What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  “Good work, Horatio.”

  Reilly peered in closer to the body. She flipped back the adolescent girl’s jacket with her pen. Half the victim’s rib cage had been torn open. Her entrails lay strewn about. Some of her organs were in pieces, and others were missing altogether. Her flesh was shredded and torn.

  “Only an animal could have done something like this.” The image before Reilly had already begun to haunt her, yet she couldn’t avert her stare. Human depravity had hit a new low.

  “In some ways, you’re right, literally speaking. Most, if not all, of the lesions weren’t made by anything human. If you look closely at the wounds that serrate her neck, you’ll notice some well-defined teeth marks.”

  Reilly’s heart sank. “Don’t tell me—”

  “No!” Sanchez exclaimed. “God no. Those bites are canine. I’m guessing the coyotes got to her body before we could.”

  “Are you suggesting this wasn’t a homicide?”

  “With all the blood spread around like it is, her heart had to be still pumping when the coyotes found her. It makes me sick. She was just a kid.” Sanchez gasped. He swallowed hard. “It’s not unheard of for coyotes to attack small children—babies and toddlers mostly. But this girl looks just shy of her teens, and an animal attack wouldn’t explain how she got out here in the first place.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” Reilly frowned. She knew murder when she saw it. The only parts that the animal kingdom had played were in the obliteration of her crime scene and the desecration of her evidence. Even on the off chance that the girl had lived somewhere in the vicinity and her caretakers had simply let her wander off alone, someone was responsible. Reilly was going to make sure that someone hanged for this.

  “Hey, I’m merely giving my admittedly unqualified opinion,” Sanchez said. “I’ll leave the detecting to you detectives.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. All avenues must be explored. At the least, the coyotes may have dragged some evidence back to their den. Looking for that could be difficult. Plus, there’s no guarantee we’d find anything unless we cut them all open. Still,” Reilly continued, delving deeper into the remains, “I’ve seen markings like these before.” She jabbed her pen into the exposed ribcage, highlighting for the officer a set of small slashes and partially chipped bone barely visible within the bloodless skeleton. “Those cuts weren’t made by teeth. They were made by a knife.”

  Reilly rose to her feet. For the first time since she’d laid eyes upon the corpse, she was able to turn away from it. It was time to look for answers. She hoped the search wouldn’t be long.

  “Okay. Keep the perimeter in place. No one besides me, you, and forensics comes anywhere near this place.”

  “Got it.”

  “Who found the body?” she asked.

  “A boy, Timothy Samartino, and his sister, Alexia.”

  “Did they see anyone or anything?”

  “The boy is too traumatized to speak. From what I could gather from his sister, they were playing hide-and-seek when the boy stumbled upon the body.”

  Sanchez’s gaze returned to the body. “It looks like she’s been here at least one day. I doubt the kids would be able to help you much.”

  “Like I said, all avenues must be explored. Particularly now, when we got no other leads to follow up on.”

  “Understood. We’ll get full statements from the entire family.”

  “Whose tracks are those?” Reilly approached a large footprint, too big to be that of a child. Others like it tapered off farther into the woods, barely visible under the dimming sky.

  “We assume they belong to the perp.”

  “How would they still be fresh?” she asked. “Where do they lead?”

  “We lost track of them not far from an opening to the woods on Dyer Avenue. We think he may have entered and left from there. There aren’t too many houses in that area, which means less people would have been around to see him.”

  “Get people over there right away to question the neighbors. And tell the lab rats to get their sorry asses up here already, before night comes and, with it, scavenging coyotes. Have them concentrate their investigation around the tree and the body and branch out from those two focal points. Despite animal tampering, this site has got to be infested with evidence. Dumping a body out in the open like this and not even trying to hide it? This guy wants to get caught. Let’s not fail to oblige him.”

  CHAPTER 5

  C live awoke the next morning to a piercing headache. The incessant wail of the alarm clock was no consolation. He swatted it off. His un-air-conditioned third-floor apartment was swelteringly hot. The fall heat wave continued yet another day. More than a few experts blamed it on global warming. The heat brought out the crazy in everyone. It always did.

  It made Clive a little crazy too. Sweat drenched his body and his sheets. How he ever managed to fall asleep in that climate was a mystery to him.

  Already drained before his day could begin, Clive would still have preferred to stay in the sticky, stale heat under his bed sheets than to face the alternative. But his need for a paycheck forbade that option. He sat up, put his feet to the floor, and braced himself for another shitty day at the Harcourt Insurance Company.

  At Harcourt, Clive wasn’t lucky enough to sell insurance. Instead, he was relegated to a dead-end data-entry position with no chance of career growth or job satisfaction. Most of his day was spent flicking paperclips over the walls of his cubicle at half-expectant coworkers, or surfing the latest entertainment gossip on the Internet. His day was filled with unfulfillment.

  When Clive arrived at Harcourt, he did his best to be subtle about it. He sat at his desk, buried his head in his hands, and planned to space out for his first hour of work—a usual Monday ritual. It wasn’t until that moment that Clive realized his ear was still clogged.

  “Are you ignoring me?” a gorgeous brunette asked, pressing her shapely hip against the edge of Clive’s desk. She hung just over his right shoulder, an angelic beacon in the sea of despair he bitterly called work.

  “What?” Clive asked, barely making out the muffled jargon coming from the woman’s perfectly pouted lips. He tugged on his right earlobe and realized his hearing troubles persisted.

  “What were you saying?” He swiveled in his Wal-Mart special, nineteen-dollar desk chair, turning to face the beauty beside him. “I got some water in my ear that, for some reason, is reluctant to come out. I can’t hear shit out of it.”

  Consuela Maria Avilla Nuñez Gonzalez stared back at her coworker and lunch buddy. Her name being the mouthful that it was, most people, including Clive, just called her Connie. She was Harcourt’s attractive and most sexually harassed receptionist. There were two other receptionists at Harcourt. One was a male and the other a woman who looked more male than the male. Neither presented any competition, but even if they had, it wouldn’t have mattered. To Clive, Connie was absolutely perfect, his dream girl, and unobtainable. She was tall and leggy, voluptuous and smart. Three nights a week, she attended Bryant College as she worked toward a master’s degree in business administration. Her Harcourt work was temporary, an unhappy but financially necessary stepping-stone to a brighter future—and it was much safer than stripping.

  She seemed to have everything going for her. Yet, for reasons beyond Clive’s comprehension, Connie had taken a liking to him. And while most of his male, and some female, coworkers were thinking about how to get her into bed, Clive was thinking about how to get her to go out with him some night for a nice romantic dinner with some quiet time to get to know each other. If all went well, then he’d try to get her into bed.

  “How long has that been going on?” she asked.

  “Just since last night.”

  Clive dismissed his hearing woes as more bad luck. He’d had his share of that in life thus far—so much, in fact, that he’d learned to downplay it and quickly move on as though all bad events were inconsequential. He could forgive it all: his grandmother using an o
ld-school finger method to relieve his constipation at nine; his mom walking in on him while he masturbated to late-night Skinemax at fifteen; unknowingly breaking his foot a year later during a soccer game—an injury that was masked by the pain of a simultaneous shot to the testicles; his orthodontist informing him that he would continue to need braces through his senior year of high school after a gate swung open into his mouth; walking in on his ex-girlfriend fucking his cousin and his roommate at a college party; a seagull taking a pasty-white liquid shit on his head just the previous week; and now, an earful of putrefied water causing partial deafness. Such was just another day in the life of Clive Menard.

  “I’m sure it’ll just work its way out eventually,” he said. “No big deal.”

  “I don’t know, Clive. Does it hurt?”

  “No. It just sort of feels like I’m wearing an ear plug.”

  “You poor thing,” she said, resting her arms around his shoulders. Her closeness sent a jolt of excitement coursing throughout Clive’s body. He thought about baseball to keep it in check. He often associated Connie with baseball, even when the sport wasn’t in season.

  “Well, if it doesn’t improve soon, you should probably get it checked. It could be the beginning of an ear infection.”

  Clive pouted. “Aw, don’t say that.” He envisioned nasty microbacteria and other unfriendly substances percolating in his recent dunk tank. He wildly fantasized about flesh-eating viruses, bubonic plague, and other exotic maladies not often acquainted with Swansea, Massachusetts. But Clive chose not to dwell on his seemingly not-so-serious malady. He shook off the discomfort.

  “Well, are we on for lunch?” he asked.

  “Sure. The usual?”

  “You know it.”

  “I’ll see you later, then. Malcolm is already burying me with work this morning. I swear he barks orders at me just to have an excuse to stare at my tits.”

  Clive’s lips curled into a crooked smile. “If I were your boss, I just might do the same thing.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  Although her laugh was sarcastic, Connie’s smile seemed genuine. It made Clive blush. He rarely had the courage to flirt. He hoped Connie wasn’t completely put off by it.

  “I’ll catch you later,” she said with a wink. She strutted confidently in high heels back to her desk.

  Clive stared at his desk clock. It was 9:35 a.m. He turned on his computer. Briefly, he considered getting some work done. Then he began a moderately compulsive daily bout with Spider Solitaire and a less-than-healthy Instant Messenger conversation with Derek LeRoux. Distracters aside, Clive’s mind remained focused on Connie—her lingering perfume that he found undeniably enticing and her affectionate demeanor, which awakened dormant thoughts of what he dreamed could be. It had worked, at least partly, for Hephaistos and Aphrodite. Couldn’t it work for him and Connie?

  Nah. She’s way out of my league. No one could crush Clive’s optimism better than Clive himself. Unobtainable.

  “So, when are you going to hook me up with Morgan?”

  Derek’s message appeared on his monitor, followed by a winking smiley face that made Clive cringe. He rested his fingertips on his keyboard. A retort was warranted.

  “Dude, did you ever hear of the motto, ‘Bros before hos’? You know me and her are more than just friends.”

  Derek LeRoux was Clive’s best friend by default. Other than Morgan, Derek was his only real friend. But he found Derek to be egocentric, dorky, and somewhat sneaky. Needless to say, theirs wasn’t an overly valuable friendship.

  Derek worked an equally dead-end job as an IT guy for a struggling wannabe Geek Squad rip-off. He fit the computer-geek profile well: hair parted to the side, utility belt with a cell phone and portable radio that he put to no known uses, a second cell phone of equally unknown use, white button-down, tan khakis, and slip-resistant black shoes, which he wore nearly every day. He also had a slight pot belly from too many lunches at the local Taco Bell and too many dinners at the local sports pub. He’d been a pioneer in Dungeons and Dragons back during that one afternoon when D&D was almost cool, or at least not yet known enough to be universally ridiculed for its high nerd factor. Rumor had it that he had already logged over two hundred hours playing the latest offering from the World of Warcraft.

  Together, Derek and Clive probably averaged ten hours of actual work each week. Clive couldn’t guess why either of them was still employed. But despite his lack of ambition, Derek was neither a good guy nor a bad guy. He was just Derek—somewhat sleazy, somewhat loyal, but always, always predictable. And always after Morgan.

  “How long have you known her?” Derek asked.

  “Nearly my whole life.”

  “And you never dated her?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Whatever, man. I’m just saying, share the wealth.”

  “I don’t think you’re her type,” Clive said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Her type ain’t a sexy and smart stallion like me?”

  “Yeah, you reek of class.”

  “Hey, I can be classy,” Derek said. “I took my last date to Outback.”

  “Yep, you the man. Anyway, I have to go. Work beckons.”

  “Is Judge Judy riding your ass again?”

  Clive reached for his mouse at warp speed, frantically closing out the message box as though its very presence were toxic. Then, he remessaged Derek to let him know that he was pissed.

  “Damn it, Derek. I told you a hundred times not to write shit like that. You never know when she’s spying.”

  “You never know when who’s spying?” a voice called out sternly behind him. A wave of stale coffee breath lapped against the back of his neck, forcibly curving itself around Clive’s face like a wet fog and imposing its fetid stench in Clive’s nostrils. A sagging boob rested against his shoulder blade.

  Clive slowly moved his mouse to close out of his conversation with Derek, as if minimal speed would make his action go undetected. The Instant Messenger box now closed, all that remained on-screen was a thrilling game of Spider Solitaire already in progress. He closed his eyes momentarily, a peaceful repose before the onslaught. Judge Judy stood behind him.

  “Turn that crap off,” she barked.

  Reluctantly, Clive complied. I had a chance to beat it this time too. But the Judge had spoken, and her rulings were final.

  Judge Judy was actually Judith Schenkland. She earned her nickname because her name was so close to that of the famous telelegalist, Judge Judy Sheindlin. But if Clive found the real Judge Judy to be a megabitch, his boss was a gigabitch—a crotchety, cantankerous, miserable sort that nobody liked.

  Judith was the assistant vice president of marketing, and somehow, in the fucked-up hierarchy that was the Harcourt management scheme, she was direct supervisor to the data-entry department, aka Clive Menard. Judith’s wretchedness as a person was outdone by her wretchedness as a boss. She went out of her way to make her subordinates hate both her and their jobs. Perhaps it was her one failed marriage or her seventeen failed diets, but Judith’s personality rivaled that of the most detestable shock jock or reality-television star, thus earning her the nickname. Nevertheless, neither Clive nor anyone else at Harcourt had the cojones to call her Judge Judy to her ill-begotten four-chinned face.

  She grabbed Clive by his upper arm and twirled him around in his chair. She then grabbed both of his shoulders, placing a considerable amount of weight on him and a strain on his cheap roller chair. Fortunately for both Clive and Judith, the chair rolled backward an inch into Clive’s desk, allowing the desk to support the surplus weight. Not unlike countless prior occasions, Clive wished his desk wasn’t situated so that he sat with his back to the opening of his cubbyhole cubicle.

  He stared into the eyes of a nemesis. Judith’s breath came on more strongly, corroding him to the point of nausea. He gazed up at the sweaty beast like a rabbit too scared to run from an approaching predator. And like a predator, Judith went in for the ki
ll.

  “So, were you winning?” she asked, pointing to Clive’s now-blank computer screen.

  Actually, I think I was. Clive held back his smartass remark. He invoked his right to remain silent. He knew anything he said at that moment, no matter how innocent, could and would be used against him in Judge Judy’s court.

  “Did you get any work done yet?” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Judith. I had a long weekend. Plus, my ear is messed up. I can’t hear a thing out of it. But that’s no excuse. I’ll get started immediately and work through lunch.”

  Judith huffed, her sagging breasts rising and falling with each difficult breath. “That won’t be necessary. Just get to work. And if your ear is messed up, you should get it checked.”

  What? That’s it? Clive was dumbfounded. As Judith trotted off, probably to torture some other unfortunate soul, he sighed in relief. That went way better than expected. Maybe she got laid last night. The combination of the horrid mental image Clive had conjured up and the psychologically tormenting memory of Judith’s coffee breath caused a little chunk of vomit to rise in his throat. He swallowed it back down, wincing from its vile taste.

  Whatever it was, I’d be a fool to question her leniency. I got lucky, but I’d better get some work done.

  Clive worked a solid fifteen minutes before being bombarded with instant messages and revitalizing his itch to play solitaire. Every now and then, he would stare at his screen blankly, drooling a bit while daydreaming about Connie. His ear remained clogged, but he paid it no further attention. He’d grown accustomed to it. With silence surrounding him, the ear’s condition became a vague and distant memory, closeted somewhere in the nether regions of Clive’s temporarily vacant mind.

  CHAPTER 6

  O n his way home from work, Clive stopped by the local CVS for some Q-Tips and breath mints. Then he headed to the liquor store for a twelve-pack of Sam Adams. His brother would be stopping by to watch the Sox game, and he planned to be the gracious host. A giant bag of Buffalo wings awaited his arrival, secretly stashed in his freezer behind a bag of ice. He prayed his roommate hadn’t found them yet.