Phobia

by C. A. Shives

  Tucker brushed past him and stepped into the bedroom, and Herne followed. Paul Lee—Hurricane’s Medical Examiner, county coroner, and the town’s only physician—stood just inside the door, his back pressed against the bedroom wall.

  “I hate snakes,” Lee said. His almond eyes squinted as he glanced around the room. “I hate ‘em.”

  “Just a common Timber rattlesnake,” the Animal Control officer said.

  “Where did the killer get these damn things?” Tucker asked.

  The Animal Control officer shrugged. “Anywhere. You can find ‘em in the mountains around here. Hell, grab a couple and you can breed ‘em yourself. There’s nothing special about these snakes. Although they usually don’t attack unless provoked.”

  Herne moved toward Amanda’s bed. He clenched his hands and his breath came short and fast. The noise and light in the room seemed to dim, as if her body were spotlighted on a dark stage. He forced himself to walk rather than run to the bed.

  She was curled in a puddle of vomit, the foul liquid only a slightly darker color than her nightgown. Gray duct tape, its edges neatly cut, wrapped around Amanda’s ankles. Her wrists were bound in the same manner. Three pairs of puncture wounds, red and inflamed, dotted her swollen legs.

  The smooth backdrop of the white satin sheets did nothing to soften the horror of the scene. Amanda’s blue eyes, wide with fear, stared without seeing, their beauty tainted by death. Her soft blond hair twisted in a matted nest and framed her face, a few strands spilling across her cheek. Herne moved closer, wanting to brush aside those wisps of hair and give Amanda one last caress from mankind. But he kept his hands by his side, knowing others needed to examine and photograph her.

  “Would the snakes have attacked if she’d been struggling? Screaming?” Tucker asked.

  The Animal Control officer shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “She wouldn’t have struggled,” Herne said. “Not at first.”

  “If I were covered in snakes, my ass would have been struggling,” objected Tucker.

  Herne shook his head. “What’s the first thing you do when confronted by a snake? You freeze. You don’t move a muscle. Amanda was educated and her family is local. She grew up in this town. She must have spent some time in the woods and fields around here, if only during her childhood. This couldn’t have been her first encounter with a snake.”

  Herne paused, his gaze sweeping over the heavy draperies and antique armoire. He walked to the gas fireplace, its stone mantle the centerpiece of the room.

  “The snakes were provoked. Probably with this.” He snapped a latex glove on his calloused hand before grabbing the decorative metal fire poker from its brass stand beside the fireplace.

  In his mind he heard Amanda’s muffled screams. Felt the panic in her chest as her killer, a figure in black, prodded the snakes that slithered across her body. Herne bowed his head, drowning in the feeling of powerlessness. The naked vulnerability of a victim. Yes, Herne thought. The fire poker was the instrument he chose to taunt and tease the snakes, provoking them into a frenzy.

  “Lieutenant,” Herne called.

  The woman who approached him moved with the casual grace of an athlete. The androgynous style of Hurricane Police Department’s blue uniforms and her short, black hair only accentuated her femininity.

  “Herne, this is Lieutenant Kathleen Saxon,” Tucker said. “She’s my second in command, and she was the first on the scene.”

  She nodded to Herne and her cold glance swept over him. Then she turned to Tucker. “You called, Chief?” she asked.

  “I called you,” Herne said.

  She stiffened her body and looked at him with rebellious eyes. He could almost feel their heat and he wondered about the source of her animosity. Is it a reaction to men, he thought, or to me?

  “Saxon, meet Artemis Herne. He’s consulting on this case. Nothing official, but I expect you to cooperate with him. Whatever he needs.” Tucker’s tone was almost pleading.

  Her head moved an inch. Just enough of a nod to be considered assent. She feels the need to be tough in a man’s world, Herne thought. He’d seen it often among the female cops in Philadelphia. Surrounded by testosterone-driven males, they’d resorted to the same sexist and dark humor that pervaded every police department. Not content to be strong women in a man’s job, they’d done everything possible to prove that they were as masculine as their male colleagues.

  “I need this bagged and tagged,” Herne said as he held up the poker. “The killer may have handled it.”

  Saxon grabbed the poker with a gloved hand and briskly walked away. Tucker sighed.

  “She’s a good cop. Great instincts and no fear,” Tucker said. Herne noticed a tinge of pride in his friend’s voice, and he wondered if Tucker thought of himself as a mentor.

  “She didn’t seem happy about my presence,” Herne said.

  “She thinks male cops are chauvinistic pigs,” Tucker responded.

  “They usually are,” Herne said.

  Tucker nodded. “I fucking know it,” he said.

  They turned their attention to Lee as he bent over the body. His rotund belly, encased in a pale blue golf shirt, hung over the top of his blue jeans. The doctor ran his fingers through his sleek black hair and said, “I’d guess ten snake bites. Maybe a few more. Jesus, I hate snakes.”

  “So you’re certain it’s the snakes that killed her?” Herne asked.

  “I won’t know until I get her back to my office. But given her appearance, I’d say it’s extremely likely that she suffered systemic toxicity induced by snake venom. She probably got dizzy and nauseous, then vomited the pile of puke you see. She eventually died from either respiratory distress or heart failure.”

  “Not a quick death,” Herne murmured.

  “Probably thirty minutes or so. It takes time for the poison to work on the human body,” Lee said. “It has to get in the system, get pumped through by the blood. Rattlesnake venom is basically a nerve toxin. It has to get into all the body’s nooks and crannies. But once it’s there, you’re a dead man.”

  Herne watched as Lieutenant Saxon continued to collect evidence, his fingers twitching vicariously as she dropped an empty wine glass into a paper bag. Another officer, Daniel Johnson, joined her, twisting his thin fingers and tapping his foot as he stood at her side, his gaze averted from Amanda’s body. Herne knew the final member of Hurricane’s Police Department, Officer Travis Miller, stood outside, his broad shoulders preventing reporters from entering the house. The local news had already sent TV crews. It would be a matter of minutes before more reporters arrived.

  “I think her mouth may have been taped,” Lee said. “Looks like there’s residue of adhesive around her lips.”

  “He wanted to keep her quiet,” Herne said.

  “But why remove the tape later?” Tucker asked.

  “So he could enjoy her dying gasps.”

  Silence met this statement. Herne noticed Saxon’s sideways glance at him, her blue eyes seeming to assess him again.

  Lee cleared his throat. “No signs of sexual assault,” he continued. “At least, not that I can see right now. None of the obvious. No semen, no condom, no blood in the vaginal area or anus. Again, I’ll know more when I can examine her properly.”

  The crime scene photographer snapped her last photograph. A small woman with a sullen mouth, the camera appeared gigantic in her tiny hands. Herne knew her immediately. She had been the photographer at Tucker and Elizabeth’s wedding ten years ago. Crimes were so rare in Hurricane that she freelanced for the police in her spare time. She nodded to Herne before slipping out the bedroom door like a silent waif.

  Saxon and Lee prepared to place Amanda’s body on a gurney for transport, handling her flesh with the same callous movements of a butcher slapping steak on a metal scale. But Amanda was more than a piece of meat to the killer, Herne thought. She was special.

  Herne closed his eyes, imagining Amanda’s horror as she lay trussed and helpless on the
bed. He could hear her panicked breath flare her nostrils, and he saw the terror that widened her blue eyes. And then, when the snakes finally struck, the killer had performed his final act of mercilessness: he had simply stood back and bathed in the pleasure of Amanda’s muffled screams and the tears that seeped from her eyes.

  Herne could feel the agony of her doom as if it had seeped into the air of the room.

  Saxon approached Tucker. “The cleaning woman is still here, Chief. She’s in the kitchen. I asked her to stay until you had a chance to question her.”

  As Tucker and Herne headed for the kitchen, they stopped at the top of the stairs to examine a bronze sculpture of a naked dancing woman. “Amanda had expensive taste,” Tucker commented.

  “Did you know her?” Herne asked.

  “Not really. I saw her at some social events. Police charity dinners and things like that. She’d wear diamond jewelry and silk dresses. She was fucking gorgeous. When she walked in the room, women would clutch their husbands’ arms.”

  “Do you think this is related to her family’s wealth or power?”

  “They have money, but not as much as they want people to believe,” Tucker said. “Somewhere else, like California or New York, they’d barely make it into the upper class bracket.”

  “She may have made enemies through her job. She was a defense attorney.”

  Tucker shrugged. “It’s possible some asshole wanted to get revenge because she lost his case. Or maybe she snagged the attention of the wrong woman’s husband. But do you think Amanda’s murder is really that simple?”

  Herne didn’t answer. They found Camilla seated in the dining room, her chair pulled close to the carved mahogany table. She sat with her back straight and tall, her eyes focused ahead. Only her calloused hands, clasped so tightly together that her fingertips turned red with blood, betrayed her anxiety. Herne guessed her to be in her forties, although stress and fatigue made her appear much older.

  “Mrs. Diaz?” Tucker asked.

  “Yes.” Her voice was harsh with years and bitterness.

  “You discovered Amanda’s body?”

  Camilla nodded.

  “I’m Chief of Police Rex Tucker. This is Artemis Herne, a police consultant. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  She nodded again, meeting their eyes with a steady gaze. It was the look of a woman who’d been questioned by the police a time or two before. A woman who didn’t fear their authority.

  “Can you tell us, in your own words, what happened this morning?”

  “I got here about eleven o’clock. I clean Miss Todd’s house every Saturday morning. Especially the morning after her party, you know.”

  Both men nodded. They knew of Amanda’s parties.

  “It was the usual mess. Leftover booze, cigarette butts, old food. When I went to the master bedroom, I saw something move on the bed. I thought it was Amanda and her boyfriend—”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?” Tucker interrupted.

  “How should I know?” Camilla asked. “I just cleaned up after the lady. Maybe she had a boyfriend and maybe she didn’t. Sometimes I’d find rubbers or whatever. It looked like, you know, like maybe someone had been around. But I never saw anyone. For all I know, she had a different man every night.”

  “What happened after you entered the bedroom?” Tucker asked.

  “I saw the snakes.” Camilla crossed herself with her hand, an unconscious Catholic gesture that seemed meaningless to her. “I could tell Amanda was dead. I’ve seen dead people before. She wasn’t moving and she wasn’t breathing. I ran out of the room and called the cops.” Camilla shrugged. “That’s it.”

  “Was the front door unlocked when you entered the house?”

  “It was locked. I used my key. But actually, most of the time, the door is open. I don’t think Amanda cared too much about security.”

  Or perhaps an overnight guest slips out in the early hours of the morning and forgets to lock the door, Herne thought.

  “Are we done?” Camilla asked. “I’ve got to get home. My husband doesn’t like to wait for his supper.”

  “You’re free to go,” Tucker said. “Does Lieutenant Saxon have your information?”

  “She’s got my name, address, and phone number,” Camilla said as she hoisted herself out of the kitchen chair. “I don’t have a fancy email address.”

  They watched her leave in silence. Alone in the kitchen, Tucker turned to Herne. “What do you think?” he asked.

  For a brief moment Herne closed his eyes and was transported back into the bedroom, and he could hear Amanda’s tortuous gasps.

  “I don’t think this is going to be simple,” Herne said.

  And, God help him, he hoped he was right.

  He wiped his fork with a dishtowel and placed it in the drawer. His kitchen, naked except for the barest essentials, looked stark in the late afternoon sun.

  After he finished cleaning, he moved through the house, locking doors and closing windows as he prepared for bed. He checked each latch twice to ensure that all the locks were secure, though he realized they would do nothing to protect him from the horrors that lurked in the nighttime.

  He knew they had discovered her body by now. A prominent attorney like Amanda Todd was not the type to go missing for long. He could almost sense the panic in the police officers’ minds, their cries of uncertainty. They didn’t understand his talents and skills. Not yet. He had healed his first patient, but they would only see death and horror.

  They’ll understand it all soon, he thought. I’ll make sure they understand it.

  The sun hung low in the sky, and his pace quickened as he turned off the television and walked into the bathroom. He squeezed a thin line of Crest across his toothbrush and ran the plastic bristles over each tooth, one at a time. A quick rinse with Listerine finished his bedtime ritual.

  There was no need to perform any other type of personal hygiene. His face had always been smooth and clear, even in adolescence. It was the type of face that attracted women, not that he’d ever had a real relationship. Real relationships required dates during the evening hours, and things like candlelit dinners and late night movies. Things he couldn’t offer.

  He felt the darkness approaching, so he hurried to his tiny bedroom. He dropped to his knees beside the small brass bed and clasped his hands together, bowing his head and praying, as he did each night, for his mother’s soul. She died from lung cancer, and he’d been the sole heir to her meager possessions, including the house where he now lived.

  He prayed for his father’s soul, too. Prayed the old bastard would burn in hell for eternity.

  As he slid between the worn cotton sheets, he glanced at the window. The sun just touched the top of the mountains that dotted his view. He still had time. Time to slip into the blissful oblivion of sleep. Time to fall into unconsciousness before the darkness arrived.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Pamela Todd—known as Bitsy because of her petite frame and delicate features—held the cigarette between her fingers with such grace that Herne almost expected her to pull out an old-fashioned cigarette holder, the kind that was popular in 1950s movies. She sipped brandy from a crystal snifter as if the expensive liquor gave her permission to booze. But Herne knew the truth. No matter how they were displayed, cigarettes and brandy were nothing more than a smoke and a drink.

  His stomach clenched with the familiar cry of his body craving the numbing comfort of nicotine and alcohol. He had to restrain himself from deeply inhaling her secondhand smoke like an addict seeking any type of fix, even if it means sharing a bottle of grain alcohol with a wino.

  The room was designed for visitors. No dust or fingerprints marred the polished black marble and shiny brass. Probably cleaned by Camilla Diaz, Herne thought, seeing Pamela’s soft, manicured hands. Original oil paintings of ocean scenes and bright flowers hung on the walls. A glass case of antique hair receivers sat in a corner, and matching copper Nepalese statues stood on each side
of the doorway. In the old days, the room might have been called a “parlor” or a “sitting room.” It was not a place where families would gather to play games or unwrap gifts on Christmas morning. It was neither warm nor inviting. But it was the perfect backdrop for Pamela Todd.

  Herne settled into the leather sofa and allowed Tucker to ask most of the questions.

  “Did Amanda have any enemies?”

  Pamela nodded. She leaned into a velvet chaise lounge, her legs curled beneath her cream Chanel suit. She had kicked off her Jimmy Choo shoes after hearing of her daughter’s death. The movement, Herne believed, was meant to disguise her pain. He suspected that Pamela Todd came from the kind of folks who believed that emotions should remain frozen and hidden, only to be revealed in anger.

  He had not seen her weep or sob or gnash her teeth like most bereaved mothers, and he wondered what would happen later, perhaps weeks or months later, once the booze lost its power to numb her grief. Would she finally find her tears? Or would she do as he had after Maggie’s death, and simply try a stronger anesthesia?

  “Of course she had enemies,” Pamela said. “She was one of the most prominent defense attorneys in Carlisle. She was the mayor’s niece. She flaunted our family wealth, treated service people like servants, and discarded lovers like they were yesterday’s trash.” Pamela paused to inhale deeply on her cigarette. Again, Herne felt an almost uncontrollable urge to ask for one of his own. “She had lots of enemies.”

  “Anyone specific? Anyone you can name?”

  Pamela waved her hand, the one holding the drink, almost spilling the amber liquid from the glass. “Could’ve been anyone. She hurt a lot of people. My little girl didn’t care about anyone except herself.”

  Herne detected a slight slur in her speech. Either her booze is 100 proof, he thought, or she was drinking before we arrived.

  “She was a good girl, though,” Pamela said, with a nostalgia Herne recognized as alcohol induced. “She liked to party a bit. And she looked out for herself first. But her father taught her that. She got that from him.”