Humph. So she digs it when men get their johnsons sliced and diced. What does that say about her? Maybe she’s jealous because most men know what to do with their schmeckels and her husband appears to be at a loss. “Were you assigned to this case from the start?”
“No. The profiler who investigated Phillip Patrick’s murder retired just recently. I came aboard after Drade was slain.”
“Drade was from Liberty, New York, correct?”
“That’s right.” Glutt wriggled in her seat and then got comfortable with her head craned to the side looking up at the sky. “Nothing like a nice blue sky to paint a smile on my psyche. I hear that it gets cold as balls up here during the winter.”
Cold as balls? Is she referring to snowballs? No. I already know her better than that. “It’s much nicer today than when I arrived the other night. Trust me, it was still very wintery when I drove into town on Saturday night.”
“Long, cold winters are brutally depressing. I don’t think I could live around here. Can you imagine six months of intense cold and long sexless nights? Come on, Mather, you can talk to me. I can’t be the only woman in the FBI longing for a warm-blooded man.”
We had just pulled up to the restaurant. I smiled awkwardly. “Let’s pick this up inside.” I was hoping that she would become faster on the uptake and realize that I wasn’t going to discuss Liam’s throbbing male member with a complete stranger. Honestly, I’ve never seen a woman so desperate for sex.
The official lunch hour had come and gone way before we arrived, and it was much too early for dinner—as such Captain Cook’s was a ghost town. Glutt and I had our choice of booths. We took one that was large enough for six people so that there’d be room to spread out our notes. We ordered the TNT wings and jalapeño poppers to start things off. I went my standard unhealthy route and ordered a bacon cheddar burger to satisfy my insatiable craving for cattle parts. Glutt wasn’t kidding about only keeping kosher at home. She ordered a bacon cheddar burger of her own. I silently prayed that she’d be less apt to talk about her sexual desires after she had a full stomach.
“So I hear you’re an ex-marine,” Glutt began.
“Semper Fi until I die. I guess you checked me out?”
Glutt smiled. “Guilty as charged. We behavioral scientists just can’t help ourselves. Are you one of those dyed-in-the-wool marines?”
“By definition, all marines are true blue through and through. And yes, I’m a hard charger—always have been and always will be.”
“That’s so interesting. When did you know that you wanted to do that? Was it something you were always interested in?”
God, she’s a curious little minx. I guess there’s nothing like a profiler with boundary issues. “Nope. I went to a friend’s commencement exercise, and that was it. I saw those fresh new marines in their tan shirts and royal pants, and I knew it was something I had to do. That’s really the best I can explain it.”
“Wow! That’s so unique. You know most psychologists would say that you joined the marines so that you’d be surrounded by men, but I have the feeling that wasn’t the case with you.” She edged forward in her seat, and her eyes flashed. “Or were you a dirty little slut?” she asked excitedly.
“I enlisted to serve my country,” I stated authoritatively. God, why am I letting her get away with this?
“But most women marines don’t see any combat, right?”
“Almost none of them … but I did. I was assigned to the Female Engagement Team deployed in Afghanistan. I spent three years policing the Helmand Province along with male marines and ANA soldiers.”
“Shit! That’s so impressive. I think I’d go crazy in that part of the world—women have virtually no civil rights whatsoever, correct?”
“Unfortunately that’s true.” Okay, enough is enough—it’s time to take charge. “Thanks for the compliment. Now it’s your turn to impress me. Take me through the case.” Before I blow my brains out.
Our TNT wings and poppers arrived. Glutt reached for a wing without thinking. She chugged a glass of water, but it didn’t put out her fire. She looked at me sheepishly. “How cool are you, Mather?”
“Don’t worry. If you order a mug of beer to wash down those incendiary inferno wings, I’ll take your secret to my grave.”
“Sisterhood, that’s what I’m talking about. You know, I think you’d really enjoy being part of my Hadassah group … I mean if you weren’t a shiksa.”
Holy shit! I can’t take this anymore. I actually gripped my gun and took comfort from the feel of the grip in my palm.
She flagged down our waiter and ordered a brew before segueing to the case. “Leon Drade,” she began, “this is what I’ve got.”
Chapter 13
Glutt tapped a few keys on her notebook computer, and a video cued on the screen. She had explained that the original video had been made on an old format VHS tape, which had been mailed to Drade’s wife. She tapped the play symbol and turned her notebook around so that I was the only one who could see the screen. She sipped her beer and cautiously sampled another TNT wing.
“Hey! Save me some of those wings,” I demanded spiritedly.
Glutt smirked. “If you can eat after watching this video, you’re a better woman than I am.”
God forgive me but I think that’s already been established. When the video began to play I saw a man restrained behind the wheel of a car. As with John Doe his neck was fastened to the headrest post by means of a plastic zip-tie. His hands were affixed to the steering wheel. I couldn’t see how they were secured, but I assumed that they’d been zip-tied as well. The video had been shot from outside the car, through the windshield. The victim was framed in the shot so that he was only visible from the sternum up. “Is that Drade?” I asked.
Glutt nodded. “That was Drade; now the tape is his memorial.”
Anyone could see that the man was petrified. His eyes were bloodshot and his dark complexion looked gray. His cheek appeared to be swollen, but there were no signs of discoloration around the eye. Watching carefully, he appeared to be trembling. He was moaning, and I assumed that he was in pain. His head dropped for a moment, and then I heard the snapping of fingers off camera. Drade jumped and directed his attention toward the camera lens.
“Do you understand why this is happening to you?” It was Drade’s assailant who was talking. The voice sounded distinctly adenoid—it sounded as if there was a hole in the speaker’s palate. I had come to recognize that particular nuance because birth defects were common among Afghani children. I had encountered many children who had been born with a congenital cleft lip and palate while I was doing my FET tours of the Helmand Province. They too had that sound when they spoke, that breathy whistle that made it impossible for them to sound like the normal children.
It took a moment, but then Drade nodded, reluctantly acknowledging the mystery that only he and his assailant shared.
Jesus, I wonder what this poor bastard did.
The chilling voice returned. “I can’t hear you.”
Drade stammered. “Yuh-yuh-yuh-yes.”
“Better,” the assailant said. “Now repeat after me: Five little angels round my bed.”
Drade stared at his assailant incredulously.
“I’m waiting,” the assailant snapped. “Five little angels round my bed. Let’s go. Let’s go.”
Drade shook his head. For a moment I thought that he was refusing to comply with his captor’s demand, but then I realized that he was merely expressing his disbelief of the demand. He closed his eyes and began to repeat the children’s prayer. It was just six little words, but I could see that it took every last ounce of inner strength Drade had in order to utter them.
The assailant repeated the next verse without further instructions, “One to the foot and one to the head.”
Drade repeated the second verse. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.
“One to sing and one to pray.”
Drade repeated, “One to sing and on
e to pray.”
I was waiting for the assailant to complete the prayer, and one to take my sins away. Amen, but instead I heard footsteps, and then the camera moved—it had been brought around to the side and was now focusing on Drade through the driver’s window. In the next moment it sounded as if the assailant was walking away, but soon the footsteps sounded as if they were again drawing closer.
I saw Drade’s eyes widen with alarm, and then his top lip began to quiver. “NO!” he screamed within the sealed compartment. As his lament trailed away I could hear a frenzy of short, high-pitched chirps.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
His screaming grew louder and louder. He was fighting to break free of his restraints, but his attempts were futile. His face became flush as his terror and panic grew. “No. No. No,” he pleaded, his voice muffled but still audible outside the car.
The assailant entered the shot. His face was completely covered by a black commando’s mask. A tinted visor affixed to the mask shielded his eyes, rendering him completely unrecognizable. He wore heavy black vinyl work gloves and held a square wire cage in his hand as he walked around and opened the passenger door. Within the cage were the sources of the high-pitched chirping sounds I had heard—five small bats were agitated and chirping loudly as they fluttered about within the cage. The cage was set upon the passenger seat, the cage door was quickly unfastened, and the passenger door resealed before any of the bats could escape. Drade continued to scream violently as the bats found their way out of their small prison. They were horrid-looking creatures: ghastly. Two of them fluttered off toward the rear of the car, but the others didn’t fly. They hopped closer to Drade, sizing up their prey as they advanced. The assailant moved out of the shot, and in the next instant the camera was being refocused on Drade’s lap.
I cringed when I saw Drade’s splayed bloody penis. His pants and briefs had been pulled down around his ankles, and his lap was covered with dried blood.
The bats hopped closer and closer. The two that had flown aft were now back in the shot. One was perched on his left shoulder and one on the right, like the symbolic devil and angel scenario. The one I could see most clearly appeared to be staring at Drade’s neck, and I understood that it was attempting to sense the spot below the flesh where Drade’s warm blood was closest to the surface.
Drade’s screaming seemed to deter them for a while, but it didn’t take long for the blood-eating creatures to understand that their host did not pose a threat. I suppose it was the dominant bat that fed first, lapping the exposed blood and tearing at Drade’s already severed flesh.
And then the assailant completed the prayer. He had altered it from the original to serve his purpose: “And five little bats to drain your life away.”
Chapter 14
“Am I correct in assuming that Drade was a John Doe until his family received the tape?”
Glutt reached for another wing. “These are hot as hell, but it’s such a delicious departure from the Jew food I eat when I’m at home.” It appeared that Glutt had quickly built up a tolerance to the heat of the TNT wings. Assisted by the libation of a mug of frosty cold, she wolfed them down like M&Ms. “Well, not exactly,” she replied between bites. “Your statement is correct except that Drade’s remains have never been found.”
What? Was that in the report? Shit! I must’ve presumed his remains had been found. Bad girl. “Oh, that’s horrible. You mean that …”
“We never found him. Other than the videotape, no other information was supplied by our UNSUB.”
“Did Phillip Patrick’s family get a videotape as well?”
“No. Phillip Patrick didn’t have any family. The last surviving member of his family, his brother Connor, was a death row inmate who died of lethal injection months before Phillip Patrick’s body was ever found.”
“So you connected him to Drade because of the UNSUB’s MO?”
“Yup.” Glutt licked hot sauce off her fingertips. “Phillip Patrick was found locked in a car in an abandoned junkyard outside of Fallsburg, New York. He died of starvation just as Drade had. Also like Drade, his private parts had been turned into a vampire bat banana split.”
“God, Rebecca, you’re a twisted little bitch.”
“Comes with the territory, Mather.”
“So what do we know about these two victims? Do we have any idea what the UNSUB meant when he asked Drade, ‘Do you understand why this is happening to you?’”
“No. We don’t know what the UNSUB meant by that. As far as Drade’s background … Well, you read my file, didn’t you?”
“I ran through it quickly—he was a retired dockworker with a general contracting business; married with one child. No police record. We don’t know any more than that?”
“If you’re asking if we’ve figured out how our UNSUB selected Drade as his victim, the answer is no, we haven’t. Based on interviews with friends and neighbors, it sounded as if Drade was a pretty affable guy. We interviewed most of the people he did work for over the last couple of years, but it didn’t lead anywhere. They said that he was a good contractor and that they were satisfied with the jobs he did for them. He specialized in decks and patios. I guess he liked working outdoors.”
“So why would a male sexually mutilate another male and torture him with bats? I mean our UNSUB has some big-time hostility issues.”
“You think he’s hostile? You should see me when I PMS.”
Say nothing—she’ll catch on eventually. Oh Christ, I hope she does.
“There could be several explanations,” Glutt began. “The UNSUB may be punishing men because he was victimized by another man at some time during his life, or it may be a hate crime against homosexuals. Castration is a very specific form of sexual mutilation. In his psychotic mind he may see the penis as a source of evil. He may be impotent, or he may have had an accident. He may have been castrated and the mutilations he performs are a way of resolving his resentment of all men with a healthy wanker.” Glutt’s eyebrows rose. “We’d better catch him soon or there’ll be no one left for me to lust after.”
I can’t help myself—I have to ask. “Rebecca, does your husband know how frustrated you are? I mean … my God.” Hasn’t she heard of a vibrator?
“Oh, he knows. Believe me, he knows, but he pretends not to. He’s an old soul, a relic of yesteryear. He believes that a man does or doesn’t do whatever he wants to and his wife should be dutiful and obedient. What can I say? It’s still very much a man’s world, especially in the orthodox community.” She sighed yet again as melodramatically as ever. “It’s better than divorce. In my community divorce is not allowed. It’s looked on as a terrible shanda.”
I understood shanda. It was the Yiddish word for disgrace. Madonna had used the term in an SNL skit years ago, and I had looked it up at that time. God, I used to love Mike Meyers’ Coffee Talk. I get the giggles every time I picture him dressed as Linda Richmond saying, “I’m getting verklempt. I've got shpilkes in my genektagazoyk.” That’s funny even to a shiksa.
Glutt continued, “And so like our UNSUB, I lead a secret life. The difference is that I’m guilty of nothing other than my impure thoughts and don’t have anything to conceal. The UNSUB on the other hand—he talks to no one about his cravings and keeps entirely to himself. That’s why a really clever serial killer is so hard to apprehend.” I saw Glutt’s smile grow. She cleared a small dish with chicken bones that rested on the table before her to make room for her main course. “Come to mama,” she said enthusiastically.
Our burgers arrived. I made sure that none of the crime scene photos were visible so that our server would not freak out and call the police. Mike, as his nametag stated, was a good-looking kid, probably mid-twenties and strapping in build, narrow around the waist with swimmer’s shoulders.
Glutt smiled at him with puppy-dog eyes as he served her burger. She examined her lunch and nibbled on a French fry. “This looks great, but this pickle …” She picked it up from
the bottom and held it up vertically. It flopped over like a flaccid penis. “This will never do.” She made direct eye contact with him and said, “Maybe you’ve got something bigger and harder for me to chew on?”
Oh no, she didn’t! I covered my mouth. Talk about embarrassing.
Mike burst out in a cold sweat. I doubt it was his first time to get hit on by a randy cougar, but a desperate, ravenous man-eater like Glutt? The poor lad just couldn’t handle it. “I’ll check the kitchen,” he said with panic in his voice and tripped over his own feet in his haste to get away.
Glutt chomped down on the flimsy pickle, severing it in half. “He’ll do,” she said and crunched it into pulp. “Don’t tell anyone, but I waxed after my visit to the mikvah last week.”
Well, that was certainly more information than I needed to know. “A mikvah is a … what?”
“It’s a ceremonial bath a Jewish woman takes each month after her period.”
“You don’t have a shower in your home?”
She smirked. “Of course we do, silly, but a mikvah bath is a ritual.”
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like a small swimming pool.”
“Is it big enough for you to take laps?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, then I don’t see the point.”
Fortunately Glutt took a bite out of her burger, which was fortuitous because it gave me an opportunity to squeeze a word in edgewise. Honestly, if she didn’t soon contribute something meaningful to the case, I’d have to cut her off and dump her on Chief Sparks. To this point I had been more than patient and endured her tales of marital frustration, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have my limits.
“So, Rebecca, there was an interesting discovery. A woman’s purse was fished out of the lake.”
“Why’s that interesting? Are they good eating?” She snorted.
“No, but the ID in the purse belonged to a woman who went missing in January, and it, like the stolen truck John Doe was found in, came from Goshen, New York.”
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 29