Pure Instinct (Instinct thriller series)
Page 3
Paul Zanek had lost all the allure and mystery and luster, all the romantic overtones she'd once ascribed to him. Every woman had a right to be wrong about a man, even a psychic detective on the U.S. payroll. Still, she wondered how she could've been so entirely wrong about Paul. She'd been blind, foolish, childish even. Maybe it had all been because of the death of her Aunt Aileen, the last vestige of her immediate family. Her aunt, only a few years older than she, had grown up in the care of the nuns too, and had taken punishments for Kim. Aileen had always faithfully held to the belief that one day her little niece would become an important person, and she'd encouraged Kim to strike out for her goals. She'd died of a rare, debilitating disease, and she'd died bravely, proud to the end that Kim had become an “important” person.
Kim's loss had sent her into a tailspin of grief, spiraling regrets, depression and self-pity, and Paul had played skillfully on those unhappy feelings. He'd been an easy man to turn to, to seek comfort from.
He had recently separated from his wife of eleven years, and Kim had found herself working late over cases with him one night, and in the solitary hours past 2 A.M. everyone needed someone to hold, she told herself now. Their love-making had not been so therapeutic as it had been insanely boundless, reckless beyond anything she might've envisioned. Still, his presence had for a time dissipated the darkness that she'd feared coming in on all sides.
She had a right, she'd told herself, to find some comfort, some security and warmth. And hadn't she taken from him as much as he had taken from her?
But that was then...and this is now, she reminded herself. “Now I'm an embarrassment to the bastard.” She had expected better from him.
She feared most for the foothold she'd gotten for psi studies and psychic investigation within the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI. Paul was in a position to either rubber-stamp it or deep-six it.
Benton was now showing Parlen the door. Thomas Benton was one of a handful of select young psychics recruited to round out the program. He had hardly begun the usual rigorous duties of a cadet in training when Kim had lifted him for duties in her department. According to his file, he was an unusually gifted sensitive.
Now Benton and the others in her department were all threatened, and all because of her. She'd thought Paul above the usual male traits that so often turned a beautiful affair into an ugly nightmare. But now he was doing that bitter danse macabre over the grave of the affair so typical of the male ego—stomping down the dirt. Lovemaking had ricocheted, taking out the innocent with the guilty. Lovemaking had transformed in reverse from butterfly to worm, changing into a guilt-ridden, twisting thing called remorse, poisoning Paul's memory of the incident into something to be ashamed of or hidden from. It became his fall from grace. It was as if she had had nothing to do with it, and yet, she was to blame. He set out trying to fix blame in that arrogant fashion reserved for top-level executives.
Did he fear for his position here or at home? Was he still twisting on the lance, heartbroken like she was, or was he just trying to cover his ass, wondering how much Kim had done to harm his career and his family?
The questions crested, rose and crested again like an unrelenting ocean inside her brain. What did Paul Zanek want now of her? What had he convinced himself of during his isolation from her? Why wouldn't he talk to her? Had he concluded that she had seduced him? That she had manipulated him? That perhaps she had used some psychic's spell on him for Chrissake? Sure, his attraction for her had somehow been used against him to lure him into bed, and she was some black widow spider capable of tying him in an invisible but powerful cocoon to become her helpless morsel. Yeah, right... Bastard, she now thought. How will he do it? How will he rid himself of me? Is this it, she wondered, will this call on the carpet put an end to all that I've built here?
Her fear drove her to the elevator and his office even as it wanted to find an excuse to dodge the SOB. All this while young Tom Benton looked after her with growing concern, sensing that all was not right in her world.
3
A heart is like a fan, and why?—
Twill flutter when a beau is nigh;
Oft times with gentle words he'll take it;
Play with it for a while, then break it.
—Anonymous
New Orleans, Louisiana
Some goddamned vacation, Alex Sincebaugh thought as he finished roll one, exposure eight, calmly noting this in his notepad alongside the crude but detailed sketch he'd made of the body, its position both in relation to fixed objects at the crime scene and anatomically. His partner, Ben, always kidded him about the amount of detail he put into his thumbnail crime-scene sketches, saying, “You don't gotta do Gray's friggin' Anatomy here, Alex.”
“Hey, a d'tail is a d'tail,” he'd respond, thinking he ought to have left town, maybe gone to the Bahamas or the Cayman Islands, someplace where headquarters couldn't have so easily located him. What good was he doing anyway? There were better men in the department who ought to have control of the case, but in the NOPD things didn't work that way. You take a call here and you're the detective of record and it stays that way unless the brass steps in and pulls you off.
Ben continued the good-natured ribbing. “Only d'tail I'd like to see is my Fiona's—and mine right beside her... in bed... at home!”
Alex held a year-round pass to the University of New Orleans's sporting events, for all the good it would do, trying to match his schedule with the UNO's. Lately, it had become an impossibility. He'd also scrounged tickets to the pre-season Saints game for Saturday night, had managed to find a date, and had had to back out at the last minute due to the pressing caseload, thanks to a faceless, conscienceless creature stalking the New Orleans area like some cave-dwelling cannibal with an appetite for human hearts.
Alex's days in pre-med at Trinity at long last were being put to the test now as a detective with the New Orleans Police Department. What he didn't know about the human heart, he was quickly finding out from the library of medical books he kept in his apartment. And the skill required to sketch human organs and bodies in various stages of death had come in handy as well. All this only dismayed his father, who believed that he'd simply thrown his life down the toilet pipes by going to work for the NOPD. His father seemed incapable of understanding how much being a detective on the force meant to Alex. He knew the terrain in and around New Orleans like the rooms of the house he grew up in; he was equally comfortable on the West Bank with its elevated West Bank Expressway, General de Gaulle Drive, Terry Parkway and the old span of the Crescent City Connection to which all arteries eventually led. He knew the outlying counties like Beau Chene, each called parishes, and he had once maintained an apartment in Kenner in the East Jefferson Parish. He had family in St. Charles Parish, where the school system had been crippled by mismanagement when its surplus of $9.3 million mysteriously dwindled to a mere $150,000 two years before. Thanks to the new “Shareware” policy and computers, Alex was no stranger to St. John the Baptist Parish, where right-to-lifers, wanting someone's head on a plate, picketed daily outside the hospital named for the county and the saint. In St. Bernard Parish there appeared to be an overachieving arsonist on the loose. Closer to home, in St. Tammany Parish the enor-mous, three-hundred-foot gambling boat, Jewel of the Pon-chartrain, on beautiful Lake Ponchartrain near Interstate 10, had suspiciously slipped its moorings, disturbing all at the gaming tables but the true diehards, who'd played on oblivious of the “titanic” nature of their drift, which had very nearly led them into the bridge pylons before some capable someone fired her engines and moved her back to the safety of the pier.
Not surprisingly, the new approach—spending money— meant for die first time ever, cops could get information before CNN and the Enquirer. Thank God for technology, he now thought.
Alex had investigated homicides, suicides, accidental deaths and deaths by natural causes in every part of the city. Precinct lines in the Crescent City were seldom a deterrent for a cop, and frequently,
what with the Mardi Gras mentality of the population—a parade at the drop of a hat and some sixteen officially slated affairs for the spring and summer months alone—one precinct helped out another when there was a need, and no one was complaining.
Alex knew that in such cities as Chicago, L.A. and New York precinct lines were never crossed. To Alex's way of thinking, the laid-back manner in which the NOPD encouraged precincts to support one another foretold a day when more would be accomplished all across the country with such artificial barriers erased.
Here in the Big Easy, the homicide detective who arrived on scene first, no matter what the precinct, was immediately in charge of the body and the case. It was a system that had its good points and its bad, but cooperation among precincts was never a problem, despite the petty squabbles and bets placed on who was going to catch this Queen of Hearts “asshole” first. A little friendly competitiveness was the lifeblood of the NOPD, but cooperation and collaboration kept that life-blood primed and pumped.
Alex was forty-seven years old and had made lieutenant sergeant in Vice, doing gainful decoy and undercover work, before transferring to Homicide the year before. Vice operatives got around to all parts of the city, and so he had gotten to know men in the other precincts quite well. Now he was up for a clean lieutenant's rank, and his rise through the departmental hoops and ladders had been steady and appreciated by everyone but his father, the career beat cop.
It was the last thing in the world his father had wanted for him. The disappointment was like a huge bell that tolled in their ears and hearts, standing between them, ringing out its dull anthem each time they shared space. The ringing of the bell had just increased in density as Alex moved up in rank, and it became solid granite after his mother's death two years before.
Sincebaugh now labeled the exposed film, put it away and began another roll. While he photographed the corpse from every conceivable angle and then some, and while he dusted for prints, his partner, Ben deYampert, with the help of a uniformed officer, was pacing off the tape measure to triangulate the exact position of the body, so that Alex could insert more numbers onto his sketch the moment this was determined.
Ben had already measured from the edge of a shoal marker on huge Lake Ponchartrain to the big toe pointing due south, and was now pacing off the distance from the left foot to a nearby road sign that warned of a $500 fine for littering. Tri-angulation in the woods was a difficult proposition: You couldn't use a tree or a boulder or a road sign; you'd be nailed in a court of law. Even the damned lake might be called into question by a legal-beagle who wanted to talk tides just to play havoc with the prosecution.
“Got to get a more fixed point of reference, Ben!” he yelled out.
“Like what? The fuckin' ruts in the mud?”
“Do the best you can, but vandals or a roadwork crew comes along and we got no sign, and you know what that means.”
DeYampert muttered something unintelligible behind his massive form. “You got a rule book up your ass, Alex. Don't that ever pain you, son?”
“Everything strictly by the book, Big.”
“Yeah, sure... follow rule number one: don't touch a goddamned thing, and then proceed to rule number two—”
“Don't touch a goddamned thing,” Alex said, finishing the old cop wisdom for him, quietly laughing at the line, realizing just how unworkable it was.
Alex knew it was impossible to follow the rules here, especially since it was his job to search for any conceivable sign of evidence as well as identification of the victim. They'd found signs of someone's having dragged the body to this isolated, dark and remote location. Someone had less than tenderly covered the body with shrubbery cut from nearby, possibly using the same blade that had felled the victim, since bloodstains had been found on the palmetto stems.
The victim was yet another young, well-tanned, soft-featured male, hardly more than a boy in age, nineteen at the most, more likely seventeen.
They'd found scattered bits of clothing and footprints belonging to a heavyset killer who wore flat, wide sneakers that had made an interesting pattern in the mud, something for the forensics guys to make a cast of along with some fresh tire marks. But neither Alex nor Ben held out much hope of either cast ever being of any particular use. They'd found signs of animal leavings about the body, defecation to mark the kill in the wild. There was some evidence the corpse had been ripped apart a bit further by animals, but since the insect activity was not too terribly far along yet, the corpse was marked as having come to rest here some twelve to twenty-four hours before a group of blue-haired, retired ladies and gents on a bird watchers' safari had ingloriously discovered the body, reporting it to the local precinct Crimes Against Persons office. The precinct police had put it on the wire, and since it smelled like another Queen of Hearts murder, Sincebaugh had been given a wake-up call and pulled from his vacation.
When Alex responded to the call, he drove a few miles north of downtown New Orleans and just north of Lakefront Airport, along an unnamed artery off Hayne Boulevard, almost at its terminus, where Hayne became Paris Road. It had already been decided for him that he would take charge of the body and the subsequent investigation and paperwork. It certainly looked related to Sincebaugh's ongoing investigation.
Everything at the scene had been happily turned over to him by a detective out of the local precinct, a guy Sincebaugh knew and disliked named Lyle Kellerman. Kellerman's parting shot was: “You can have all my fag meat cases, Sincebaugh. It ain't my kinda case. Don't even wanna be in the morgue with it.”
“This meat, as you call the kid, had a name, a history, a past, emotions, a family, Kellerman,” Alex had replied as the other man backed off with a pugnacious grin marring his otherwise handsome features.
“Some things you never had or ever will have, Kellerman,” Ben had added for good measure.
The discovery was sometime after twilight, the bird watchers, having done their damnedest to log the large-necked, white-ribboned loon here, getting ready to bag all expectations and return home empty-handed. Now it was day watch, definitely the wrong time for Alex and Ben. Alex would have to break Ben's heart; he'd have to put them in for the night shift if they were ever to learn more about this plague of dead boys. Four now that they knew of for certain, and a fifth that Alex clung to as a possible which had occurred over a year before.
They'd been told by Captain Landry that it had been an otherwise dull rotation, only eleven deaths had come on the evening watch, and only a handful were violent deaths, the bulk of them alcohol-related motor-vehicle accidents.
“You'd think Kellerman would've been pleased to get a murder investigation after a night like the one he just had,” said Ben, returning to the body now. “What's he afraid of, AIDS?”
“Kellerman's afraid of gays.”
“Maybe he's got some latent tendencies toward that direction?” Ben laughed to hear himself say it aloud. “Or maybe he's just got good reason, Alex. Maybe he picked one of those Bourbon Street cross-dressers up once, and he didn't find it too amusing when he got her—him—into bed.” Ben chuckled even louder, pleased with himself.
“Maybe. Then again, maybe he's just ignorant.”
They worked by the book, the tight-fitting surgical gloves masking their palms. Ben watched his partner's painstaking, careful work. Sincebaugh was officer in charge of the investigation the press had dubbed variously as the “Have-a-Heart,” the “Heartthrob” and the “Queen of Hearts” murders. The first two victims had lived in the French Quarter, in the heart of New Orleans, just around the corner from Bourbon Street. An earlier homicide, nearly a year old now, might possibly be linked with the same killer, since the victim too had been a male with a decidedly homosexual lifestyle. No heart had been found in the boy's chest there either, but as the decomposition of the body had progressed and maggots had gotten into the open chest cavity, the illustrious Dr. Frank Wardlaw had proclaimed that the heart had been devoured by maggots. Alex no longer thought so.
Bruises about the face and forearms and lacerations to the same areas spoke of a beating and a knifing, defensive wounds everywhere. The awful carnage had come clear when they'd rolled the body onto its back. The private parts had been butchered. The chest was splayed open, carved up surgically, and missing from the cavity was the boy's heart, replaced by an unusual diamond-shaped playing card made of a lacy material. Even blood-soaked, the card looked like something found only in a world long gone, at a time when people made lace doilies and lace trinkets, very Old World, European-looking workmanship in the weaving of it. The queen's ornate costume and lurid features would be found stitched in a rainbow of colorful twine after the thing was soaked and cleaned of impurities, marking it as the same as those before it. Nowhere, not even in New Orleans, had either detective seen anything like it. The killer's “calling card,” had been wedged below the ribs. As before, the bold single eye of the queen of hearts stared back at them.
Was the card a message or a plea? If the bastard wanted to send a message, why didn't he use Western Union? If a message, what message was the son of a bitch sending? That hearts were meant to be broken? That gay men had no right to life, no right to their own heartbeats? That their being gay gave the killer a genuine rationale, that he was somehow warranted in stealing the warm hearts from other human beings? That he had a justifiable right to be heartless? And why the queen of hearts? Queen suggested that the killer himself might well be gay—a drag queen—and that he hated himself for the hand fate had dealt him, and so he was striking out at other gay men in rage and uncontrolled fury. Certainly, enough rage was played out on the bodies to warrant this theory, as well as half a dozen other “hate crime” scenarios, such as perhaps that the killer was a neo-Nazi who hated gay men so much that he had to vent his anger.