THE CHARM OF REVENGE

by Tom Secret

  “Hey, Steve, what have you got?”

  “It would appear to be pussy hair.” The medical examiner clambered to his feet.

  “As in the fairer sex?”

  He gave Donatello a deadpan look. “As in Felis domesticus, Lieutenant.”

  “Ah, sorry.” Donatello felt himself blush as the officers chuckled outside the door. “Any of you officers find a cat or cat bowls?”

  The smiles disappeared as the men murmured no.

  Donatello pointed to the zipper across the victim’s abdomen. “Missing anything?”

  “Hmm, the kitchen display.” Steve unscrewed the lid of a Perspex petri dish and dropped the hair inside. “It certainly rules out suicide.” He smiled and replaced the lid.

  “Was it the cause of death?”

  Steve placed the petri dish in his crime scene toolbox. “If the liver out there came from in here, he either bled out or died of toxicity from the hepatectomy.”

  “So, someone brought him in, took out his liver, sewed him up, filled the bath, then left him to die while arranging the Sunday roast on the chopping board?”

  Steve dipped his head to peer over his half-moon glasses. “That would be my prognosis, Lieutenant.”

  “You got a time of death?”

  “Given the degree of rigor to the eyelids, neck, and jaw, and pooling to the underside, I would say around three hours ago.”

  Donatello cast his eyes over the body, trying to fathom what was niggling him. “Why are there so few stitches on the wound, Steve? The flesh is already tearing away.”

  “I don’t think the perp was looking to score a needlework prize or a lifesaving badge.”

  “Then why sew him up, if there was no chance of him surviving?”

  “You want me to tell you a surgeon did this and then sewed him up through force of habit?”

  “Did he?”

  “Perhaps. An angry one.” Steve pulled the gloves off with a snap and zipped them into a bag in his box. “Or maybe a doctor with practical knowledge of anatomy, or a medical researcher. Perhaps a vet, or a taxidermist, take your pick.”

  “Gee, thanks for narrowing it down.”

  “You’ll notice the ligature marks here.” Steve pointed to the victim’s wrists. “And an area of trauma to the skin on his chest that could have come from a blow or an electric shock.”

  “Stun gun?”

  “A Taser, and there’s also a contused needle entry point here above the knee.”

  “Not self-inflicted, then.”

  “Not.”

  “So?”

  “So, Lieutenant. The victim,” Steve removed his glasses and slid them into his breast pocket, “was drugged and tortured.”

  “To get him to talk?”

  “Could be. It’s a long procedure, highly invasive. Or maybe he’s sending a message.”

  “To us?”

  “Sure. Not everyone dislikes cops, you know.”

  “How do you know he was conscious—able to talk, I mean?”

  Steve bent down and opened the victim’s mouth. “Because, Lieutenant, he bit through his tongue.”

  47. WHERE’S WALTON?

  Thursday, 9:12 p.m.

  Randall shuffled across his apartment as the banging sounded again. “All right, I’m coming!” He peered through the keyhole and swung open the door. “What the hell is your problem, Snyderman? You expect me to sprint to the door with a busted coccyx? I’m in agony, thanks to you!”

  “Forget about that; we have bigger problems. I met Piest and the Westside gang—”

  “No, no! Don’t tell me, that tricksy little maggot is dumping us in shit, isn’t he? How the hell are we going to arrange another supplier with half our team gone?”

  “You didn’t let me finish! Piest is not the problem. Michaels is getting twenty-six tomorrow, and if you’ll just let me come in—”

  Randall didn’t move. “Just spit it out, will you?”

  “If you can shut up for ten seconds and stop interrupting me, Cilcifus, I’ll tell you!”

  “It’s still, boss to you, Snyderman.” Randall shuffled out of the way.

  The big man stalked past him. “Ugh, what is that stench?”

  “Bogey’s tank, now get on with it!”

  “After I left Piest, I went to Walton’s for a beer, but the place was swarming with cops.”

  “So what?”

  “I think someone eradicated him.”

  “Unlikely.” Idiot doesn’t even speak like a normal person, Randall thought, hobbling back to his waiting cushions. “How do you know they didn’t just arrest him? Have you called Michaels?”

  “Sure, after he tried to slit my throat!

  “You had it coming.”

  “Michaels is lucky I didn’t kill him.”

  “Right, that’s exactly how it would have gone down.” Randall watched Snyderman eyeing his hunting gear.

  “Are you going away, in the middle of all these problems?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going hunting.” Randall’s heart skipped at the thought.

  “You’re a disgusting excuse for a human, you know?”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyway, so what if Walton’s been off’d?”

  Snyderman spun around. “Are you stupid? The police have Rohn, Antwan’s may be dead, along with Walton, and they already arrested you once.”

  Randall’s cheek twitched. “Do you have a point to make, Snyderman?”

  “Our operation’s going down faster than the Titanic, and you’re acting like everything’s dandy! I want out.”

  Randall shifted on his cushions. “First off, they never arrested me. Second, Rohn’s in a coma and can’t talk to anyone. We’re guessing what happened to Walton, and there’s nothing to connect him to us, anyway. And if the cops knew about Antwan, they’d have already come around for tea, so be thankful we have direct contact with Dimitri now.”

  Snyderman shook his head. “You’re out of your tiny mind. I’m getting out while I still can.”

  “Lighten up, will you? If Walton’s gone, there’s more money for us. Worthless cowgirl was past his sell-by date, anyway.”

  “You don’t get it, do you, Cilcifus? You’re assuming Rohn’s crash was an accident, but what happened to Antwan sure wasn’t, because you left him at Fairweathers, and he hasn’t been seen since. If Walton’s gone, too, that’s half the team in less than a week! I’m telling you someone is taking us out!”

  “You know your problem, Snyderman? You’re a whiner, always focused on the negatives. Try to think positive, and it will change your point of attraction, trust me, good things will start to happen for you.”

  “The cops are beating down our door, while our colleagues are dropping like flies; surely even your twisted brain can’t make that positive.”

  Randall’s cheek twitched as he glared at the man standing before him. “Half the team, twice the money, and the Westside gang are doing the work, so lighten the hell up.”

  “I’m through, Cilcifus. Get me my payment for the last shipment.”

  “Since when do you give me orders?”

  “I earned that money, and I want it in my account!”

  “Tut, tut.” Randall smiled. “Your lack of trust is becoming irksome.”

  “Don’t be clever. If I don’t get confirmation tomorrow, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “And there you go, threatening me again.”

  Snyderman studied Randall as if he was trying to figure something out.

  “You’re behind what happened to Walton, aren’t you?”

  Randall’s smile vanished. “Watch your mouth, or you’ll find out!”

  “You not even denying it!” Snyderman jabbed his finger at Randall. “Tomorrow, or else!” He stormed out.

  Randall winced as he shifted his weight on the cushions to look over at the giant glass terrarium. “You hear Bogey? That nasty man just threatened us for the last time.”

  48. THE LEDGER

&nbs
p; Thursday, 9:36 p.m.

  Brad grabbed his med bag and the ledger off the backseat of the pickup and walked across the gravel drive. His boots hit the tiled front step as the heavy bolts inside the door hummed open, and the door swung inward.

  Marcus looked haggard. “Where are they?”

  “Michaels has them.” Brad pushed past, forcing him aside. “Where’s Lola?”

  “She was hysterical, so I gave her sedatives.

  Brad headed for the stairs.

  “Wait.” Marcus keyed in the code and hit the button to reactivate the bolts. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Really!” Brad let the med bag slip from his hand, the metal studs beneath cracking as they hit the black-and-white tiles. “And I should listen after you argued that Lilly and Jack should go back to school.”

  “How could I know they’d try again?”

  “Because I told you they would, and you shouted me down! I even backed you when Lola said it was a bad idea, so this one’s on you, Mr. Know-it-all!”

  Marcus folded his arms “That’s the thanks I get after all I’ve done, is it?”

  “What have you done? You’ve never been around to do anything!”

  Marcus moved toward him. “Don’t you—”

  “Enough Dad! No more charades.”

  Marcus’s fists clenched and unclenched, but he didn’t respond.

  “Thank God, something has finally shut you up! Now, help me figure out how to get my children back.”

  Marcus looked as though he’d had the wind kicked out of him. “What’s in your hand?”

  “See for yourself.” Brad shoved the ledger at him and walked along the hallway toward the kitchen. “It was Walton’s,” he called without looking back.

  Marcus followed him into the kitchen. “What did you do with him?”

  Brad slumped onto the seat in the breakfast nook. “Not much.”

  “Did he talk?”

  “No, he sang like a canary. He said Lilly and Jack would be at Michaels’s warehouse, but they weren’t, so I checked Michaels’s house again, and it was empty.”

  Marcus laid the ledger on the table and slid into the seat opposite. “He must have another warehouse.”

  “Where, though? I checked the land records, and the filed accounts before I left. All I got was the two properties I already checked, and Walton gave me the same ones.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “That the buyers would collect the children on Sunday… I’ve got to get hold of Black and Michaels.”

  Marcus opened the ledger. His eyes scanned the printed names, dates, and amounts on the first page. He flicked to the second and continued reading, the shadows beneath his eyes growing darker until he closed the ledger and let it drop on the table. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been searching for this, Son. Half of City Hall is in here.”

  “I know, it’s kryptonite… hang on, how could you be searching for it when this only just happened?”

  Marcus pulled the ledger off the table, onto his lap. “Sorry, Son, I can’t tell you.”

  Brad ran his hands through his hair as his mouth gaped open. “Are you shitting me, this is no time for secrets!”

  “Believe me, I want to, but I can’t. Not until I’m sure.”

  “Sure of what? Black and Michaels buried us to get at you. Now they’ve got Lilly and Jack, and you want to run off again? I don’t believe it. That’s why you wanted them to go to school!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Brad jabbed the center of the table with his finger. “You used Lilly and Jack as bait!”

  Marcus looked at the darkened window.

  “You’re not even refuting it!”

  “Stan Witner confirmed the guy at your house was IRS.”

  “I bloody well know that! And the one that got away was Randall Cilcifus, his boss. So what else have you got up your sleeve?”

  “Did Walton give you an address for Cilcifus?”

  “You think I’d be here if he had?”

  “Maybe you didn’t ask hard enough.”

  “If I’d asked any harder, he would’ve died two hours sooner. Did Witner give you anything we can use?”

  Marcus shook his head.

  Brad’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t, or you’re not saying what you got?”

  Marcus got up and went over to the kettle, taking the ledger with him.

  “I don’t believe this! Lilly and Jack could die, and you’d rather shoot craps with their lives than tell me what you know!”

  “I told you, I have to verify my suspicions before I say any more.”

  “Verify!” Brad’s fist slammed the granite tabletop. “Well, you’d better do it fast, because I’m going after Black and Michaels tomorrow, and if I don’t find my children, I’m coming back for you!”

  49. UNDERWORLD

  Friday, 2:04 p.m.

  Donatello pushed open the door of the new city morgue and recoiled as formaldehyde stung his sinuses, and the fluorescents reflecting off the shiny surfaces dazzled his eyes, adding to the sensory irritation.

  Along the left wall was a bank of stainless steel doors, each containing a refrigerated chamber. On the right were half a dozen gurneys, and down the middle of the room, running crosswise, stood five stainless steel tables with drainage and irrigation pipes beneath.

  Donatello headed toward the far end of the room where a cadaver lay with the skin flap from its chest pulled over its face. A pallid medical examiner in a white coat and Perspex face shield was sawing through the rib cage of his latest arrival. He placed the saw on the trolley beside him, positioned himself over the body, inserted his hands into the newly formed openings, and pulled.

  The rib cage lifted free with a sucking noise that made Donatello’s stomach churn. Unbeknown to most people, Stanley was not just an M.E., but a gambling whale. Most nights, he played high stakes poker, and more often than not, he won. Cutting up bodies was his hobby.

  “Afternoon, Stanley!”

  The man smiled from behind the Perspex. “Hello, Lieutenant. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.” He placed the rib cage back over the exposed organs.

  “Sorry to drop in unannounced. Did you look at the body with the abdominal zipper?”

  “Ah, yes, highly irregular.” Stanley pulled a sheet over the cadaver, removed his face guard, and threw the gloves into a dedicated wastebasket. “It’s over here.”

  Donatello followed him to the wall of doors and watched as he checked the clipboard, yanked open one door, then pulled the handle at the end of the body tray. The drawer rolled out with a rumble.

  Stanley threw back the white sheet to reveal the dissected, washed, and reconstructed remains of the deceased, Mr. Walton. “Et Voila!”

  Donatello glanced over the body. “What did you find?”

  “Hmm, well, you probably guessed your victim received a hepatectomy. A sloppy one, mind, but that’s what it was.”

  “We did. Any foreign DNA or rogue fragments?”

  “The perp doused the body in bleach to eliminate DNA, but you might be interested to know the tox report confirms conscious sedation.”

  Donatello rubbed the stubble on his face. “So he was awake?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And bit through his tongue.”

  “Right before his heart stopped, judging by the limited blood in the stomach.”

  “Would he have been able to talk, I mean, before?”

  “Not during the operation, but this blend of meds is used for bone fractures, invasive dental work, and such because patients rapidly recover their normal faculties. Why?”

  “Just wondering. You think a surgeon did this?”

  “Lieutenant, a surgeon wields his scalpel the way a conductor uses his baton. Making music from the flesh. Each caress is deliberate, nothing wasted, while this, is something else.”

  “A medical student, then?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Okay. So let’s call that a yes. How many
years before they could perform something like this?”

  Stanley folded his arms. “I know what you’re after, Lieutenant, but it’s not that simple. Most recently qualified surgeons have no practical experience with a live patient; conversely, a first-year that grew up, say, on a farm, would have plenty.”

  “For this? And wouldn’t it take hours?”

  “Correct—for an operation; but this was an execution.”

  Donatello circled the cadaver. “Did you find anything else… unusual? I noticed at the scene, the stitching was coming open.”

  “I’ll uncover that last if I may.” Stanley glanced at the clock on the wall and unbuttoned his lab coat.

  “Sorry, nearly finished. How long before he died?”

  “Do you mean, time of death?”

  Donatello closed his eyes, trying to decipher what was still gnawing at him. Everything was too precise, and even the haphazard stitching seemed deliberate. “Stanley, why has this perp gone to so much trouble? He could have shot him and got the same result.”

  “For what it’s worth, Lieutenant, in thirty years, I’ve not seen anyone dispatched to the underworld in this manner.”

  “Is that why you said it was irregular when I arrived?”

  “Ha!” Stanley’s eyes twinkled, and a broad smile broke across his face. “You should play poker, Lieutenant, I thought you’d missed that.”

  “I don’t have your nerve. So tell me?”

  Stanley pulled the heavy latch on the door next to Walton’s and slid out the tray. The white cloth had a tiny dark hump in the middle, but the rest lay flat. Stanley looked at Donatello to see if he was paying attention, then pulled back the sheet with a flourish. “Ta DA!”

  “A kitten?”

  Stanley grinned. “How’s that for a riddle?”

  50. SHOW US THE MONEY

  Friday, 5:15 p.m.

  Randall had put a cushion under each buttock to avoid his tailbone touching the office chair; still, the aching was relentless. Most Friday afternoons were spent reading the latest guidance from the IRS lawyers, designed to close loopholes the tricksy accountants had been peddling. Indentured servitude was the heart and soul of the modern tax system, and he had always been an ardent fan, but now his enthusiasm was waning. He clicked the mouse and added another hunting essential to his shopping basket.