The Hundredth Man

by J. A. Kerley

  “Excuse me, Captain,” I said, “but this scene, combined with the Nelson murder, displays evidence of a disordered mind, pyschopathologically or socio pathologically that means “

  Squill jabbed a manicured digit toward the door. “Door,” he elucidated.

  “Dammit, sir, hear me out. The evidence indicates “

  “Swearing at a superior officer? That’s it. I’m done talking, Detective.”

  “Then how about listening, Captain? We have two men beheaded, and we have “

  “You, Officer,” Squill barked to a young patrolman by the back door. “Yes, you. Wake up. Get over here and escort Mr. Ryder from the house, now.”

  ” clear evidence of a disordered mind … “

  Burlew’s hand tightened around my bicep like a vise and I yanked it free. “Off me, Burl. Shouldn’t you be washing the captain’s socks or something?”

  Burlew wheeled to me and spat a gray plug of newsprint on the floor. “Anytime,” he dared, a foul-breathed Gibraltar with clenched fists, cannonball biceps bulging beneath his jacket. “Got the balls to try it?”

  I shifted my balance low in my hips and felt the buzz of energy just below my navel. I could smell heat coming off Burlew. His penny-sized eyes blazed with anger, but behind it I sensed fear.

  “Sergeant,” Squill commanded. “Get over here. We have work to do.” Squill gave Burlew a come-hither twitch.

  I spoke low. “Captain needs a foot rub, Burl. Best get on it.”

  Burlew tried to set me on fire with his glare, then tongued his lips and turned toward the studio, a heavy shoulder nudging me as he passed. “Your time’s coming, asshole,” he whispered.

  The uniform was at my side. “I’m sorry, Detective Ryder,” he said, “but could you please step outside, sir? Please.”

  Shaking with anger, I went to the porch and heard Harry’s whistle. He walked up from the shadows beside the house.

  “Welcome to the B team, Carson. We B out here while Squill’s in there. He showed up while you were with the fiancee and it was like the Marines landing.”

  “Explain this to me, Harry. Am I missing something?”

  Harry pointed to a big command SUV pulling onto the front lawn, engine revving needlessly, tires breaking traction and spitting grass. Look at me, the machine seemed to say as it lurched to a stop. The passenger door opened. After a five-second pause to let camera lights frame the scene, Deputy Chief Plackett emerged as if born of the dark vehicle. He straightened his tie, showed the newsies his palm, and no-commented his way to the house. Bile roiled in my stomach I got the message: Squill and Plackett were doing the brass-hat dance, Squill performing for Plackett, Plackett for the cameras and public. While inside the house a dead and mutilated human body functioned as a prop in an act of ego theater.

  “Excuse me, Detective Ryder?”

  I turned to the uniform Squill had walk me from the house, a young blond guy looking like he’d skipped directly from the Cub Scouts to the MPD.

  “I’m sorry about the action in there, sir. The captain ordered me and I … “

  “Did what you had to do. Relax.”

  “It’s bullshit if you ask me, Detective. It seems if anyone should be in there, it should be you. This crazy stuff … wasn’t it you solved that Adrian case by yourself? I mean, didn’t you?”

  His words were innocent, but they wrapped dread around me. From the corner of my eye I saw Harry’s head angle my way, watching my response.

  “Not really,” I told the patrol officer, trying to talk through the sand in my throat. “I just got lucky that other time. And I had a lot of help.”

  “Carson, you NEEEEED ME AGAIN … “

  I didn’t tell him where the help had come from. Or how just thinking of going back for more made my knees weak and my spine cold. I looked at Harry. He was studying the sky like it was a movie screen.

  I drove home with the windows down, the AC blasting, and a knot in my gut the windstorm in the car couldn’t blow away. Created in the wake of the Adrian killings, the PSIT was the rarest of all public-relations contrivances: one that accidentally or not served a purpose. But, like so many blue-ribbon-panel creations over the years, the PSIT seemed destined for an unmourned death. Quietly excised from existence in the next iteration of the procedures manual, its transitory purpose would be served, its vaporous delusions no longer required. Until the next Joel Adrian. Or maybe whatever the hell was out there now.

  When I arrived home, drained and angry, the light on my phone signaled a message. I pressed the Play button.

  “Hello, Carson? Are you there? It’s Vangie Prowse. Pick up, please. I want to talk to you about Jeremy. We have some things to discuss. Carson?”

  The message beeped to an end. I pressed Erase and fell into bed.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Is Piss-it coordinating this case or not,” I asked Lieutenant Tom Mason when he arrived at 7:30 the next morning. “We’ve got two headless corpses. Are we waiting for the killer’s shrink to call and say, “Yes, Cutter’s wacko, yours truly, Dr. Igor Hassenpfeffer’?”

  I sat heavily on my desk, upending a mug of pencils.

  “Hassenpfeffer? Is that a real name?” Tom asked, bending to retrieve pencils from the floor. Tom’s head of the Crimes Against Persons unit and our main line of defense against the brass. He’s a rail-thin fifty, has a face like a suicidal bloodhound, and is utterly without guile. I’d been stewing about last night’s confrontation when Tom walked up. Harry, just in and peeling off his chartreuse suit coat, was right behind.

  “Listen to this,” I said, lifting the revised procedures manual from my desk and declaiming the PSIT section with the zeal of a jailhouse lawyer.

  Tom nodded. “Read that this morning myself.”

  “Is it pud-pulling, or is it for real?”

  Harry sat down with a cup of coffee and gave me his indulgent look. Tom said, “Harry, you remember that rotten oP scow our river-patrol boys used to have? That itty-bitty boat?” It took Tom most of a minute to say the sentence. He’d come up on a watermelon farm near the Mississippi border, in the deep-back country, where folks talked about as fast as melons grew; if Tom talked any slower he’d talk backward.

  Harry nodded. “The leaky tub with the iffy bilge pump.”

  Tom put his foot on a chair and crossed his arms over his knee. “Carson, back around ‘99 we got us a brand-new boat donated by Mabry’s Marine. Twenty-four foot. Hundred-fifty-horse motor. Stable as a granite Cadillac. Even had life jackets.”

  I sat tight and waited it out. Tom couldn’t bless-you a sneeze in under five minutes.

  “Comes the day to dedicate that boat, Carson, y’know, christen it. A big ol’ to-do. Told the politicos, called the newsies. Except nobody’s told the chaplain. The band played, the politicians yapped. The people stood and stared. But no christening.”

  My attention started to drift. Harry nudged my arm, pointed at Tom, Listen up.

  “The very next night some dope-boater comes hauling weed through the fog and slams a log north of the causeway. Rain. Heavy chop. Waterspouts in the bay. But we still had to fish bales from the water before the tide sucked them away. You know which one of them boats the boys took out?”

  Harry poked me and said, “They took the old boat because the new one hadn’t been blessed, Carson. They weren’t going to trust their asses to it without the blessing of a higher power. The PSIT’s real, but it’s basically brand-new. No one wants to trust it until it’s been blessed.”

  “And when do we know if we’re receiving this anointment?” I asked.

  “Should be pretty quick,” Tom said, tapping the crystal of his watch. “The chief’s called a meeting in twenty minutes.”

  Three words came to mind when I thought of Chief Hyrum: chain of command. If the chief was beside me while I choked on a gum ball he’d walk to his office and call a deputy chief of support services. The DCSS would inform the major in charge of the Criminal Investigations Section, who would alert the capta
in of the Investigative Services Division. The captain would inform the lieutenant in charge of the Crimes Against Persons Unit, and the lieutenant would send a sergeant from Homicide to Heimlich my corpse.

  Structure was his insulation from reality. Or, to be kinder, from decision making. He’d been thrust into the position three years ago when the then-chief suffered a heart attack and retired. Hyrum made several well-intentioned missteps in restructuring the department and most resulted in negative publicity and general internal bellyaching. Made wary by the experience, the chief now preached straight from the book and leaned toward the familiar passages. He approached recent experiments the PSIT, for example like a blind man nearing the sound of unfamiliar machinery.

  We got to the conference room a few minutes early. I drank a cup of coffee by the urn, then filled another and sat as the others filed in. It was an improbable assemblage of rankings, starting at the pinnacle with Chief Hyrum. Below him was Deputy Chief Belvidere, and because Belvidere attended, so did DC Plackett. On the next stratum was Blasingame from District Three, Cantwell from Two, and Tom Mason. Then, dicks from the districts where the murders had occurred: Rose Blankenship from Two and Sammy Walters from Three.

  The chief and Squill entered, nodding and gesturing in conversation as Squill patted the chief’s shoulder. Chief Hyrum was fifty-three, maybe six feet tall, and gave the impression of solidity, though a few pounds of belly drifted over the belt line. The room fell quiet as he sat and looked out over the expectant faces.

  He held on mine.

  “I understand you were involved in some miscommunication last night, Detective Ryder. Would you care to explain your side of the story? Now’s your chance.”

  I felt my stomach fall and churn. “Explain what, sir?”

  Squill cleared his throat. “Chief, sometimes mistakes are made and apologies are necessary.”

  Hyrum said, “I can accept that, Captain.”

  Every face turned my way. I felt like the lead in a play that closed before I’d read the script. It seemed Squill had gotten to the chief before the meeting and poor-mouthed me over last night’s incident. I was obviously required to apologize to him.

  “What’s happening here?” I asked.

  Hyrum said, “I say let bygones be bygones, Detective. It’s best to forget mistakes and … ”

  I smacked the table with my palm. Coffee splashed from cups to the table. Grumbles.

  “No, dammit. I demand to hear what you’ve been told about last night.”

  Beside me Harry moaned so softly only I could hear him. Chief Hyrum gave me a three-count glare as he sopped spilled coffee with his napkin. “Captain Squill said you and Detective Nautilus were doing an excellent job of processing the scene under PSIT directives when the captain mistakenly established command under standard procedures, resulting in some confusion.”

  Harry moaned again. Hyrum continued. “Captain Squill also told me … ”

  “That I deeply regret any mistakes,” Squill interjected in a mortician-smooth voice. “I assure all in this room and especially Detective Ryder that I’ve since read the procedures. Twice. No, three times.”

  A sprinkling of laughter at Squill’s self-deprecation. He was doing mea culpa and I was doing me an asshole. I’d expected him to lie about last night and he’d trumped me by telling the truth.

  “Can we move on, Detective Ryder?” Hyrum asked, a baleful eye glaring my way.

  I nodded. Please. Quickly. I shot a glance at Squill; he was stroking his chin and smiling out the window. The chief focused on Harry. “You’ve been at both scenes, Detective Nautilus. What’s your opinion?”

  “I’ve been more involved with interviewing bystanders, Chief, so I’ll punt to Detective Ryder.”

  It was Harry’s way of lifting me back in the saddle. Suitably chastened and without a single drop of coffee spilled, I ticked off a list of facts.

  “Cold blooded,” Rose Blankenship said when I’d finished. “Any take on the messages?”

  I followed with a quick review of where Harry and I had been: anagrams, astrological symbols, mythical symbols, basic letter codes, nothing feeling right except the notion that the killer felt secure and in control of the situation.

  “Why don’t you piece together the events leading to the murder as you see them, Detective Ryder,” the chief said.

  I nodded and started my timeline, trying to sound as professional and assured as a network news anchor. “The perpetrator arrived for an eight p.m. meeting arranged, I’m sure, by phone. He overpowered Mr. Deschamps and killed him. The mechanism of killing can’t yet be determined.

  Using an extremely sharp implement, he beheaded Mr. Deschamps a process Forensics informs me could take less than a minute. Before the decapitation the perpetrator spent ten or so minutes writing on the body, using “

  Squill interrupted. “Ten minutes? You’re sure?” He liked to keep speakers off balance with scattershot questions. Unless, of course, the speaker ranked above Squill, who then hung rapt and mute on every word.

  I kept the irritation from my voice. “I figure it was somewhere in that range, Captain.”

  “How did you arrive at that number? Forensics?”

  “Not exactly, Captain. It’s sort of an independent experiment, a way to … ”

  Squill nodded triumphantly, as if he’d caught me in a bald-faced lie. I heard another low moan from Harry’s direction. “Detective Ryder, I know we’re blue-skying here, but we assign times to actions only after a qualified judgment from Forensics.”

  “I think it’s qualified, sir,” I said. “Empirically at least.” I hadn’t had time to run it by Harry, he’d been at court.

  Chief Hyrum frowned. “What are you talking about, Detective Ryder?”

  “Like I said, a kind of experiment, sir.”

  “Explain, please.”

  I stood and dropped my pants.

  Harry sounded like he was having an attack of appendicitis.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mr. Cutter sat in his car in the morgue lot and waited for her. He hadn’t thought of himself as Mr. Cutter originally, but after using the name with Deschamps, he’d come to enjoy it, like a good joke. Deschamps had certainly seemed attached to it, saying Mr. Cutter this and Mr. Cutter that, but everything about Deschamps had been likable; he was so eager to please. He’d even fallen supine; Mr. Cutter did not have to wrestle him over so the blood would pool in his back and not discolor the important parts.

  They’d built a firm relationship from that first phone call: “Mr. Deschamps, I’m Alec Cutter, and I’d like to discuss the creation of a logo and other corporate identity materials for my new company. I’m hoping you might work up both some typographic solutions and perhaps some graphic treatments … “

  Mr. Cutter chuckled at the memory it had taken fifteen minutes in the library with an advertising primer to glean enough jargon to avoid suspicion.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Cutter, I’ve had plenty of experience with logos and corporate ID. I’ll show you some samples when you arrive. You said eight? I look forward to it.”

  Mr. Cutter knew his man would be alone. After Deschamps became one of the Absolutes several months back, Mr. Cutter dedicated over a hundred hours to the artist’s schedule and habits. His female always left Monday and returned late on Thursday. Though Mr. Cutter worked a day job, his schedule was flexible, allowing him to devote the necessary hours to stalking his quarry.

  Nothing in the universe was more important.

  Mr. Cutter arrived at the house at 7:50 p.m. and Deschamps suggested meeting in the studio. He turned his broad back and led the way, showing a strong roll of shoulder and shapely cut of bicep beneath the short-sleeve dress shirt. Perfect. And untainted, as Mr. Cutter already knew. Deschamps wasn’t the type for scarifying trends like tattoos and piercings; he was picture perfect from neck to knees.

  He’d even sent Mr. Cutter the picture to prove it.

  Mr. Cutter conducted his true business, then cleaned the studi
o like a maid possessed. Removing every mote of evidence wasn’t overly difficult with knowledge and planning. Time wasn’t an issue Deschamps’s woman never arrived before 22:00 on Thursday. He didn’t want her late, but delays sometimes long ones were inevitable in her line of work, and Mr. Cutter- dropped the thermostat to its lowest point.

  Nelson had been even easier than the artist. Mr. Cutter instantly recognized a man driven by greed. The phone call had been almost delicious.

  “You don’t know me, Mr. Nelson, but we have a friend in common.”

  “Tony? Ranee? Bobby?”

  “Now, now, you know not all of your friends want to be, how shall I say, friends in the morning. Just night friends. Nameless night friends. Generous nameless night friends.”

  Laughter from Nelson. He loved little games, you could tell.

  “I’d enjoy just meeting you, Mr. Nelson, somewhere quiet, out of the way … I’m a man of simple tastes and ample wallet … There’s a little park not far from me … “

  It had worked so wonderfully. Nelson, too, was perfect from chin to knee, just like his photographs had predicted.

  A pickup truck pulled into the morgue lot. Mr. Cutter bent low and reached to the glove box as if looking for something, face averted. When the truck passed by, he sat up and returned to his reflections.

  Two of his projects had gone well, one had gone to hell.

  It was his first attempt. Horrible. He’d been deceived by a man-child and should have beaten the bastard’s face into paste right there in the farm-field dark with the music and watermelons. After seeing the disgusting thing the little scummer had scrawled on his chest, Mr. Cutter head-bashed the bastard with a rock, then slipped away unnoticed, leaving the drugged-up fools to their glowing necklaces, water bottles, and filthy clutchings.

  Thirty-seven and a half hours of research and planning turned into vapor. Fortunately, Nelson had sent his particulars a week later. He’d been so easy it almost made up for the time spent on … what was the little bastard’s name? Farrier?