Maybe his wife is right. He should see a doctor. But the idea terrifies him. What if the doctor finds something seriously wrong? What if he needs surgery? He’d rather deal with the pain than let some quack poke around in his brain.
“You okay?”
A coworker. Female. Plain-looking, heavy hips, short brown hair in a spiky Peter Pan style.
“Headache.” He manages a sickly grin.
“Do you need some aspirin?”
He decides to kill her.
“Yeah, thanks.”
She walks to her desk. He imagines her, kneeling on the floor in his plastic room. She’s crying, of course. Maybe he’s taken a belt to her first, to loosen her up. Leaving marks on this one will be okay. Since she works with him, he can’t allow her body to be discovered.
“Tylenol?” she calls over the cubicle wall.
“Fine.”
How should she die? Her haircut inspires him. He will draw his knife across her forehead, pull back the skin to expose the bone. Work a finger in there, then two and three.
Skin stretches. His hands are large, but he should be able to get his entire hand between her skull and her scalp.
“Like a warm, wet glove,” he says, shivering.
“What’s like a glove?”
She’s holding out the Tylenol bottle, one eyebrow raised.
“I want to thank you for this.”
“No problem. I used to get migraines. I would have killed somebody to take the pain away.”
Me too.
“You know, Sally, we’ve worked in the same building for a few years now, and I don’t know anything about you.”
She smiles. Her front teeth are crooked. He can picture her mouth stretched open, screaming and bloody, as he practices some amateur dentistry with a ball-peen hammer.
“I’m married, with two kids, Amanda and Jenna. Amanda is eight and Jenna just turned five.”
He forces a grin, his hopes shattered. Who would have guessed an ugly thing like her had a family? He doubts he’ll be able to get her alone, and even if he manages, she’ll be missed.
“How about you? Married?”
“Yes. No kids, though. My wife is a model, and she doesn’t want to ruin her body. You know, hips spreading, stretch marks, saggy tits.”
Ugly Sally’s smile slips a degree.
“Yeah, well, it happens. But I think it’s worth it.”
“Look, I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the Tylenol.”
“No problem. TOSAP.”
He inwardly cringes at the slogan. “Yeah. TOSAP.”
Ugly Sally waddles away, and he works the cap off the bottle and dry-swallows six Tylenol. The throbbing, which abated slightly during his murder-fantasies, comes back harder than ever.
He needs to kill somebody. As soon as possible.
The pain-relieving properties of murder were discovered by him at a young age, when he was in his third foster home. Ironically, he’d been removed from his previous home for being neglected — the couple who had taken him in had also taken in eight other children, for the monthly check from the government. They would blow it all on drugs and let the children go without food. Well-meaning Social Services had whisked him away from the neglect, and handed him over to a psychotic alcoholic instead.
After a particularly nasty beating with a car antenna, he and his younger foster brother were locked in a closet.
He’d really been hurting. But along with the pain was a sense of helplessness, of frustration.
He took that frustration out on his foster brother, in the dark, muffled confines of the closet. The more he hurt the smaller boy, the more his own pain went away.
His new foster father went to jail for the murder.
When the headaches began, he knew just how to deal with them.
After four clicks of the mouse, his monitor fills with eligibles.
He finds a girl, one who lives just a few blocks away. Address seems to be current. He calls, using his cell.
A woman answers, her voice deep and throaty.
Perfect.
CHAPTER 7
The doorman at Davi McCormick’s apartment building wore a heavy wool blazer, dark red, complete with gold epaulets and matching buttons. In this heat he looked positively miserable.
“Last time I saw Ms. McCormick was Sunday evening, right before Murry took over. Murry works the six P.M. to two A.M. shift, and she left the building about fifteen minutes before that.”
“Do you remember what she wore?”
“A black cocktail dress, heels, diamond-stud earrings. Her hair was up. As I held open the door I told her she looked beautiful and asked where she was going.”
“What did she answer?”
“She said, Big date. Real big. And then laughed. Is she okay?”
Herb gave him the news, then got the phone numbers for Murry and the morning doorman. He called them during the elevator ride. Neither had seen Davi since Sunday.
Pulitzer’s key got us inside. I could have fit three of my apartments inside of Davi’s, with room left over to park my car.
“I’ll take the bedroom,” I told Herb.
Then we heard the scream.
I tugged my .38 from the holster strapped to my left armpit, senses heightened.
Movement, to the right. Both Herb and I swung our guns over.
A cat, wearing a large disposable diaper, bounded out from under the dining room table and into the hallway, screaming like a train whistle.
Herb exhaled. “I just had about four heart attacks.”
“That must be Mr. Friskers.”
“Either that or a small, furry toddler. Did you check out the diaper?”
“Yeah. Talk about pampering your pets.”
I tucked my gun back under my blazer and fished a pair of latex gloves from my pocket.
“We’ve got an hour,” I told Herb, indicating when the CSU would arrive.
Davi’s bedroom was the bedroom of a typical young woman, albeit one with money. Her unmade bed had a stuffed animal infestation, over a dozen of them swarming on top of the pink comforter. A framed Nagel print hung on the far wall. The near wall was obscured by a collage of pictures, most of them Davi, snipped from magazines.
A large pile of clothing rested near the closet, and a makeup mirror — the kind movie stars have with bare lightbulbs surrounding the frame — hung above the dresser. Cosmetics rested on every flat surface in the room.
On the nightstand, next to the bed, a phone/answering machine combo blinked, indicating twelve messages. I scrolled through the caller ID numbers. Four of them read “blocked call,” the last from 4:33 P.M. Sunday night.
I played the messages. All were from Pulitzer but one: a long-distance call from Davi’s mother. The blocked calls didn’t seem to correspond to any messages.
Davi’s walk-in closet was so crammed full of clothing I could barely walk in. Some of it occupied hangers, but most of it rested in large heaps on the floor. Rummaging through the piles yielded nothing but an empty cat carrier.
A quick search of her drawers found more clothes, makeup, and a nickel bag of cocaine. I placed it in one of the evidence bags I always keep in my pocket. Then I pulled every drawer completely out and checked to see if anything was hidden behind them or taped under them. I’d been doing that ever since seeing a Hill Street Blues episode where a cop found a clue that way. Maybe someone somewhere saw the same episode.
No such luck today.
Under the bed I discovered two stray stuffed animals, a cat toy, and several years’ worth of dust. Nothing hidden between the mattress and box spring. Nothing behind the Nagel print.
I returned to the phone and hit Redial, copying down the last number called and disconnecting before it went through. Then I copied down all of the numbers on the caller ID.
“Jack!”
I’ve been partners with Herb for over a decade, but had never heard such raw panic in his voice before. I rushed out of the bedroom, gun drawn.
> Herb stood in the living room, stock-still. Tears ran down his cheeks.
Perched on Herb’s head was Mr. Friskers, claws dug in tight.
“He leaped off the curtains. His claws are like fishhooks.”
I took a step closer. Mr. Friskers hissed and arched his back.
Herb screamed.
“Get it off before he scalps me, Jack!”
“You can’t pull him off?”
“His claws are stuck in my skull bone.”
Only years of training and consummate professionalism prevented me from breaking down in hysterical laughter.
“You want me to call Animal Control?” I tried to say it straight, but a giggle escaped.
“No. I want you to shoot him.”
“Herb . . .”
“Shoot the cat, Jack. Please. I’m begging you. It’s not just the pain. There’s gotta be several days’ worth of cat mess in that diaper. The smell is making my eyes water.”
I’d never owned a cat and had zero experience with the species. But I did recall an old TV commercial where the cat came running when it got fed. Couldn’t hurt to try.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t leave me, Jack.”
“I’m just going to get my camera.”
“That’s not even close to being funny.”
I located the canned cat food in a cabinet. When I opened one of the tins, Herb screamed again. Mr. Friskers appeared in the kitchen a heartbeat later.
“You were just hungry, weren’t you, kitty?”
The cat yowled at me. I set the can on the floor and watched him inhale the food.
Herb came through the doorway. His gun was out, pointing at Mr. Friskers.
“Herb, put that away.”
“It’s evil, Jack. It has to die.”
Mr. Friskers looked at Herb, hissed, then bolted out of the room. Herb holstered his weapon.
“Am I bleeding?”
“A little.” I handed him some paper towels. “Find anything?”
“Bank and credit card statements, phone bills, a few personal letters. You?”
“A few grams of cocaine.”
“Give it to the cat. Maybe it will calm him down.”
I gave Herb a fake smile. “Funny, for someone bleeding to death. Want to stop by the ER on the way back for your rabies shot?”
Herb narrowed his eyes, then looked past me, through the kitchen.
“The crime scene unit will be here soon.”
“So?”
A yowl pierced the room, and Mr. Friskers shot past us and pounced his diaper-clad ass onto the counter. He sat there, hissing. His tail, which poked out through the center of the diaper, swished back and forth like a cobra.
“I’ll try Animal Control.” I took out my cell.
The news wasn’t good.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. The heat wave has all of us doing triple time. Soonest we could pick it up is Monday.”
“We might all be eaten by then.”
“It’s the best I can do. You can try the Humane Society.”
I tried the Humane Society.
“Sorry, Officer. We couldn’t come for at least a week. When the temperature gets this high, animals are hit hardest. We don’t even have any room for another.”
Herb nudged me.
“Tell them this cat is evil. If you shaved its head, you’d see a 666.”
I relayed the info, but they weren’t swayed. Herb suggested calling the Crocodile Hunter, but neither of us knew his number.
“We can’t let him stay here, Jack.”
I agreed. A cat could mess up a scene in a dozen ways. Not just by destroying evidence — it could get in the team’s way, hurt someone, or even get hurt itself if it inhaled the wrong chemical.
“You want him?” I asked.
Herb frowned and tore off another paper towel to blot his scalp.
I reached a tentative hand out to stroke the cat, and he bared claws and took a swipe at me.
“Try offering him your head,” Herb suggested. “He’ll jump on and we can walk him out.”
I left the kitchen and went into Davi’s bedroom, returning a moment later with the cat carrier and some ski gloves.
Herb raised an eyebrow. “Should I start dialing 911 now?”
“No need to worry. Animals love me, because they can sense my pure heart.”
Without hesitating, I grabbed Mr. Friskers around the body. He countered by screaming louder than humanly possible and locking his fangs onto my right index finger. The gloves protected me, and I managed to get him in the carrier without losing a digit.
“So now we throw him in Lake Michigan, right?”
“I’m sure one of Davi’s friends will take him.”
“And in the meantime?”
I let out a big, dramatic sigh.
“I guess I’ll have to keep him for a few days.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack. I don’t want the next murder I investigate to be yours.”
“He’s just scared and grumpy. You’d be grumpy too if you had the same diaper on for four days. Right, little guy?”
I poked my gloved finger into the cat carrier, and Mr. Friskers pounced on it, biting and scratching.
“Try showing him your pure heart,” Herb suggested.
The cat screamed for the entire ride back to the office.
CHAPTER 8
“My place is just up the next block.”
“This isn’t a very nice neighborhood.”
“On purpose. My wife would never think to look for me here.”
He smiles at the girl. Eileen Hutton. Young, pretty, perfect body. She knew it, too, which is why this date cost a cool thousand bucks.
She won’t get the chance to spend it.
They’re driving south on Kedzie, property values dropping block by block. The flophouse where he takes his women is dilapidated, filthy, and came complete with a handful of winos lounging in front. When he parks in the adjacent alley, she doesn’t want to get out of the car.
“What’s wrong?” He grins. His head feels ready to burst, an incessant pounding that’s making his vision blur. Sweat streaks down his face in rivers. Hopefully, she’ll think it’s just the heat.
“I don’t feel comfortable here.”
“Don’t you trust me? I’m one of the good guys.”
He unlocks the glove compartment, takes out a silver cigarette case. Lined up inside are six rolled joints. He lights one up, hands it to her.
“I married my wife for money, and believe me, she’s got a lot. She won’t put out, though. So I have to get it on the side, and I have to be discreet about it. You understand.”
She puffs and nods.
Enjoy it, baby. It’s your last.
No one gives them a glance as they walk into the building. The hallway smells like piss and worse. Lighting is at a minimum. She holds his arm until they get to his room.
His hand is trembling as he unlocks the door.
Almost there. Just a few more minutes.
They enter and she turns in a full circle, taking it all in. “Wow! What’s your kink, man?”
The floors and walls are lined with clear plastic sheets. The only piece of furniture in the room is a bed, and that’s also similarly covered.
“I like plastic.”
“I can tell.” She smiles in a way that she probably thinks is sexy. Annoying bitch. He’s going to enjoy slicing her up.
“I want you to wear something for me.”
“Let me guess. A plastic garbage bag?”
“No. These.”
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a pair of earrings. Silver hoops, antique-looking.
“Those are pretty.”
She removes the dangly gold ones she has on, shoves them into her little spaghetti strap designer purse. When she puts the first hoop in, he begins to pant. His expression must scare her, because she stops smiling.
“You know, I usually don’t make dates on my own. I no
rmally go through the escort service.”
“Don’t worry. You trust me, remember?”
She nods, but it’s uncertain.
“These earrings look beautiful on you, Eileen.”
“Thanks. Um, how did you get my number, anyway?”
“I have ways.”
“Yeah. I guess you do.”
“The bathroom is over there. I’d really like it if you came out wearing nothing but those earrings.”
She gives him a half smile, hesitates, then trots off to the bathroom like a good little whore.
He undresses, folding his clothes neatly and putting them on the floor of the closet, next to the axe. His other instruments are laid out on a stained towel.
What to use, what to use?
He selects a garrote for the murder and a box cutter for the detail work. The garrote is something he picked up at work — a twenty-inch strand of piano wire, the ends twisted around wooden pegs. He hasn’t tried it yet. Should be fun.
She comes out of the bathroom, strutting. Her confidence is back. Her naked body is flawless.
But it won’t be for long.
“Well, you’re a big one, aren’t you? What do you want to do first, big boy?”
Severing her head is harder than he’d have guessed. He has to prop his knee up against her back for leverage, and then use a sawing motion with the garrote to get through the spine.
There’s a lot of blood.
When he’s finished, he goes to work with the utility knife.
He attends to her eagerly, like a starving man. The feeling is more than sexual. It’s euphoric. Mind-altering.
Pain-relieving.
The moment he walked behind her and stretched the wire across her pretty little throat, the pain vanished. His vision cleared, his jaw unclenched, and a feeling of pure relief a thousand times better than any orgasm flooded through him.
He doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t care why. The throbbing is gone, replaced by a mad giggling fit as he works harder and faster with the utility knife.
It soon escalates into a mindless frenzy.
Afterward, he takes a shower. The water is tepid and smells like rust. He doesn’t care.
The pain is gone.
How long it will stay gone is unknown to him. Sometimes it lasts for weeks. Sometimes, only a few hours.
Bloody Mary Page 4