Getting to the house proved a chore, which irritated him further. Uniforms had set up a perimeter, and he saw no way to the house without fighting through the crowd. As he forced his way through the throng, belted by shouted questions from reporters and angry concern from neighbors, Marlowe fought the urge to throw up a middle finger.
A young uniformed officer stood guard at the house’s front door. “Detective Gentry…victim’s on the second floor.”
Marlowe nodded and proceeded inside. He noticed a woman seated on the living room sofa—head in hands, body racked by sobs, inconsolable. Next of kin, he guessed. Maybe she found the victim. Officer Maria Marquez sat close to the woman, speaking softly, trying to conduct a preliminary interview and having little success by the looks of it.
He met his partner, Spencer Murray, at the top of the stairs. Spence suffered under the delusion he was the spitting image of Denzel Washington at thirty-five. Marlowe might concede he was marginally handsome, but Spence’s estimation broke with reality. Dressed in a fashionable tan slim-fit suit, Spence leaned casually against the bannister wearing a smile out of place for the occasion.
“You look like shit, bro. Should really give the firewater a rest,” said Spence. Never a simple good morning or hello from Spence; if he opened his mouth, good chance a wisecrack followed.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll let you know when your opinion matters.”
“Grumpy, too. Well, that’s nothing new. It’s why we love you…your charm.”
“Can we get to work? Please?”
Despite hassling one another, and though he could chafe Marlowe like no one else, Spence served as a surrogate brother and best friend. He’d stood by Marlowe through a world of hurt and put up with his moodiness and ill temperament. Marlowe trusted no one more than Spence. Even so, he was not about to tell him that; no need to swell his head any bigger.
“Had a late night myself. You know the secretary down at Morgan & Starling? The one with the huge…” Spence cupped his hands in front of his chest. “Man, the chick’s like a gymnast. She did this thing with her legs.…”
“You’re incorrigible.” Marlowe shook his head.
“I don’t know that word, but if it means hung like a horse, then yes. Yes I am.”
“Spence. Murder. Crime to solve.” Marlowe pushed his way up the hall.
“Fine, party pooper. You’re no fun at all.”
As they advanced into the bedroom, Marlowe froze at the sight of a body lying on the bed—bluish-colored skin, lips impossibly red. His world went bright white.
Katy quaked with fear. Naked except for blue panties and socks, nickel-sized burn marks dotted her torso and abdomen. The knife’s edge against her throat bit into the skin. A thick stream of blood trailed down to pool at her collarbone. From a dark shape behind her arose maniacal laughter.
A crimson wash flooded in behind Marlowe’s eyes. Screams and whispers rose and fell like a tide crashing against a rocky shore. The room spun. He thought of the merry-go-round that had caused him to throw up as a kid. Bracing himself, he fought to keep from passing out.
After a long moment, his knees stopped wobbling, and the red storm receded. Marlowe remained propped against the wall, pale, hands trembling.
“Hey man, you all right?” Spence stepped to Marlowe’s side, helping steady him.
“Yeah, fine,” Marlowe said as his equilibrium stabilized and the color returned to his face.
“My office, Gentry.” Lieutenant McCann walked up and grabbed Marlowe’s arm. “The second you’re done here.” His stern tone left no room for argument.
Marlowe nodded weakly. That would not be a fun conversation. McCann stayed wound tight, and right now, he appeared ready to pop a spring.
“What the hell was that? The lieutenant did not look pleased,” said Spence.
“Never mind. What we got?” Marlowe placed a hand to his forehead and forced the residual image from his mind.
“A house of horrors. Vic is Melissa Turner, twenty-eight. Koop puts the time of death between eleven p.m. and one a.m. Found the body at seven a.m. The bastard had all night to do his thing. Must have known she would be alone.”
“Forced entry?”
“Back door. Nothing fancy, pried it open. Alarm system wasn’t armed. There’s no sign of a struggle, so we’re guessing he came in while she slept. Christ, I haven’t seen anything like this since.…” Spence stiffened. “Oh shit, sorry man. I didn’t think.”
“Forget it. Let’s just get to work, okay?” Marlowe had no desire to visit those old, still-oozing wounds. There appeared to be more than enough wounds in this room already.
“Gentry, a little green around the gills, my friend. I would have thought you used to this sort of thing by now,” said a gray-haired man of about sixty, standing near one window. His eyeglasses dipped onto the tip of a hawkish nose as he surveyed Marlowe over their rims. “You also look like a bum. Although I am not certain the two bear a causal relationship. Did you sleep in that suit?”
“Screw you too, Doc.” Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Fredrick Koopman, affectionately known as Koop, smiled at the jab. “What are we looking at?” asked Marlowe.
“See for yourself.” Koop pointed to the floor beside the bed.
“What the hell…” Marlowe rounded the bed and stared down at what he assumed were the victim’s internal organs laid out neatly on a white sheet. They stretched outward from the wall beneath an open window toward the bed. If he did not recognize them as organs, he might have thought the display a work of abstract art.
“A real artist, this killer. I detect a Grünewald inspiration.” Koop tried to maintain his serious demeanor.
“If you want to be a comedian, Koop, try to leave the obscure references to Dennis Miller. He gets paid for it, and even his aren’t funny,” said Spence.
“Not obscure. You are simply uncouth and uncultured.”
“Knock it off you two. Koop, continue please,” said Marlowe.
“Fine. Nearest the bed, we have the lungs side by side. Below those, various organs—kidneys, liver, stomach. Lastly, the heart bisected, split open like a melon at lunchtime. You’ll notice the markings beside each stage of the totem, painted in the victim’s blood.”
Three groups of symbols were scrawled alongside the horrific pattern of pulpy tissue: ‘ζωή’ beside the lungs, ‘σκοπός’ next to the liver, kidneys, and stomach, and at the heart, ‘θάνατος.’
“What do the symbols mean?” asked Spence.
“I think they’re Greek.” Marlowe stared at the bloody writing while unconsciously fingering the grip of the Glock 21 in his shoulder holster.
“It’s certainly Greek to me,” said Koop with a subtle grin.
“But what do they say?” asked Spence.
“I know what Greek writing looks like, doesn’t mean I can read it,” said Marlowe. “Everything removed from inside the body? What happened to the rest? Intestines and all?”
Spence gestured at the window. “We found a bag full o’ bloody mess thrown in the trash out back. Made a couple of uniforms toss their cookies.”
“I’m guessing the other viscera did not meet the aesthetic design the killer desired,” said Koop.
“Doc, what’s with the arms?” asked Spence.
“No idea of their meaning. The killer severed both arms at the shoulders, the skin flayed to a point where only a thin strand remains attached to the muscle. As you can see, the skin is drawn downward. The image that comes to mind is…wings.” The arms stretched parallel to either side of the lungs, and the wings of skin fanned toward the wall.
“What else? Give me the full rundown,” said Marlowe.
“There is a contusion on the forehead above the hairline. I believe a blow to the head rendered the victim unconscious. Death delivered from cuts to the carotid arteries and the jugulars. I found a hole in the ceiling over the bathtub that looked as if a large screw had been forced into the beam. My theory is the killer suspended the victim inverted
over the bathtub and exsanguinated her.”
“Treated her like a goddamned deer.” Marlowe scowled.
“Not much room in the tub,” said Spence. “No more than a couple of feet from head to ceiling. Vic was what? About five-five?”
“A hoist wouldn’t require much space if choked up all the way,” said Marlowe.
“Perhaps,” said Koop. “Though the killer attempted to tidy up after himself, we found traces of blood in the tub, on the floor, and on the bathroom walls. Once the body was drained of blood, he removed the organs, washed them clean, and brought them here for this totem. Impossible to remove all the blood in such a way, so you see the halos outlining each. Still, all in all, quite impressive.”
Marlowe and Spence moved in for a closer inspection while Koop continued. “After laying the body on the bed, he filled the abdomen and sewed it closed. For a final touch, he placed a coin over each eye and set a small cross fashioned from two small, cylindrical metal pieces and bound with copper wire on the victim’s neck below the chin.”
“He filled the body? With what?” asked Marlowe.
“Flowers. I’m not certain of the types. I’ll know more after I get the body back to the lab.”
“Hey, didn’t the Greeks do the coins on the eyes thing? I saw it in a Brad Pitt movie. Troy,” said Spence.
“You and your pop culture knowledge. You might have read it in a book years ago. If you read, that is. But actually, you’re right for once. Make a note of it. We’ll see if we can track down a connection between the coins and the writing…or whatever it is. A lot of symbolism all over this thing to sift through,” said Marlowe. He looked at Koop. “Murder weapon’s a knife? Scalpel, maybe?”
“Doubtful a scalpel, more likely a very sharp knife, six-inch blade, approximately. I’ll know more after a full autopsy.”
Marlowe fidgeted. “And when will that be?”
“A few hours. I should have my preliminary findings by late afternoon. Thorough tests and a full report will obviously take longer.”
“Fine, we’ll check in with you then.” Marlowe waved at the door. “Let’s get the photographer in here. Pictures of everything, lots of pictures. Koop, you can have the body once she’s done.”
“Very well. Until we meet again, gentlemen,” he said with a nod.
“Spence, I want everything bagged and tagged. Check the bathroom, I’ll search out here.” Marlowe began with the nightstand and dresser drawers while Spence examined the bathroom cabinets.
Spence’s voice echoed from the bathroom. “Got a shitload of pills in the medicine cabinet—Ambien, Xanax, Ativan, a couple of different prescribers.”
“Bottle of Oxycodone out here. Mixing this stuff would’ve killed her sooner or later without our guy’s butcher job.” Marlowe replaced the bottle in the drawer and took down a framed picture from the wall; the victim and a small boy, her arms wrapped around him, both smiling. In the background, swing sets and a seesaw.
“Who’s the woman downstairs?” asked Marlowe.
“Sister, Carrie Mellick. She found the vic. Messed her up pretty good.” Spence circled one finger in the air around his ear.
“Let’s head down and see if she can point us in a direction.”
The sister had not moved since they’d arrived. She rocked on the sofa, wiping her nose with a Kleenex. The box looked nearly empty, the wastebasket beside her full. Trails of mascara ran down her face, lipstick was smudged, eyes outlined in chalky black—a sad clown.
When she saw the two detectives approach, tears welled in her eyes anew.
“Ms. Mellick, I’m Detective Marlowe Gentry, this is my partner Detective Spencer Murray. I know you’ve answered some questions already, but would you mind answering a few for us?”
“Of course, anything I can do,” she said.
Marlowe flipped open a pad to take notes. “You found your sister at seven this morning?”
“Yes.” Carrie blew her nose on a pathetic scrap of overused tissue.
“Did you see anyone near the house? Anyone? Whether you knew them or not?”
“No, I come over most days near the same time. There’s hardly ever anyone around. Sometimes a neighbor passes on their way to work, or maybe out walking the dog.”
“Anyone pass this morning? Any dog walkers?”
Carrie shook her head. “No, I didn’t see anyone.”
Spence glanced at the windows, scoping the front yard. “Anything about the house seem different? Anything out of place or missing?”
“No, not that I noticed.” She dabbed the tissue on her reddened nose and peered bleary-eyed about the room, before shaking her head again. “No. No one.”
“What can you tell me about your sister?” Marlowe tried to sound sympathetic. “Where did she work?”
“She did work at an accounting firm, but she hasn’t been there in over a year.”
“Why is that?”
Carrie pointed to a picture of the same boy Marlowe had seen upstairs, this one a school photo. Good-looking kid, bright eyes, a mop of white-gold hair; he appeared to be nine or ten years old.
“Dalton, her son. He died of leukemia in July. Melissa stopped working when he got really sick, didn’t go back afterwards.”
“We found a lot of medications upstairs,” said Spence.
“All Melissa’s. I worried so much about her. After Dalton was gone, she became so depressed. She stayed in bed most of the day. I don’t know how she got all those pills. I’ve thrown away more than I can count, but somehow she always had more. I really thought she might kill herself.”
Carrie took the picture of Dalton from Marlowe and stared down, tears falling from her cheeks onto the glass. “She was so destroyed by Dalton’s death. That’s why I came every day to check on her. She wouldn’t answer the phone, so I had to come. Every day I feared finding her dead, but I never imagined…” She leaned forward, clutching her knees, unable to process the tragedy.
Marlowe placed a gentle hand on her forearm. “Do you know of anyone who might have a reason to harm your sister? Arguments, grudges? She was divorced, I take it. What about the ex-husband?”
“No, she stayed a total recluse for the past year. No one would have anything against her. She wasn’t married. Dalton’s father never entered the picture. He bolted before Dalton was born.”
Marlowe glanced around the room—crystal vases, big screen television, a pool outside the glass double-doors to the rear of the house. “Impressive house for a single mother/accountant.”
“Melissa worked because she wanted something to do more than needing the money. Our family owned Mellick Aeronautics, so we’ve always been wealthy. The company merged with Lockheed Martin several years ago. When Mom and Dad passed, we both inherited some money…well, a lot of money.”
Spence jotted something down. “Both parents are deceased?”
“Yes. A car accident in ’98.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Who’s the beneficiary for your sister’s estate?”
Carrie blanched. “Well, I am, but you don’t think…” She started bawling again. “I would never…”
“No, no of course not. We just have to ask,” said Marlowe. “That’s all for now. Thank you, Mrs. Mellick. The officer has your statement. We’ll contact you if we need anything further.”
Carrie reached out and grabbed Marlowe’s wrist. “Please catch the person who did this to my sister.”
Marlowe nodded and squeezed her hand. Turning to Spence, he motioned toward the door.
Once outside, Spence said, “You sure you’re all right? I thought you were going to take a header back there.”
“Spence, drop it. I’m fine.”
“Okay, okay. What do you make of the sister?”
“I think she’s going to need some serious therapy after seeing what she did. We’ll check her story. Money’s always a good motive, but she’s genuinely upset. I seriously doubt she possesses the strength to do what our killer did to the victim. Possible, I guess
, but highly unlikely. I don’t make her as the perp.”
Spence crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, and with no husband in the picture—obvious suspects…zero.”
“This isn’t an argument gone too far or a personal vendetta. Nope, you were close before when you started to say you hadn’t seen anything like this since the Churchill Murders. This is only the beginning. Things are about to go from bad to really fucking bad.”
“Shit. There goes my Bahamas vacation. Thought I’d take Miss Huge Boobs along, play naked Twister.”
Marlowe could not stifle a chuckle. “I’ll meet you back at the station.”
“What do you think the lieutenant wants?” asked Spence.
“I have an idea. Fill you in after, okay?”
More than an idea. Marlowe knew exactly what ate at the lieutenant. He tried to think of some way to avoid their little conference, but McCann would not let it go, no chance. Marlowe was certain he would not take him off the case. They needed him on this one, and although the lieutenant would rather swallow his tongue than admit it, Marlowe stood several cuts above the rest of Metro Homicide’s class of detectives. One of the reasons the higher-ups had looked the other way since…well, since the shit went down and he lost it for a while.
Okay, maybe shooting a couple of guys and seeing his wife in a pool of her own blood might screw with some people’s heads. Not to mention dealing with an eight-year-old daughter who had watched her mother brutally murdered right in front of her eyes. Even so, Marlowe had handled it pretty well. One tiny, nervous breakdown and everyone got all concerned. He had remained on the job, hadn’t he? He retained the highest solve rate in Homicide. So why all the fuss?
Who in this job had not seen their share of horrific shit? Everyone lived with some kind of nightmare the past refused to swallow. The lieutenant, more than most, should understand. Vietnam vet like him, probably hiding a little post-traumatic stress disorder in his closet somewhere.
A Coin for Charon Page 3