Vegas Rain

by Rick Murcer

  She was right to want to know what was going on in her town. Even Vegas and the LVPD had to be a little shocked at what the devil had spawned in this room.

  “Listen, Detective Teachout. As soon as we know, or at least have an idea of what’s transpiring here, you’ll know. We need your help on this, but not here, not now,” he said softly.

  Her gaze was one he’d seen a time or two from the locals protecting their territory. Yet there was also an underlying inquisitiveness that most detectives in this situation didn’t possess.

  She wanted to know, but wasn’t sure she did at the same time. Manny liked that. To him, it meant she would do what it took to get to the bottom of these murders. Like the talent and cooperation of the Agent Kimberly Wilkins, they were also going to need Detective Melanie Teachout’s skills when the time came. He was glad she was on the case.

  “Okay, Agent,” she said. “I need to trust you and your reputation. But I can’t go home and go to sleep. At least not yet. So what would you like us to do now?”

  Teachout’s partner moved his right hand to touch her shoulder, and Manny knew immediately they were more than partners. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, but he could see the gold band on Detective Lane’s finger. Even if it weren’t a wedding ring, there was no denying that these two cared for each other. He understood, but hoped it wouldn’t be a problem.

  He turned back to the body, running his hand through his hair.

  Why couldn’t these investigations be simpler, less congested, more to the point?

  Well, Williams, that’d be just too damn easy, now wouldn’t it?

  Then again, that’s what someone like Argyle wanted. More smoke, more mirrors, more confusion.

  “Agent?” she asked again.

  There were a few things the LVPD could do for them. “Okay. I’d like the cell phone records of each victim pulled and cross-referenced to see if there are any numbers in common. I also want to see credit card records and, if you can get it done, GPS records for the phones, and for the victims’ cars. Some of the vics may have had an OnStar service that can tell us if the vehicles had a common destination.”

  Teachout shook her head. “It sounds like busy work, Agent, but we can do that.”

  “It’s not. I also need you to talk to the friends of each of these victims, but start with this woman’s friends. We also need to look at all of the security video for this place, including the elevators, say for the last fifteen hours. Since your ME said the time of death was approximately four hours ago, we need to check to see if there’s anything that shows her and the unsub meeting.”

  Teachout raised her arms in surrender. “Okay. You’ve done this before. I get it. We’ll get to work.”

  The two detectives moved toward the door. As they hit the hallway, they motioned for the blues and the hotel security detail to follow them. A moment later, Teachout poked her head back inside the gold-trimmed door.

  “Agents?”

  “What is it?” asked Manny.

  “What if we find another body?”

  Manny shook his head. “You won’t. At least not yet. He’s not ready for another one.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because we don’t know what kind of message this scene was intended to show. He’ll want to give us time to figure this one out. And laugh if we don’t.”

  “So?”

  “That makes the joke on us, Detective.”

  CHAPTER-32

  Looking at his hands, he realized just how well he knew himself. His mind worked with his feet, his voice, his walk, his very biological infrastructure. Yet, it always boiled down to his hands. They were truly the extension of his mind’s eye. Perhaps even the essence of his existence. He turned them over, smiled, and then laughed.

  “Idle hands are the devil’s playground, they say,” he whispered. “So we shall stay busy.”

  Exiting the stall of the restroom, he browsed his image in passing, smiling again. He looked like he should, and wouldn’t that be unnerving to all, especially Agent Williams.

  Williams.

  He felt the hate rise just at the concept of what that man had cost him dearly. Mostly, he was able to keep his emotions under wraps. Losing control gave little impudence toward the end game, but over the last three years, it was impossible for his hatred for Agent Williams not to expand.

  And why shouldn’t it? Hadn’t he preached his whole life that getting in touch with one’s true self was the key to finding who and what one was destined to be? By taking down those impossible expectations, one could begin to carve out that destiny, as the first prized pupil, Eli Jenkins, had so eloquently espoused. And make no mistake, he’d gotten in touch with his emotion regarding the Guardian of the Universe.

  Walking through the door and entering the casino near the blackjack tables, he reeled in his loathing. The time was coming when he could release it all. And he would. But this wasn’t the time, and he had much to do. He needed to savor the process and then move on when it was over. He would do that as well.

  He moved to the back side of the gaming area, the smell of cigarettes and the boisterous banter of happy vacationers running interference for his next move. Next he sat at the high-stakes table, threw a thousand dollars in hundreds on the green velvet, and then sat where he could see directly to the main elevators’ expansive foyer. The elevators were guarded by twin images of Anubis, who had the body of a man crowned with the head of a jackal. He wondered if the designer knew that Anubis was the god and guardian of the underworld who appeared on behalf of the deceased after their embalming was complete. He doubted it. To attribute so many gods to so many functions in any culture seemed asinine, but the irony here was hard to ignore. He played a large chip and immediately hit a blackjack. The other two men at the table congratulated him, and he nodded to them, but his eyes virtually never left the elevators.

  He had no interest in the gods of some ancient civilization, but perhaps they were men like himself that the commoners, maybe even royalty, had perceived as something special. They wouldn’t have been wrong in his case. His interest, however, was in the ones who carried badges and would be emerging from the elevator doors. He’d watched Williams and his idiots go up the elevator as the bitch of a detective intercepted them just when they began to move his way. Disappointing.

  It would have been delicious to have them walk so close, mere feet, and never see him. No matter. That time was coming. He won a few more hands, lost a couple, and then played two large chips, beating the dealer on a hit that gave him a twenty-one. Before the dealer could pull another hand from the automatic shuffler, her replacement appeared from nowhere, and the pit boss, just for good measure, decided to replace all six decks at the same time.

  Some things never change. He presumed the new dealer was the house “cooler.” She was a pretty Asian woman probably in her forties with a quick, bright grin. Disarming and lethal.

  Smiling to himself, he glanced at the elevators again. Seeing what he had been waiting for, he pushed his chips toward the dealer.

  “Color me up, please.”

  “Are you leaving so soon?” the dealer asked, showing that smile.

  “I am. But I may be back.”

  She nodded, called out her payout to the pit boss, then slid him his winnings—eight hundred more in chips than he started with. He flipped a twenty-five-dollar chip her way and left the table, just as the LVPD group reached the middle of the huge, colorful lobby.

  “Thank you, sir. I hope to see you soon,” said the dealer.

  “One never knows,” he said softly.

  Then he rose and sauntered toward the group of cops who were heading for the golden front doors.

  He felt so alive.

  CHAPTER-33

  “What kind of help can we give you, Dean?” asked Manny.

  The room had been emptied and just he, Sophie, and Dean remained. There were two officers outside the room, but the door was closed and locked. The seclusion was something he
thought the three of them needed. At least he did. The nuances of this horrific scene were going to be cryptic and, unless he missed his guess, more important than any of the murders to date. The killer had made a point to detail this scene. They had to determine why.

  Dean placed his black crime-scene kit on the floor to the right of the victim and sighed. “You could get me a one-way ticket to some private Caribbean island and a year’s salary in the bank for starters. But since that’s not going to happen, you can start by moving away from this poor woman.”

  “I like the first idea way better,” said Sophie, “But hey, we can move as far away as you want. We’re not just pretty faces here. We can take a hint.”

  Dean offered a crooked, almost shy smile that transferred into a quiet confidence.

  He was in total charge of gathering evidence in this room; he was probably a little uncomfortable with that prospect. Even though Dean and Alex had worked well together, and Dean was good at what he did, flying solo was different. Manny guessed Dean knew that.

  “You don’t have to tell me that, about the pretty faces, and no offense intended, but this room has already been invaded by way too many cops and hotel personnel. Even with gloves and the cute little booties everyone is wearing, this scene is probably tainted.”

  Manny nodded. “I think you’re right on that. The good thing is that no one touched the body or the jars, and I believe that’s where the rubber will hit the road on this one.”

  “Good point,” said Dean, pulling at his beard.

  The CSI reached into his case and pulled out a bundle of evidence bags, then separated five larger bags from the stack, arranging them across his case in a neat row.

  “This is for the jars. I’m pretty sure when we check them out, you’ll want to get these to the lab to verify their contents. Then I can process the rest of the room.”

  “Shit. You mean there are human parts or something in those?” asked Sophie.

  Manny ran his hand through his hair. “These containers are called Canopic jars. They were used to hold human organs during the embalming process of Egyptian royalty,” said Manny, moving closer to the body.

  “Oh hell. Embalming? Organs? This just keeps getting better,” said Sophie, shifting her weight.

  “See the lids on the four jars around the torso? Each one is supposed to represent the keeper of a certain organ. I can’t remember which is which—wait. Sophie, do a search on your phone for Canopic jars and what each one symbolizes.”

  Pulling her I-phone out of her jeans, Sophie slid her finger over the screen, and then looked up at Manny and Dean. “Why am I doing this? I mean, we’re going to find out what’s inside anyway—ohhh. The way the jars are laid out and the contents are going to tell us something important, right?”

  “That’s possible. Not to mention the names of each god represented on the jars could be crucial to what’s next. If this is Argyle’s work, and it could be, nothing is done without a purpose,” said Manny.

  “Yeah, what the hell else is new? Why can’t we just get some pissed off woman who kills her husband because he was ‘ho’ hunting? It was simpler when we were Lansing cops.”

  “It was. But we’re now the BAU and the FBI. We don’t do ‘ho’ murders,” he answered. Then he smiled.

  Sophie’s word sounded odd coming from his mouth. It must have sounded different to Sophie and Dean as well because she looked up from her phone, grinning, and Dean turned away from his case, snorting a quick chuckle.

  “We’ll get you into the twenty-first century yet, straight-laced boy,” said Sophie.

  “You can hope,” said Manny.

  Her phone played a short ditty Manny didn’t recognize as she began scrolling and swiping with amazing speed. He still had a difficult time texting more than one line a minute.

  “Okay. You’re right. The four jars have names and protect different organs and are some mythical god’s kids. His name is Horus or something. The human head jar, Imesty, protects the liver. The falcon head, some weird name—Qebekh-seenuef, I think that’s how you say it—protects the guts. The monkey, or baboon, I guess—Hapy—takes care of the lungs. And last, but not least, this dog or jackal head, some dude named Duamutef.”

  She turned to Manny, shaking her head. “Man, these kids grew up with these names? They’re hell to pronounce let alone live with. I bet they got their asses kicked at recess. Anyway, this one watches over the stomach.”

  She looked at Dean than back to Manny, shifting to a more serious look. “Good God. This sick bastard has all of those body parts in the jars?”

  “I think so. The CSI reports of the first three killings have shown those organs missing from the victims.”

  The elephant in the room grew larger as Manny stared at the fifth jar sitting on the woman’s chest. It was larger than the others by half. The top of the jar was a detailed carving of a lion/human hybrid. Its golden mane was full, framing a face with the piercing blue eyes of a man, which then morphed into the nose and maw of a lion, changing back to the strong, square jaw of a human. The ears were lower on the side of the head—one human, the other, lion-like. The carving then tapered down to the neck of the jar, which was approximately two inches wide, then the base of the jar ballooned out in a typical urn shape. He could see something silhouetted against the thick glass, but it was unrecognizable because of the dark amber color of the jar. He wasn’t sure that he really wanted to know, yet his mind raced at the possibilities. But he had to be sure before he let the forensic crew get involved.

  “What are we looking at?” asked Sophie quietly.

  “If you mean what’s in the jar, I don’t know for sure, but I have an idea. I think the top is the key to the content,” answered Manny.

  “Why?” asked Dean, more evidence bags in his hand.

  “The lion is a symbol for a ton of things, but mostly it’s known for its fearlessness, its swagger. Its heart.”

  “You mean like the heart of a lion: bold and brave,” said Sophie.

  “Right.”

  “For crying out loud. There’s a heart in that jar?” she said, her tone rising.

  “I don’t think so. For two reasons. If I remember right, the Egyptians believed the soul and a certain amount of intellect was seated in the heart. To remove it from the body would be akin to damning the person to the underworld, so they left it in the body. The cover combines the lion with a man so that reduces the significance of the courage factor, but increases the intellect, the cunning, the craftiness, even the arrogance.”

  “So?” asked Sophie.

  Manny didn’t answer. Instead he tilted his head toward the top on the jar, staring at the design closer. The workmanship was past flawless. It was difficult to get that kind of handiwork done in these days of automation and presses that stamped out and mass produced synthetic images. The person who did this was an artist, and an accomplished one at that.

  He was suddenly compelled to touch the carving. The brilliance of the work called to him. Even through the gloves, he could tell the wood was real and dense, maybe Brazilian teak. Smooth, almost sensual to the touch, it even maintained a bit of its original scent.

  Squinting, he moved as close as he dared. The carving was perfect in every way. It had also been well thought out by someone who believed themselves superior. Right down to the Argyle-like chin.

  Manny reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm. “Dean. I need you to remove the part of the wrap over her heart.”

  “I’m not at that−”

  “Now.”

  Dean started to speak, shrugged, grabbed his scissors, and began at the left side of her chest. He made four passes, started the fifth and stopped, looking over to Manny, then Sophie. He carefully removed another carving with a large set of tweezers. It was a small, bluish-green scarab; and the material and workmanship seemed to be the same as the Canopic top.

  “What the hell?” asked Sophie.

  “According to the Egyptian myth, the scarab guarded the heart from tellin
g all of its owner’s past sins to the god of the west, ensuring a great afterlife. I wanted to see how far this game had gone.”

  “And?” said Dean, putting the scarab in a clear bag.

  “Too far.” At that second, he knew his first inclination was right and he felt his stomach churn. “Dean. The head. I’d like you to unwrap the top of her head.”

  Grabbing the scissors from the bed, Mikus did as he was told without a second look.

  After the third cut, Dean stopped and stepped away. “Shit.”

  “It’s gone, isn’t it?” asked Manny.

  Dean nodded. “It looks like he used a drill.”

  “Drill for what?” asked Sophie, not smiling.

  “To remove her brain,” said Manny.

  CHAPTER-34

  Life is, and will always be, about choices. Josh Corner knew that. He more than knew it; he lived it each day. He supposed everyone did to some extent, but his choices seemed to hold so much more weight than those of the average person—his choices affected so many lives. Leaning back in his blue leather chair, he snorted softly.

  “It’s always about you, isn’t it, Corner?” he said under his breath.

  Manny would probably remind him of the good things this life had dealt him. He’d even call him blessed. He’d remind Josh of the great salary he pulled down and the health benefits afforded a ranking FBI supervisor. He’d tell him to pull out the family photo of his two sons and beautiful wife and never underestimate the blessings of a healthy, strong family. Not to mention that Josh Corner was loved. That his boys worshipped the ground he walked on and even though his wife and he had gone through a few rough patches, they were the lovers that destiny had intended for each other. And better yet, they each knew it.

  On cue, he reached into his suit-coat pocket and pulled out the picture of his family. The soft glow of his work computer’s monitor shed light on the familiar image in his hand. The worn photo verified what he had just run over in his mind.

  Manny would be right.