Brides Of The Impaler

by Edward Lee

  Dr. Burg looked up. “That’s what the lab said had been used to make the lines up and down her body.”

  “Right. And there were some prints on it but Latent Section said they were too smeared to run. Then the O.A. lab said there was evidence of”—Vernon donned his glasses to read the sheet—“‘undue accretion of sebaceous eccrine lipids via the dactyl dermal papillae.’ What’s that mean?”

  “It means the perpetrator was dirty.”

  Vernon stared. “Dirty as in unwashed? Like, say, a street person?”

  “Precisely. Dirty hands, in other words. That lab summation means that the print smeared due to an excess of body oils and amino residuum that passed through the fingerprint ridges with sebaceous perspiration. Had the hands been washed more recently, the print probably wouldn’t have smeared.”

  “Crime doesn’t pay,” Slouch said, “unless you don’t wash.”

  “That seems to be a common denominator lately,” Vernon said. “Street people. Homeless addicts.”

  “What’s that, Inspector?” Dr. Burg questioned.

  Vernon shrugged but said nothing. Slouch gave him the eye.

  Next, Dr. Burg uncovered the corpus like someone yanking a sheet off a piece of furniture.

  “Yeah,” Slouch said. “That’s the bottom of the barrel. No wonder her solicitation busts stopped several years ago.”

  Vernon grit his teeth when he saw that one of the woman’s ears was gone. “I didn’t notice the missing ear earlier.”

  “Missing auricula, with keloid formation. It’s several years old,” Burg noted.

  The thin corpse shined pallidly beneath the harsh overhead fluorescents. Webworks of blue veins could be seen beneath parchmentlike skin but over that remained the ghosts of the weavy lines of black, green, and red magic marker.

  Burg studied the image. “My techs put her in the Kwell station for cleaning and delousing—she had a lot of lice—but the magic marker didn’t come off all the way.”

  “When they say permanent marker, they mean business,” Slouch remarked.

  “Some kind of drug-turf thing?” Burg asked Vernon.

  “I guess,” he said. “We’re not sure.”

  “Never seen anything like it before,” Slouch added. “But then…we’ve never seen an impaled homicide victim before, either.”

  Pelvic bones jutted, the belly stretched tight. Vernon detected a rash of small scabs in various areas, common among long-time addicts, not to mention needle marks at the elbows and insides of the thighs. The marks looked like lines of fresh-cracked pepper. Several more track marks traced along the veins around the nipples. Vernon entertained the morbid query: I wonder what they…did with the…pole …

  “This one’s off to autopsy now, gentlemen,” the attractive pathologist announced. “You’re more than welcome to attend.”

  Slouch laughed. “Thanks for the invite, Doc, but we’ll have to take a rain check. I was planning on a corn dog for lunch. You know, with that stick going down the middle?”

  “Shut up, Slouch,” Vernon griped. “Thanks for your time, Doctor.”

  Burg began to push the gurney away. “I’ll let you know if I find anything more.”

  Slouch couldn’t keep quiet. “You mean anything more than ‘Death by big motherfuckin’ pole sharpened at one end and rammed from snatch to mouth?’”

  Dr. Burg made a tolerant smile. “Yes. Have a nice day, gentlemen.” And then she and her dead charge disappeared through two swinging doors.

  Vernon and Slouch traded cryptic glances.

  “All right, How,” Slouch began. “You and me? We’ve been giving each other that funky-look thing since five this morning, haven’t we?”

  Vernon nodded.

  “But so far neither of us has said what’s on our mind.”

  “No, we haven’t.” Vernon anxiously fingered an unlit cigarette. “So let ’er rip.”

  “We’re both thinking the same thing, aren’t we? Last winter a bunch of whacked-out homeless chicks rip off Christmas tree stands from a fuckin’ hardware store and today we find a whacked-out homeless chick impaled on a pole mounted in a fuckin’ Christmas tree stand—”

  “Less than twenty-four hours after a bunch of whacked-out homeless chicks rip off whittling knives from the same hardware store,” Vernon tacked on.

  Slouch finished, “And the end of the pole looked whittled to a point. Recently. We on the same page?”

  “Yeah, but I’m glad you said it first so I don’t feel like the idiot.”

  Slouch laughed. “Thanks, boss!”

  “It’s got to all be connected, no matter how far-fetched it sounds.”

  “Um-hmm. No other angles to go on, so we might as well go on that one.”

  Vernon nodded. He rubbed his face, suddenly uneasy beneath the chilly morgue lights. “Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the willies. It reminds me that one day I might be the one on the gurney going through those doors.”

  Slouch straggled up, jesting. “And can you believe that brick shit-house M.E.? I could look at her legs all day but…can you imagine being married to her?”

  “I’m not following you, Slouch, but that’s pretty much par for the course.”

  “No, serious, man. Just try to imagine being the guy who’s getting it on with her and you know that those same hands were pulling livers out of corpses all day long.”

  Vernon stared. “Shut up, Slouch.”

  “Sure thing.”

  They waited for the elevator at the end of the restricted hall, but when it opened a uniformed cop walked out. “You the guys with the impalement 64?”

  Vernon showed his badge and ID. “Yeah. Vernon. Twentieth Precinct.”

  The cop gave Vernon a manila envelope marked EVIDENCE - CLEARED BY TSD. “The lab wanted me to give this to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t know, sir. Something from the crime scene, said they found it inside the victim’s clothes.”

  Vernon’s eyes widened. “Were there any—”

  “No usable latents. Sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Vernon opened the envelope as the cop walked away.

  Slouch hovered. “The mystery continues?”

  From the envelope Vernon withdrew a plastic bag. Inside the bag was—

  Slouch squinted. “The hell’s that? A doll?”

  Vernon squinted as well. It was a bizarre figurine of some kind, painted to great detail. About four inches high, plastic: a grinning cherubic little man, naked with blue-white skin and a belly that looked exploded. “Yeah, some kind of novelty doll.”

  “Looks pretty oddball to me,” Slouch offered. “Sort of like one of those old Kewpie dolls when we were kids but with…”

  “A shotgunned belly, I guess…” Vernon turned the figure over, read the tiny lettering beneath the base. CADAVERETTES #7 - GUTSHOT GLEN.

  (II)

  “Yes, it was right after Britt left,” Cristina was saying as they sat down at a plush corner booth of Café D’Amato. A card on the table read RESERVED. Paul seated himself after Cristina did. “I was going to mail those letters.”

  “The damn AmEx bill. Can’t believe I forgot about it. Lately I’m so busy at the office with Jess, I forget the simple stuff. So, anyway, this priest was doing what?”

  “His name’s Father Rollin, and he was looking at those security bars over the basement windows behind the house, in the alley. Said it slipped his mind, since he did it every day when he was the custodian. He’s kind of old.”

  “Those window treatments are brand-new and cost a fortune,” Paul pointed out. “There wasn’t anything wrong with them, was there?”

  “No, no, but that’s just how I met him. It was kind of strange. He said that when he used to look after the place, sometimes squatters would break in through those windows, and come to think of it, lately I’ve been seeing this group of homeless girls in the area.”

  “Welcome to New York,” Paul said. “No way around that. Just be careful walking arou
nd. Even in broad daylight. I don’t care if this is the Upper West Side. There’s screwed-up people everywhere.”

  A sad refrain but Cristina knew it was true. “Anyway, Father Rollin said he’d come by for coffee sometime. He’d like to meet you. He even knew your name.”

  Paul scanned the upscale dining room, nodding to a few people he knew. “I’ll bet he does. Probably shit a brick when they told him I’m the guy who bought the house for a million bucks.” Something about the topic seemed to bother him. He looked at his watch, distracted. “So where is this Bruno fellow?”

  “Oh, he’ll be here,” Cristina assured. “He’s a little off-the-wall but you’ll like him. Oh, and thanks for getting the reservation.”

  “It pays to know big wheels.” Paul smiled. “You look great, by the way.”

  Cristina almost blushed. She’d vowed to take Britt’s advice and start dressing like New York but if anything she felt awkward in the veily black wrap dress and Pierre Hardy sandals. She asked for a soda water when the waitress skimmed by for their drink order.

  “And you, sir?”

  Paul hesitated. “Uh, just a Sprite.”

  He’s trying, Cristina thought. He wasn’t an alcoholic but sometimes he did overimbibe, which often jaded his demeanor. Cristina rarely said anything but she could tell that he knew. She appreciated his effort to cut down.

  “Ah, there she is,” a loudish voice boomed as a wide shadow crossed the table. Cristina rose to greet Bruno von Blanc, her toy contractor. He stood large, round, and gregarious, and had a large Burl Ives face. The deep-rust, shawl-collared jacket and yellow Ralph Lauren dress shirt was louder than his voice. “The market’s top secret weapon.”

  “Hi, Bruno,” she said after a gushing kiss on the cheek. “This is my fiancé, Paul Nasher.”

  The ebullient face turned as the man pumped Paul’s hand. “Great to finally meet you, Paul. I hope you realize that your wife-to-be is a macabre genius.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Paul said, trying not to raise a brow at Bruno’s bad hair dye, which did nothing to disguise the fact that he was pushing sixty. The handlebar mustache and Vandyke didn’t help. “I don’t really know much about this novelty figurine business but after seeing Cristina’s royalty statement last quarter I’d say that you guys have really got it going on.”

  “It’s all her, Paul, all her.” Bruno slid cumbersomely in next to Cristina. “Miss?” He flagged the waitress. “Grey Goose martini, please.” Then he turned back to Paul. “Honestly, the diversity of Cristina’s Cadaverette line turned the entire market on its ear.”

  “He always exaggerates,” Cristina said, antsy by the compliments. But I wonder if that’s really true …

  “Nonsense—” Bruno paused, looking around the crowded restaurant in awe. “And how did you ever get a reservation on such short notice?”

  “Paul has some influence here,” Cristina giggled.

  Paul shrugged. “My firm bailed the restaurant out of a huge sexual harassment claim. Bunch of waitresses made up a pile of BS. You’ve heard the story.”

  “Gracious. What’s this world coming to?” Next, Bruno opened a small briefcase right on the linen-covered table. “And now here’s what I want you both to see: the first promo fliers for Evil Church Creepies …” Bruno’s hooded eyes glittered in excitement as he withdrew a stack of glossy fliers and passed one to Cristina and Paul.

  “Wow,” Paul said.

  Cristina’s voice lowered to a hush. “Bruno, it’s beautiful…”

  The flier showed half-sized color photos of the first four figurines above stylized promotional text. A small picture and bio of Cristina occupied the lower corner. The most stunning accommodation of the figures themselves were the weaving black, green, and red lines that composed the background.

  “The ad department used your idea about the background,” Bruno went on, “and I think it turned out great.”

  “The colors really make everything jump off the page,” Paul said.

  “Um-hmm, and that’s exactly what we want.” Bruno appraised the flier with an obvious pride. “Yes, those lines really add dimension.” He looked to Cristina. “Didn’t you say you got the idea from a dream?”

  For a split second, the dream flashed across the scape of her mind: the furious, waving lines behind the nude nun showing the fanged grin. Cristina took a breath. “That’s right. And the Noxious Nun herself. It all came to me several months ago when I saw our house.”

  “Really?” Paul seemed surprised. “You never told me that.”

  “Got the entire idea in one day.”

  “The lightning bolt strikes!” Bruno exclaimed. He turned to flag the waitress again. “Miss? This is a special occasion. How about a bottle of Krug, Clos du Mesnil—the 1990 if you have it.”

  Paul’s brow rose along with the waitress’s. “Certainly, sir.”

  Cristina didn’t quite know how to phrase it. “Paul and I weren’t really planning to drink tonight, Bruno.”

  “Nonsense,” the rotund man replied. “This is a celebration, my dear. You see, it’s not just the fliers I’ve brought…”

  “Huh?”

  Bruno, if a bit too dramatically, reached back into the briefcase and slowly extracted a black, shiny cardboard box, five or six inches high with a cellophane window in front. “Hot off the molds, my dear.”

  Cristina’s hand came to her chest. I don’t believe it …

  The decorative box contained the Noxious Nun.

  She held it in her hand as though it were fragile as eggshells. The clarity of detail was greater than she could’ve ever expected: the delineated white fangs over the grin, the genuine black fabric that comprised the nun’s habit and wimple, the tiny three-gemmed bowl and the way a clear scarlet resin sufficed for blood. Cristina gingerly took the figure out of the box and set it on the table.

  “That is one creepy doll,” Paul acknowledged.

  Bruno held up a finger. “Creepy and cute—it’s that juxtaposition that makes them so attractive…and marketable.”

  Cristina wiped a delighted tear. “I don’t know what to say, Bruno. I would never have thought it could look this good.”

  “Don’t thank me. The molds were made to your specifications. And I’m glad we didn’t outsource this one to the Chinese. Our new manufacturer costs a bit more but the added detail makes it worth it. The first run was delivered to the ware house this morning, ahead of schedule.”

  Some of the diners at surrounding tables kept eyeing the vivid curio, and when the waitress brought the champagne and ice stand, she said, “Oh, how cute! My daughter collects dolls like that.”

  “In that case, miss, have a flier,” Bruno said and handed her one. “This one will be in the store on Friday.”

  “How cool! Thank you.”

  Bruno poured the champagne into three crystal flutes, then dispensed them. He raised his glass.

  “A toast. To Cristina Nichols, and the Noxious Nun!”

  “Cheers,” Paul and Cristina said in unison.

  Their glasses clinked.

  What a wonderful night …

  Cristina smiled in the darkness as the foyer clock struck one A.M. She sat up in bed, gazing out the window. Just a rim of moon could be seen edging over the next building. My celebration, she thought. The Noxious Nun sat like a goofy chess piece on the dresser.

  At the restaurant they’d all gotten fairly drunk—something Cristina never did—but it was the occasion, not the champagne buzz, that left her elated and scintillant. By the time the cab had dropped her and Paul off, Cristina’s newfound arousal had her in a dither; all she could think about was getting inside and making love to Paul. Paul tended to get cynical when he was drunk but there was none of that to night, and this only made him even more attractive to her. The eve ning’s only regrettable defect was the misfire on Paul’s part; the alcohol had thwarted his ability to perform.

  Oh, well, Cristina thought. She looked at him asleep beside her. It was STILL a great night …

>   She got up, still woozy. If anything the champagne seemed to possess a delayed effect; she felt even drunker now. She giggled as she stumbled once in the dark, then slipped naked out of the room.

  Ultimately, her happiness over the fliers and the first figure overrode the aggravation over their failed lovemaking attempt. So what? She’d masturbated after Paul had dozed off, and that seemed to take the edge off.

  She padded to the kitchen where only the light over the stove remained on. More light fell into the room when she opened the refrigerator and found herself drinking orange juice right from the bottle. Again, she almost stumbled, nearly dropping the bottle. God! I really AM drunk! She had to concentrate on putting the bottle back inside.

  She caught herself next peeking out the wooden blinds of the front window. The church across the street stood like a silent hulk. She wasn’t certain but she thought she saw a light on in an upper window but when she yawned it snapped out. Perhaps it had never been on in the first place.

  Drunk as she was, she felt too keyed up to sleep. She wandered the first floor, musing over the soon-to-bereleased line. I can’t wait. The Noxious Nun looks super. The influence of its creation—the inexplicable dream—had now lost all its negative power. Now it was just a novelty toy that would be purchased mostly by goth kids and collectors. She felt tempted to go back in the bedroom to look at it again but didn’t want to risk stumbling and waking Paul.

  She walked down the back hall, actually sliding against the wall to brace herself. A side door stood closed, and it occurred to her that she’d never opened that one.

  The basement door …

  She pushed it open, steadying herself. The basement, she knew, had only been structurally bolstered, not refinished. But I’ve never seen it, she realized. But why now, of all times, would she want to go down?

  Pretty stupid, she told herself. You’re drunk, you could fall, but her better judgment sidled away. When she hit the wall switch at the top of the stairs, only a single, unshaded bulb came on, and it didn’t look to be more than forty watts. Yeah, REALLY stupid …