as he was concerned, the investigation was already over. The questions he had were just to complete the paperwork.
“I don’t know if I was the last one,” Allison said. “I was with him in this room about an hour ago. I don’t know what he did after that.”
“I can tell you what happened after that,” the second detective snickered. “This loser and Jane Doe here got it on.”
The detective carried a beer belly under his cheap suit, an off-the-rack number with food stains on the lapels. He hadn’t bothered to introduce himself to Allison, but she caught the name Grady on his badge. He grinned as if this crime scene was a present just for him, a hilarious story for him to tell over the next couple of months in bars across DC. If there was one thing cops loved, it was a good story that could one-up their friends.
“I mean, I don’t know if he spoke to anyone after I left,” Allison said, addressing Briggs who seemed professional and in control, especially compared to his partner. As soon as she said the words, she realized Maurice had spoken to someone after she left. Mike Carrel. She was about to correct herself but stopped short. She didn’t want Mike dragged into this. Nor did she want her own activities with Maurice scrutinized. If it were material to the case, she’d have no choice but to share it. But she’d seen Mike immediately after she left so it wasn’t like he was a suspect. She convinced herself to hold her cards close and engage in the little white lie. As she did, she could hear her father’s admonition in her head: You know what another name for a white lie is? A lie.
“And what was the nature of your visit?” Briggs asked.
“An active FBI investigation,” Allison said. “I’m sorry, I can’t give you any details.”
Briggs nodded as if expecting the answer. Grady was less forgiving.
“The Bureau’s always into our shit,” he complained. “And then they act like God’s gift to law enforcement.”
Allison met Grady’s eyes. “You have to admit, we are pretty good.”
“And you don’t think we are?” Grady challenged.
Allison knew she should bite her tongue. Grady was a college fraternity guy stuck in a middle-aged man’s body and allowed to carry a gun. There was no good to be had locking horns with him. In fact, it was better if these two shut this case down as a simple accidental death and moved on.
“That’s not what I meant,” Allison said. “Sorry.”
Grady made an overs
ized gesture, grasping his hands together in fake appreciation. “Thank you. Thank you,” he said.
“Cut it,” Briggs said to his partner.
Grady looked chastised. It was clear where the power lay in their relationship. He turned back to Maurice’s dead body and murmured, “We know Maurice here thought you were fine.”
“Grady, I said enough,” Briggs growled. He nodded to Allison. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve dealt with his type before.”
“My type?” Grady said, whirling around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Middle-aged man, joined the force to knock heads and get bad guys. Disillusioned with the job after you realized it was mostly breaking up domestic disputes and filling out paperwork. Thought about joining SWAT but that old football injury to your right knee kept you out.”
“It was wrestling,” Briggs said, obviously enjoying himself.
“I should have known,” Allison said. “Next best thing? Making detective. You weren’t quite smart enough for it, but you’re a good ol’ boy, so strings were pulled. You told yourself making detective would change everything. But it didn’t. You started eating more. Drinking more. Probably a divorce or at least woman problems. You hate feeling your incompetence every day working next to your partner who actually earned his spot, so you make up for it with this bullshit, macho personality trying to mask your almost crippling sense of inadequacy.” Allison turned to Briggs. “Did I get him right?”
“Oh no, I’m staying out of this one,” Briggs said, even though he grinned like he’d just watched a magician perform a card trick.
Grady screwed his face up into a scowl and looked like he was gearing up for a great comeback. But nothing came. He noticed the uniformed cops and the photographer staring at him, flushed red and marched out of the room. “I’m not staying here for this bullshit. I’ll be outside.”
Allison immediately felt guilty for picking the man apart. She knew what it felt like to be plagued with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. And, just like Grady, she erected her own walls to protect herself. Still, it didn’t give him a license to be an ass wipe.
Once he left the room, she turned to Briggs. “Sorry about that.”
Briggs gave a low laugh. “Hell, that was the most fun I’ve had all week. Did you two used to date or something? You nailed him pretty good.”
“Date?” Allison said. “He’s not exactly my type.”
“And what’s your type?” Briggs asked, his tone changing just enough for Allison to realize the point of the conversation had changed. It was a smooth transition from business-only detective to just enough of a hint that he was interested in more than her statement.
“A strong, silent guy who doesn’t pick up on women at a crime scene,” Allison said.
Briggs made a show of scribbling the information down on a notepad. He handed her his business card while putting a finger to his lips. After she took it, he pantomimed that he’d almost forgotten something and flexed his bicep and pointed at it. Allison laughed, admiring how he’d managed to pull the sequence off as a joke while still looking smooth and confident.
Allison held up his card. “I’ll call you if I think of anything else about Maurice.”
Briggs smiled and nodded, committed completely to the strong and silent shtick. He closed his notebook, gave her a wave and then walked past her to the scene photographer. Despite everything going on, Allison took a second to enjoy the sight of him walking away. The reaction surprised her, but she couldn’t deny an attraction for the detective. She decided to throw him a bone.
“Briggs,” she called out.
He turned.
“Are you a good detective?” she asked.
“I’d like to think so,” he said.
“Did you notice Maurice there only has lube on his right hand?”
Briggs looked at the body then back at Allison with a questioning look.
“He’s left-handed,” she said. “Let me know if you turn up anything.” She turned and left the room.
It was a thin fact, but one that had bothered her since she first looked at Maurice’s body. There were a hundred reasons why Maurice would have used his opposite hand. He wanted his dominant hand available to operate the bag over his head. He carved the name in the girl’s skin with that hand. Or maybe going righty was just the way ol’ Maurice liked to do the deed.
But there was another consideration. That this wasn’t an accidental death at all, but an elaborate staging to cover up a murder. A staging where the killer incorrectly assumed Maurice was right-handed.
If that was the case, then she was dealing with a pro. And it had to be about Catherine Fews. While Maurice’s extracurricular activities at the morgue might have given more than a few people reason to put a bag over the guy’s head, it was too coincidental that this had happened so soon after she left. She harbored no doubt that Maurice had given up the details about the tattoo to the killer at the first threat.
That meant the killer was a step ahead of her now, on his way to Catherine Fews’s hometown.
And that wasn’t all. She pictured the letters carved into the girl’s flesh and an uneasy realization settled into her chest.
If someone had killed Maurice, then they knew who she was.
21
Allison pushed her way through the crowd gathered in the hospital lobby. She spotted Mike mingling with the hospital staff standing in small clusters. The stratified nature of hospitals was on display, with orderlies, nurses and docs naturally segregating themselves into different groups, each whispering and pointing toward the yellow police tape stretched across the stairwell. A uniformed cop stood sentry in front of the elevator bank to keep anyone from going down to the morgue. Mike excused himself from the people he was talking to and fell in step next to her.
“You all right?” Mike asked.
“Fine,” Allison said. With her solitary lifestyle, there weren’t that many people outside of her dad who asked her that question. And he was asking it less and less.
They walked out the front door together into the late afternoon sun, away from the small crowd of onlookers. “The rumor mill was working overtime up here. I heard everything from he hung himself to he died of a heart attack while having his way with a cadaver. None of his coworkers seemed to think that last one was too much of a stretch, which says a lot.”
“There was nothing crazy like that,” Allison said, avoiding eye contact with him. “Not much to it.”
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah, accidental death. Pretty run-of-the-mill. Unfortunate, but these things happen sometimes,” she said, feeling embarrassed because she knew how obvious the lie was. She just needed some space. Some time to breathe. Having a reporter in her face wasn’t helping with that.
“Interesting. Because what I was about to say,” he continued, his expression shadowed by anger, “was that I finally found the nurse who discovered the body. She gave me the details. All of them.”
Allison felt her stomach clench. She hated the feeling of being caught. It was probably why she was such a terrible liar. But she didn’t stop walking and she didn’t apologize.
“I’m not your source and I don’t have time to hold your hand,” she said. “I have work to do.”
Mike jogged a few steps ahead of her and blocked her path. She came to a stop.
“Just think this through. If you block me out, I’ll have to file the story I have so far,” Mike said. “Maurice’s kinky death is exactly the kind of thing that sells papers and you know it.”
Allison pulled her keys out of her pocket and clicked the fob. Her Audi A4 chirped back at her as if agreeing with her that it was time to go.
“You said earlier you wanted the Kraw story,” she said. “I’ll make that deal. Don’t run any of this until the case is wrapped and you get all the gory details about what happened in Louisiana.”
Mike grinned. “Nice try. No, that deal’s off the table. Somet
hing big is going on here and I want in on it.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “Run the story. The second you do, every reporter in town will be chasing down your lead, trying to figure out who Catherine Fews really was.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mike said. “The way I’m going to write it, everyone is going to be asking who Allison McNeil is. They’re going to be asking why an FBI agent on administrative leave is investigating a case she wasn’t assigned to. But what they’re really going to want to know is what was happening between her and the weird hospital worker who carved her name into a body while he was whacking off with a bag over his head. I can have it in the online edition in the next hour. My best guess is that you’re done working on this case by dinner. Or do you think it’ll take that long for you to get pulled?”
Allison took a deep, steadying breath. “I told you, I’m just researching this case during my leave,” she said. “There’s no one to throw me off the case.”
Mike smiled. “Anytime you want to play poker, you just let me know. You might be the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
“This conversation is over,” Allison said.
“I know the Bureau. I know law enforcement,” Mike said. “How many years will you find plastic bags with cinch strings left on your desk? Bottles of lube sent to you in the mail? How many dirty jokes will have your name as the punch line?”
Allison knew he was right. She could roll with it, of course. Join in the jokes to defuse them. But Mike was right on both counts. Her reputation would go from profiler with an uncanny knack for being involved in big cases, to a name inserted into every off-color joke imaginable. And the second thing he’d been right about was that she’d be off this case. Mason wanted her involvement kept under wraps. If her name appeared in the Herald tonight, she’d be done. And that meant exile from BAU because of Garret. She couldn’t allow that. But if Mason found out she had Mike Carrel as a ride-along for this off-the-books case, then the exact same thing would happen.