by Keri Lake
“I’m sorry, I … made you spill your drink. Which, in the great scheme of things, has no bearing on the universe.”
A wheeze left her bent forward, and with another hearty chuckle, she dabbed her mouth with the napkin from beneath her glass. Pretentious, indeed.
The Sandman’s eyes settled on the condensation gathering around the glass, and he leaned forward, nabbing another napkin from behind the bar. “Here. Let me fix that,” he said, slipping the napkin beneath her drink.
“What’s your name?”
“Names are rather inconsequential, don’t you think?”
Shaking her head, she flashed him a smile that had clearly been groomed for the public. She’d probably wore braces and never missed a dental hygiene appointment. Her pale green eyes carried a sort of sparkle that, in spite of her interests, had undoubtedly never really seen the darker side of humanity.
A waste, really.
He imagined those eyes brimming with tears, trapped behind latex, and her large tits begging to be groped while she fought for air.
“I’m Zelene.”
“Sunshine.”
“So, I guess, when you’re not studying philosophy, you study baby name sites?”
Only in the case of her name. He’d thought it rather exotic for a not-so-exotic girl. He wanted to own that name. Make it his, and only his.
Oh, Zelene! How ironic that she’d never see the sun again after that night.
Ah, why not give her a name? Any name would do.
“I’m Carl.”
“With a K, or a C?”
“Carl with a C.”
“Well, that makes sense, then. I’m going to go … ponder my existence on the dance floor. I’ll see you around, Carl.”
“I’m certain of it.”
11
Voss
“Police are investigating the disappearance of a twenty-six-year-old psychology student, who was last seen in a parking garage on West Van Buren Street. Authorities say Zelene Schumaker left Yonkers Bar at approximately eleven at night, and never arrived back home. Her roommate told police, she never stays out past midnight, and that her sudden disappearance is highly unusual for Zelene, who maintains a four-point average in her Masters studies. This marks the fifth university student missing within an eight-month period. No suspects have been identified at this time, and police are urging women, particularly around the age of twenty to thirty, to please be cautious at night and walk in groups. If you have any information on the whereabouts of Zelene Schumaker, you’re asked to call the police.”
Another missing girl.
Unfortunately, if I had a fucking clue where her kidnapper was, I sure as hell wouldn’t be calling the police. I turn my car into the Conservatory and Nature Center parking lot, eyes peeled for the white van. Not that my quarry would be stupid enough to drive it all the time, but a bastard can hope.
Place is packed, and I gotta wonder what the hell is so enthralling about a bunch of gardens. It’s not until I exit the car and make my way to the entrance that I notice the banner strung across the front of the building, about some lecture on pond ecology.
Exciting shit.
I enter the building, adjusting the cufflinks of my shirt and approach the chick at the lobby desk.
“Are you here for the lecture?” she asks with a bright smile.
The dip of her gaze is the reason I wear a suit. It stirs curious glances, and I can only imagine what she’s thinking right now.
“I’d like you to direct me to someone I can speak with regarding a donation.”
Her brows wing up as if her suspicions have been greeted with an unexpected surprise. The tattoo on my neck and the scar on my face probably had me pegged as a criminal. “Sure! One moment.” She dials an extension on the phone, smiling up at me. “Mister Cross? A gentleman is here to discuss donations. Sure.” The smile doesn’t wane when she hangs up the phone. “Right down the hall. His is the office to the left.”
“Thank you.” I offer a wink, and she lowers her gaze again, her cheeks flush.
Down the hall, I follow her directions to the office on the left and knock before entering.
“Come in!” The voice on the other side of the door sharpens, when I crack it open and step inside.
An older guy with graying hair, slightly smaller than me, pushes up from his chair and offers a handshake.
“Byron Cross. I’m the director here at the Conservatory and Nature Center. I understand you’re interested in making a donation.”
Returning his handshake, I smile. “Rhett Voss. That’s correct.” I fall back into the chair behind me and twine my fingers together. “Perhaps a significant donation, depending on the information you provide.”
“That’s wonderful.” He also takes a seat and gathers up papers from his desk, pushing them aside. “We have some paperwork we’ll have you fill out. Some details we’ll collect, and a brief interview. I can call Marissa in right now.”
“Before you do that … there is a catch.”
Byron pauses and eases back into his chair. “I see. What … kind of catch?”
“I’m looking for someone that may work here. He’d be about mid-forties, six foot, or so. Might go by the name of Carl. If you have a list of employees, I could start there.”
The dip of his brows tells me exactly what I suspected when I walked through the door: he doesn’t plan to tell me anything. “Mister Voss, there are well over two hundred employees here, if we include academic staff— few of which, would fit the rather vague description you’ve provided. Regardless, I’m not willing to divulge any information, particularly as I have no idea what you intend to do with it.”
If he did, he surely wouldn’t give me the information.
“He’s a relative I’ve lost touch with over the years, and I’ve been trying to track him down, is all.”
Back in New York, had this guy been a means of getting to one of my targets, he’d already be laid out on a slab of concrete, begging me to take whatever names he could throw out. That’s the problem with trying to be civilized. Takes far more patience than I have.
“You’re welcome to have a look around. We offer that to all of our potential donors, but I’m not providing any information on whomever you stumble upon. That’s between you and the individual.”
Head cocked to the side, I sigh and lean forward. “Look, Byron. This man is dangerous. There’s reason to believe he might have some connection to the recent abductions. Perhaps you’ve heard another went missing this morning?”
“I’m sorry, are you with the police?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Do you have ID?”
“Would you recognize proper identification for a private investigator, if you saw one?”
He rolls his shoulders back and clears his throat. “Probably not.”
“Then, I don’t see the point. Particularly if you’re not willing to answer my questions, anyway.”
“Mister Voss, I’ve given you permission to search our grounds. Outside of that, I’m afraid I’m no help.”
Exhaling an exasperated breath, I nod and push up from the chair. He’s given me what I want at this point, which is clearance to look around and gather information on my own. “Thank you,” I say on my way to the door.
“Uh … Mister Voss … regarding the significant donation?”
Hand on the doorknob, I shrug. “It was a bribe, Byron. I would’ve been happy to pay whatever it took to get the information I’m looking for. But since that’s not happening, I’m afraid it’ll be limited to the thirty bucks I paid in parking, and the additional twenty-five you’re going to charge me for entry.” Opening the door a crack, I offer a salute on my way out. “Have a nice day.”
“You, as well.” An air of disappointment clings to his voice, but it’s nothing compared to the disappointment I’m going feel if I don’t find this bastard soon.
Two hundred employees. Who the fuck would’ve thought it’d take a couple hundred people to
run this place? They’re gardens, for chrissakes. No wonder they’re asking for donations. Probably can’t afford the bodies.
Carl could be working in any capacity for the place. Certainly smart and cunning enough to act as a Director, while also perfectly content mopping the floors as a janitor, if it means staying low-key.
I pass the receptionist again, who hasn’t stopped smiling since I walked into the place. Woman must go home every night with a stiff jaw.
It takes a good ten minutes, walking through the Christmas-themed gardens that the other patrons practically swoon over, before I reach the Nature Center. The temperature changes, the moment I pass through two glass doors into a small, greenhouse-looking building. Thick humidity leaves a faint layer of sweat, as a few butterflies flit around my head like I won’t reach out and crush one. While everyone’s eyes are on them, I’m studying faces of employees and patrons.
Nothing.
After twenty minutes in the place, I’m about ready to call it quits for the day, but then I step through a new set of doors inside a different building. This one darker. Quieter. Oddly peaceful. It soon becomes clear as to why.
Encased behind glass are various nature scenes, speckled with animals.
Not live animals.
Dull, wide eyes, staring off at nothing, when I peer in at them, tell me they’ve been taxidermized. Preserved.
Ding ding ding.
See, the police have it all wrong in their speculations of the killer. The precision of his work, scrupulously removing the eyeballs from beneath the eyelids with such care, so that one would never know it was missing, if not for the sand. They hypothesized that he’s a surgeon, or mortician.
Not quite, unless he suddenly got ambitious over the years.
A fifteen-dollar correspondence course taught him how to cut, skin, and prepare specimens with such meticulous care, that he probably could’ve performed surgery after as many animals as he mutilated around the property.
I turn to one of the educators standing off to the side, and before I even get a word out, she’s smiling, just like the receptionist.
“Do you have a question?”
“Yes. Do you import these specimens?”
“We receive them from a number of locations, and process them here at the Nature Center.”
Eyes narrowed, I try to play it dumb. “Process. You stuff them here, right?”
“Taxidermy, yes. In order to preserve the species for both study and cataloguing.”
“And where might this processing department be?”
“In the basement of the building, which I’m afraid is only accessible by authorized personnel.”
Arms crossed, I scratch at my chin, laying the charm on thick. “Any chance I could get a tour down there?”
“We have educational workshops. The schedule is available at the front desk, if you’re interested.” Her responses are as trained as the blank, cordial smile plastered to her face.
“I’m here as a potential donor. Byron gave me the okay to tour the facility.”
Her brows wing up. “Oh. Typically, Byron accompanies the donors.”
“I didn’t arrange a meeting with him. Was sort of a walk-in proposal.”
“I see. Well, I’m happy to escort you down there, if you’d like to see it.”
“I would.”
She signals to another girl standing at the opposite side of the room, who gives a nod—must be the universal sign for a piss break, or something—and leads me down the adjacent hallway, through a set of doors, and to an elevator.
“How many taxidermists do you have on site?”
“Our curator should be able to tell you that.”
“And what’s his name?”
“Simon Jeffries.”
Once down in the lower level, we reach an area that reminds me of my high school science class, with its wooden cabinetry and large island tables and black countertops. Some animals are encased in three dimensional frames, some in glass boxes. Others are freestanding throughout the room.
The only person in the room is a woman, wearing a green apron with the company logo, working on what looks to be a hawk.
“This is our main lab. Down the hall there is where all the specimens are catalogued and stored. If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you to the curator.”
Down another hallway, she leads me to a smaller lab, where a man sits hunched over a bench with a magnifying light in front of his face.
On the bench is a tiny rodent, a baby mouse, or something, at a guess.
“Excuse me, Mister Jeffries?”
“One moment, please.” Not bothering to look up, he draws a thin scalpel down the belly of the animal. The absence of blood is a sign it’s likely been kept on ice, or something.
A cool little trick I learned, to reduce the amount of blood spilled.
When the man finally looks up, he appears to be in his twenties, and his brow furrows. “Can …. Can I help you?”
“This gentleman is here to tour the building as a potential donor. He has a few questions for you, regarding the taxidermy department.”
His eyes skate to hers and back to me. “Of course. Uh … what can I answer for you, Mister …”
“Voss. You can call me Voss.”
“Mister Voss.” He holds out a hand, still encased in latex.
I glance down, waiting for him to remove the glove, and he smiles sheepishly, withdrawing his hand.
“Forgive me, I’m a … bit of a germaphobe. Perhaps we can get to the questions you have for me? I’m quite busy, as you can see.”
He’s certainly lacking in social skills, and I’d bet this guy probably spends most his life in this lab. Probably talks to the stiffs all day long, too.
Hands stuffed into my slacks, I look around the room, as if I give a shit about what they do down here. “I’m curious to know how many taxidermists work in this department?”
“We have four on staff, including myself, and then various students who come in and assist with the cataloguing, educational programs, that sort of thing.”
“The taxidermists … they come from all walks of life?”
“Some study ecology at the university. Danielle, in the next room, is one who wishes to … take my job, someday.” He chuckles and adjusts his glasses with his exposed wrist. “Wishful thinking.”
Definitely lacking in tact.
“You’re an equal opportunity employer, I see. It’s fairly diverse down here, in terms of age, gender, that sort of thing?”
Another flicker of confusion dances across his face. “Yes, we’re quite diverse. Um, about half males, varying ages, from twenties to our doctorate level student, Richard.”
“Richard,” I echo. “What does he do?”
“Well, you’re welcome to ask. He’s in the back.” The dismissal in his tone is a cue that he’s had enough human interaction for one day, and when he begins picking at the mouse in front of him, I can tell he’s anxious to get back to work.
The woman still standing beside me gives a nod. “I’m happy to introduce you.”
“Thank you for your time, Mister Jeffries,” I say, backing away from him.
“Of course. Thank you for your donation. It’s how we continue to do our work.”
Eyes still on him, I follow the woman back out of the lab, as he hunches over his work once more. A quick glance at me, and he adjusts the lamp in front of him, diverting his attention back to the mouse.
We reach a conference room at the back of the department, where the crown of a man’s head peeks over a recliner. Curls of smoke drift toward the ceiling, and my tour guide coughs, waving her hand through the air.
The man twists around and quickly smashes the end of his cigar into the ashtray set out on a nearby table.
“My apologies! Goodness, no one comes back here!” He jumps to his feet, and when he faces us, I estimate his age to be somewhere in the neighborhood of my own. Not a single feature recognizable.
“I’d like to in
troduce you to Mister Voss. He’s a potential donor.”
“Ah. For Christ’s sake. I’m sorry. Simon would kill me, if he knew I was smoking back here. You won’t say anything, eh?”
“Of course not.”
Striding toward us, he reaches out his hand, and the moment I reciprocate, he covers our clasped hands with his free palm.
“Mister Voss, I can’t express enough how much we appreciate donors. Many don’t understand the importance of what we’re doing here.” He releases my hand and stands akimbo, bringing his high-waisted khakis and mismatched socks to my attention.
“I hear you’re a doctorate level. An amazing accomplishment for one so young.”
“Young. Right. I suppose in the greater scheme of things, thirty-eight isn’t all that old, but some days …” Guy could pass for forty, so I’m not totally dismissing him.
“I’m sorry, your name’s Richard? Why did I think it was Carl?” He never made the mistake, but I’m curious to see how he reacts to the name—a method I use when interrogating criminals.
He shrugs. “No Carl in this department, that I’m aware.”
“No? Mid-forties, little shorter than me, quiet, perhaps a little strange?”
Richard scratches his head and crosses his arms, shrugging. “Not seen anyone who fits that description. Well, except Simon. The quiet and strange part, anyway.” An obnoxious laugh bounces off the walls, and he rubs his chin. “Definitely not six foot, though.”
And clearly young.
“Thank you for your time, Richard.”
“Hey, anytime. Come back, and I’ll give a delightful little lecture on the Passenger Pigeon, which, incidentally, went extinct in nineteen-fourteen.”
“Sounds riveting.”
He offers another handshake and a smile, before turning his eyes toward the woman beside us. “I’ll see you a bit later,” he says, giving her a wink.
Cheeks fully blushed, she turns away and leads me back through the lab, where I catch another glimpse of Simon on the way out. he doesn’t even acknowledge us, as we pass.
Another dead end.
Fuck.
I exit the Conservatory to my vehicle, feeling like a goddamn mouse who missed the fucking cheese.