Vegas Rain

by Rick Murcer

  “I just might have, at that.”

  “There’s one more thing before I get my tired old ass out of your home. You started to say something when we sat down and then changed your mind; what was it?”

  Chloe ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips and sighed. “No fooling old cops. Let me show you.”

  She felt a bit of relief as she handed the phone to Gavin, the message still on display. The chief frowned, looked at Chloe, read it again, pulled at his gray mustache, read it a third time, then finally handed the phone back to her almost like it had grown too hot to handle.

  “Did you call Manny and tell him?”

  “No. I didn’t want to seem like I was overreacting, and he’s got his hands full this morning. I wondered, at first, if it could be some prank, or even a wild coincidence, but . . . ”

  “You’re right. It’s no prank or some shitty joke. The area code is from Nevada, probably from Vegas. Do you know anyone there?”

  “I don’t. Certainly no one that we would’ve told about the baby.”

  Taking out a pen and pad, Gavin looked at the number and wrote it down. “I’ll give this to Buzzy in our tech department and see if she can find out anything. Meanwhile, I think you did the right thing by not calling Manny. It’ll give us some time to see what we can find.”

  Her smile returned. “Okay. I like that approach. I hope she can find something, but it might be tough. This could be a pay-as-you-go, and if the sender is skilled enough, he or she could be bouncing this from all over the planet,” said Chloe.

  “I don’t get all of that, so that’s where you ladies come in.”

  Gavin headed for the door, opened it, and waved. “We’ll get to the bottom of this and, meanwhile, start thinking about what color you want your new office to be,” he said, smiling.

  “Not to jump the gun, but that sounds great. And Gavin . . . thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The chief took one more step and stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own phone. Chloe watched as he glanced at the number and then did a double take as his brow gathered into a deep V.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER-10

  Detective Melanie Teachout glanced at her partner, Brent Lane, and slowly shook her head, causing her long, black hair to cover and uncover her face.

  He shrugged his shoulders, raised his hands, then stepped to her side as they both returned their attention to the corpse that had been fished out of the garbage bin.

  At least most of it.

  Mel drew from her cigarette and puffed upward, releasing the swirling wisp into the early-morning Las Vegas breeze.

  “You know that shit’s going to kill you, right?” asked Brent.

  “Yeah, well, thank you, Mom. You know the old saying: we’re all going to die from something. Besides, I’m cutting down,” she answered with a wink.

  “Good to hear. And just an FYI, kissing people who smoke is like licking an ashtray.”

  She smiled at her short, good-looking partner with the dark-blue eyes, stopping at his wavy, white hair that made him look older, at least at first glance, than his thirty-seven years.

  His total look fit Vegas. A bit exotic, tied to the erotic, was how “Sin City” wanted to be portrayed, and her partner fit that bill . . . especially the erotic.

  She gave him another look over, her smile broadening.

  “I didn’t hear any complaints last night, pal.”

  It was his turn to release a quick smile. “None whatsoever. But don’t say that so loud.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Relax. None of the CSIs or the blues heard me. But we’re going to have to tell someone, sometime, you know. Unless, you know, you’re . . . ”

  “Embarrassed to tell the department we’ve been married for three months?” he finished.

  Making sure they weren’t the center of anyone’s attention, he tilted close to her ear. “You’re the most wonderful thing to happen to me, and I love working with you every day. I don’t want that to end any sooner than it has to, okay?” he whispered.

  Leaning away from him, she captured his eyes. “Wow. That just got you a few new ‘experiences’ when I get your ass home. Hey, maybe instead of lunch we could—”

  The lead CSI began walking toward them and she had to stop in midsentence, but she could see the effect her suggestion had on her new husband. Lunch hour was going to be out of this world, providing they were going to have time for one.

  The CSI gently placed her large, leather case on the ground and then swiped at the sweat already forming on her tanned brow.

  “I’ve seen some sick junk since I came to work in Vegas ten years ago. You know, all the way from johns left tied up in their hotel rooms to hit killings, but nothing like this.”

  Mel dropped the cigarette to the ground and gathered strength to peruse where the corpse had been laid out on the body-sized blue tarp. She was with the CSI on this one. She hadn’t seen anything like this either.

  “I hear you. What can you tell us so far?” asked Mel.

  The CSI shrugged. “Pretty straightforward. Each lower leg, including the foot, was hacked off, then apparently placed on his chest. I think it might have been more of a way to transport the body in the trunk of a car or something.”

  “Why would you say that?” asked Brent.

  “Well, there wasn’t a lot of blood in the body or on it, so that means he was probably killed somewhere else and dumped here. Also, the incisions and how the bones were severed were done with a sharp power tool, maybe a high-resolution saw, because there was minimal ripping at the points of contact.”

  “You can determine what kind of instrument and maybe which company sold the saw that was used?” asked Mel.

  The CSI nodded. “We’ll compare patterns in the cuts and get close.”

  “Time of death?”

  The CSI sighed. “Almost nine hours ago, if the liver reading wasn’t affected by the heat.”

  “Any luck with the victim’s ID?” Mel reached for her cigarette case in her pocket, keeping her eyes on the CSI.

  “We’re working on it. His first name appears to be Howard. There was no wallet, or cell phone, or credit card, or any other way to identify him further. We got his possible first name from a bracelet we found in his pocket. The inscription referred to the woman who gave it to him so we’ll see where that leads. We’re digging in with the usual procedures. We’ll find out who this poor soul is, er, was.”

  Lighting another smoke, Mel exhaled and then slowly circled the body. She didn’t scare easily, and God knew that homicide detectives had stomachs of iron, mostly. She also didn’t get to where she was by letting her imagination run wildly unchecked.

  Stopping on the right side of the body, she kneeled on one knee, reaching toward a small bloodstain on his dirty, white shirt just above his pelvic region.

  Lifting the shirt slowly, she could only stare as the weakness in her knees kept her frozen in place.

  After several moments, Mel Teachout rose and reached for her phone.

  “Is it like the other two?” asked Brent softly. “Are there organs missing?”

  “Yeah. Afraid so. Livers, intestines, now a kidney. This looks like it could have something to do with the human organ black-market business. That means someone far too organized is responsible for this shit. We could be over our heads. I’m thinking we call the FBI and—”

  The target of her call answered. She felt herself swallow, hard. This was crazy-assed. She, and the LVPD, didn’t make it a habit to call in help, but today she believed was an exception.

  “Captain? We’ve got another one. I think this one seals it. Someone is harvesting the organs of the fine citizens of Las Vegas, and I think we need some help.”

  CHAPTER-11

  It had been twenty minutes since the Ingham County Medical Examiner’s office had transported the two corpses to the morgue at Lansing’s largest medical facility. Still, Manny couldn’t force t
he frown to totally vacate his brow. “Bizarre” had never been out of the realm his world encompassed, but this case had his mind racing while the facts tangoed with his imagination.

  Two bodies positioned like these was an obvious setup, yet perhaps not as telling as the identity of the two victims could be. There was no form of ID on either of the bodies, so Sophie was working with Buzzy Dancer, the LPD resident tech expert, on that elusive task. With all of the technology available, including the LPD and the Bureau’s facial recognition software programs, and IAFIS, the FBI’s fingerprint database, it shouldn’t take long to find out who they were, Manny hoped.

  Using the thumb and index finger of his right hand, he rubbed his eyes, hoping to soothe some of the tension the last few hours had created. It helped a little.

  Even better than locating the names of these two unfortunate souls would be what Alex and Dean were hoping to accomplish: identify the killer with some of their forensic magic.

  The two CSIs had spent the last ninety minutes taking more pictures and extracting traces of anything that may and may not have originated with the bodies—fibers, dirt samples, hairs, spit, latent and observable prints, and maybe even a stray follicle or two that could be turned into a DNA lead.

  Manny had decided he didn’t care what piece of micro evidence would get the job done as long as one of them did. He just wanted a name. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? He couldn’t shake the feeling that his nemesis had somehow bamboozled law enforcement . . . again.

  Since they’d returned from North Carolina, despite the incredible news that he was going to be a dad again, albeit well after Jen, the possibility of Argyle somehow still walking among the living had forced his gut into a perpetual knot. He kept telling himself all of the right things, but in the end, his gut did the talking.

  The encrypted note taken from the male victim’s hand wasn’t helping. It, and the message it contained, were burning a hole in his pocket and didn’t help his state of mind. The only positive thing he could think of was that people often try to emulate another’s handwriting—maybe that’s what this was. It’d be a couple of days before the Bureau’s graphology experts could do the proper analysis, but that would go a long way toward settling his jumping belly.

  How could it not?

  For the hundredth time, he relived the moment he’d killed Argyle on that boat in Galway, without any doubtful compunction. Manny had shot the doctor as he’d reached for a weapon. He could still feel the small recoil and the roar from his Glock as he fired and Argyle’s head disintegrated.

  The feeling of freedom from the man’s indescribable, perverted influence had been as liberating as anything Manny had experienced. One shot, one death, and one for the good guys. An action and a reaction. Dead was dead, and everyone at that rocky cove knew it had been Argyle who had been stuffed into that Irish body bag and shipped to the United States later that night.

  It was that simple.

  He shifted his feet. They didn’t collect any of the doctor’s DNA and run it through CODIS for a positive match because there had been no reason . . . they all knew who it was. Besides, that wasn’t really a standard procedure in Bureau cases anyway.

  “Maybe it should be,” he mumbled.

  If the wildly unimaginable were true and the doctor had managed to pull off a body-double stunt like the kind you read only in books and see in movies, then the questions of motive grew even more intense.

  In the beginning, Argyle had been driven by revenge for the LPD’s supposed role in ruining the doctor’s professional career, but the reasons for his killings became more complex as time went on. His twisted motives had evolved into a game to outwit all of law enforcement, particularly Manny. That only gave more credence to the theories that true psychopaths of his magnitude develop a higher sense of narcissism and a deeper sense of self-importance. A God complex. Argyle had possessed all of that and more. It hadn’t hurt the doctor’s cause that he inherited a large family fortune. Crazy and rich had proven a deadly combination to over twenty people, maybe more. Only Argyle and God knew the true toll his bloodlust had tallied.

  Raising his gaze, Manny slowly scanned the rest of the cemetery. He noticed how the late-morning sun forced the budding landscape to take on a fresh perspective as it inched farther into the sky. It was almost as if the blazing orb had an agenda to beautify what most would consider, at the very least, unpleasant.

  Agenda?

  That was the question pounding at Manny’s sanity. What the hell was this truly about? Was there another step in Dr. Argyle’s evolution or had he simply planned, in the event of his demise, a few parting surprises, orchestrated then executed by a few mindless lackeys?

  There was sudden comfort in that logic. It made far more sense than the alternative.

  “Sophie’s right. You’ve grown even more paranoid in your old age, Williams,” he whispered to himself. “Dead is dead, remember?”

  “Freaking awesome. My rock of stability and common sense is now talking to himself. That’s just great, Manny.”

  He bowed his head and turned to face his accuser.

  Sophie stood with legs apart, hands on hips, her left one holding a red LPD folder. She was shaking her head: tsk tsk.

  “Busted. What can I say?” he answered, grinning.

  “You can say how hot and talented I am because I got the IDs of our vics so quickly and maybe I’ll consider brushing this little neurotic incident out of my memory banks and not mention it to anyone.”

  “Seriously? You got the names of these two already? And you’ve been listening to me talk to myself for years, so that threat won’t work. Still, you’re smoking hot and incredibly talented for pulling that off.”

  Moving quickly, Sophie kissed Manny on the cheek and gave him a hug. “We’ve got this, O’ Guardian of the Universe. We’re all here to help, okay?” she said softly.

  He felt a rush of affection for his old friend. “I know, but it’s hard for me to change old habits. Workaholics don’t do that well. You know that, right?”

  “Yep. I do. You need to drink more. And I was smoking hot before I pulled this off.”

  “I can’t drink more; it messes up the trance thing. And you’re right. I know Dean thinks so.”

  “What can I say? The man has great taste. Except for those clown clothes he wears. Damn. That paisley stuff is so ugly it’s almost cool, sort of.”

  “We all have a cross or two to bear.”

  Tilting her head, Sophie smiled. “Some more than others. You just can’t let them take you under, right?”

  Manny nodded. “I forget how perceptive you are.”

  “Yep. I’m just full of surprises and don’t forget it, Williams.”

  He saluted. “I won’t.”

  “Good. So, do you want to know who these people are, or were?”

  Their Sophie-style heart-to-heart was over, but her point was made. It made him feel a little better knowing that no matter where this case took them, people like Sophie and the rest of the BAU had his back. No cop could hope for more.

  Giving himself permission, Manny turned his full attention to the situation in front of them. “Yes, but let’s get the others over here first.”

  Five minutes later, the FBI’s BAU huddled at the front of Manny’s black SUV as Sophie slapped the file containing identity information of the casket victims on the hood and slid it over to him. He glanced inside again, shook his head, and closed the file.

  “We know who these folks are, were, and it makes little sense to me so far,” said Manny. “Her name is Abigail Roache, seventy-seven years old, and the man was her son, Matthew, forty-four. According to Sophie’s info, they both lived at the same address. She was obviously retired, and Mister Roache was employed by, you guessed it, the City of Lansing, and—”

  “Wait,” said Alex, “let me finish your statement . . . he was a patient of Argyle too, right?”

  Manny sighed. “He was. Four years ago he had a meltdown in the treasurer�
��s office and had to get psychiatric approval to come back to work.”

  Opening the file again, he flipped the first page back, read some more, then closed it again. “Once he did, he apparently had no further incidents and went on his merry way as a happy employee.”

  “So, was he a disciple or just a cured patient?” asked Sophie.

  “I’m not sure yet,” said Manny, shrugging. “We need more info.”

  “That’ll be coming in the next day or so. Buzzy is hard at work on gathering all that she can find on these two. We were able to get this much because he was an employee of the City. She’s also going to pull all of the usual information on both. I’m banking on a weird sex thing for the kid. Maybe even one of those mom fixations, ya know?”

  “What?” said Alex, rolling his eyes. “You mean like incest? Good God, woman, don’t you ever give that a rest? Not everything is about sex, for crying out loud.”

  “It is if you ain’t getting any. And since you got hand problems, I think that explains why you’ve been so damned cranky,” said Sophie.

  “I—”

  “Stop. And she just might be right,” said Manny.

  “You mean why he’s cranky?” asked Sophie.

  “No, but you might be right there too.”

  “Some friends. Incest? You can’t be serious,” said Alex, his face showing his disgust.

  “Remember how we found her hand on his crotch? That could have been a subtle way of sharing doctor/patient confidentiality. Maybe. At any rate, we’ve sent a CSI team over to the Roache’s house along with Gavin’s people to see what they can gather.”

  “Okay, my mind needs a bath,” said Dean.

  “Don’t get too clean,” said Sophie.

  Dean smiled.

  Manny turned to Alex. “Alex. What did you and Dean find?”

  “Yeah, okay. I’m with Dean about my brain needing a scrub. Anyway, we didn’t find a hell of a lot. The killer kept things pretty clean. We found a couple of prints and a few hairs that might not belong to these two, but then again, they might. We did get three weird fibers on the old woman that didn’t look like they came from the material in the casket or any kind of clothing. They seemed to be more like carpet. Maybe from the trunk of a car or something similar.”