A Life Removed

by Jason Parent

  “Our killer’s now into still life. Putting his work on exhibition. Why the sudden change?” She pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and peered into a cavity the size of a grapefruit, the shredded muscle resembling pulp flecked with bone-shard seeds. “Chest wound appears identical to the last victim’s.” She grabbed the dead man’s right hand and turned it palm up. “Similar markings on the wrist. The fingernails appear to have been scrubbed. The rope’s new, though.”

  “I’ll be sure to include everything in my report,” Dr. Rosetta Hawthorne said, walking up behind them. She turned to Bruce. “I’m going to have him cut down.”

  Bruce just shrugged. The medical examiner took over, ordering her assistants to cut the rope holding up the body.

  Jocelyn went over Reinhart’s life and the details of his death in her mind. “What did you make of the markings on his head?” she asked no one in particular as she chewed the end of her pen. When she realized what she was doing, she stopped. Am I picking up Bruce’s habits?

  “Markings on his head?” Bruce asked. “I thought they were just scratches.” He stopped the gurney that two of Hawthorne’s staff were using to jackhammer the body down the stairs. After unzipping the body bag, he squinted at Reinhart’s forehead.

  Jocelyn came up beside him. She pointed at the lines that had been scratched into the dead man’s skin. “See? Numbers.”

  Bruce leaned in closer. “I’ll be damned.”

  “What do you suppose they mean?”

  “Not sure. Looks like a time. Maybe the killer though it would be cute to announce his victim’s time of death? Maybe it’s a date?”

  Frowning, Jocelyn rubbed her chin. 6:21. Those numbers meant something to her. She was drawing a blank, but it would come to her.

  CHAPTER 3

  Snow glazed the peaks but not yet the trails. The air was fresh and revitalizing. Aaron had found a hideaway untainted by the stench of exhaust, pollution, and decay. The only sounds were the crackling of leaves under playful footsteps and the solitary squawk of a winged predator in flight. Along the skyline, rolling hills led to grander summits, a far cry from the usual decadent apartment complexes and mill stacks casting malformed shadows like a grimy darkness blanketing the Fall River streets. The tranquil lake below, as still as glass, refracted the setting sun’s rays into a prism of muted colors.

  “I’m so happy we decided to come here.” Arianna peered off the balcony of their four-hundred-dollars-per-night suite. Their hidden resort was one of the dozens nestled deep within New Hampshire’s White Mountains.

  Seeing her smile like that, Aaron was happy, too. It had been too long since he’d last seen Arianna so radiant, so full of life. He had read in the increasing lines on her face, her blotchy skin, her quick temper, and their nonexistent sex life that she’d needed a retreat from her bustling law practice, the clients who didn’t stop calling, and the partners who didn’t stop piling on the work and the bullshit.

  Day in and day out, she was always hustling, seemingly as miserable as Aaron was. He wondered if they could just forget everything and be like they used to be, if only for a day or two. Drawing her into his arms, he felt affection and serenity. They were real. He was sure of it, if only for the moment, even if the problems they were ignoring were real, too. It was nice to pretend, to just be happy, whether real or illusion.

  “They’re waiting for us.” She pulled away.

  Aaron’s fantasy of perfection evaporated like morning dew under a hot sun. The quiet moments he treasured were times Arianna seemed to care little for, her overactive mind requiring constant activity. Constant attention. Always “me, me, me.”

  She twiddled her dark flowing hair, a sign of her unrest. Aaron sighed. The moment spoiled, he peeked into the adjacent room.

  “Let’s play some cards!” Ricardo yelled.

  “Deal it up,” Aaron called back as Arianna took his hand and led him back into the other room.

  They took their places at the table where Ricardo and his girlfriend, Brittney, sat. The games began, and with them, Aaron’s gradual descent toward the bottom of a bottle.

  Aaron had found shuffling the Braille deck a little odd at first since the cards didn’t lie flat, but he’d gotten used to it and was grateful he could still play cards with Ricardo. They would all be drunk by the end of the evening, and he readily welcomed that state of mind. Like Arianna, he also needed a retreat, from a life that was becoming increasingly dissatisfying.

  Again.

  “Did you hear about the fourth body?” Arianna asked. “This one was found lying in the middle of the street. Talk about subtle.”

  “Hey, Aaron, do you have any inside info?” Brittney asked.

  The killer had left his work out for public display twice since Aaron had seen that poor woman tossed in a dumpster. People in the city and neighboring suburbs were getting home early and double-checking their dead bolts at night. The streets of Fall River were like a ghost town after eight o’clock. With the fourth victim, the death toll had rung outside the city, in the lily-white town of Somerset, where middle-class families thought they were tucked safely away from the groveling insanity of their impoverished city-dwelling neighbors.

  “You know I’m not supposed to talk about it. Plus, I don’t like talking about it.” Aaron stifled a hiccup. “But yeah, I know a few things.”

  The others perked up. Tell us! their faces shouted.

  Aaron leaned forward. “Everything I say stays here.”

  Most of what he could tell them had already been covered in the newspapers. The first two victims were, as far as the general public was concerned, loners and lowlives no one would miss. No one had even come forward to identify the dumpster body. The press had been inordinately slow to connect the two slayings. Media coverage outside of Fall River was sparse at best. The third victim changed everything. That unlucky lot fell to Fall River Counsel and outspoken gay rights advocate Benjamin Reinhart. His death had spawned a sensation not seen in Fall River since Lizzie Borden’s chopping spree.

  “You know how Reinhart was strung up outside city hall, his heart cut out and his wrists slit like the two priors? Well, the detectives on the case have been canvassing the area, and of course, nobody’s talking. I don’t care how late you do it; if you hang a dead body outside city hall, somebody’s gonna see something. He was a political figure, for fuck’s sake. Somebody’s gotta know something.”

  “Don’t cops patrol that area, too?” Arianna asked.

  “All the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if the killer was a cop at this point, because we certainly aren’t getting the full story. Plus, the victims and disposal sites have been metibulously… meticulously cleaned. We’d have better luck lifting fingerprints from a snake.” Aaron realized he was drunk and should probably shut up, but he couldn’t help but enjoy the attention.

  “So you think the killer is a cop?” Ricardo asked.

  Aaron threw up his hands, splashing his drink on his shirt. “No, no, I’m not saying that. Jesus H. Christ, man! Don’t go around saying something like that. I’m just saying it could be anybody.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” Brittney said. “You cops have done a great job of limiting your suspects. You’re now down to anybody.”

  “Everyone’s a smart ass.” Aaron slumped forward, feeling a bit drowsy. He took a deep breath. “Anyway, profiling has limited it some. Given the strength involved and the violent nature of each homicide, they’re pretty sure it’s a man. Also, the displaying of the bodies, the similarity of the kills… it all adds up to some kind of plan. I mean, the killer has gotta have a reason for doing this, something more than that he just likes killing people.”

  “Yeah, he’s insane,” Arianna said.

  “Then again, who wouldn’t want to kill a lawyer?” Brittney winked at Arianna.

  “Well, as long as he’s not a rapist or child molester
, I’d defend him.” Arianna laughed. “I’ve got standards, you know.”

  “And that’s what makes us such a great couple, huh, babe?” Aaron smirked, trying to hide his frustration. “A cop and a defense attorney—not exactly a match made in heaven.” Fucking doomed right from the start.

  Arianna glared at him.

  He looked away. “Anyway, with this fourth guy, I heard they found somebody who might know something.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Detective Marklin’s office smelled of old-man aftershave, his coffee breath, and whatever hair products kept his hair so stiff and unnaturally black. Yet it was the smell of the woman sitting in Marklin’s office that made Jocelyn’s nose curl, the stench of primping and properness even in the face of impropriety.

  Bruce seemed to share her distaste. “You came to us,” he said. “You’d better have something.”

  He’d already lectured the new witness—Maura Fleurent, a bored housewife who’d shown up of her own accord—about how people were calling in every day, claiming to be the killer or saying that a neighbor, lover, cousin, friend’s nephew’s dog-watcher, Eric Clapton, the Russians, or the president of the United States was either the killer or somehow involved in the murders. He’d rambled on about how people were blowing up their phone lines, wasting their precious time with ridiculous allegations that the killer had murdered everyone from Hollywood starlets and religious figures to pets. Each would-be informant had an excuse, a motive, or a justification for the killer’s actions.

  Jocelyn studied the back of Maura’s head. She knew the type: easy life, easy lay, always getting whatever, or whoever, she wanted. Maura was the kind of girl who picked on shy, awkward girls like Jocelyn. The low-cut blouse and cherry-red lipstick had given all the insight the detective needed into the life Jocelyn hadn’t been pretty enough or confident enough or promiscuous enough to have. Not that she had ever wanted that kind of existence. Women like Maura set their gender back a half century.

  Jocelyn took a seat atop a cabinet behind the witness, where she wouldn’t have to look at her. Jocelyn knew she was being unfair—she didn’t even really know the woman—but she couldn’t help resenting Maura for the gifts she had evidently squandered. And with a married man.

  Maura seemed smart enough. Smart enough to know better. She worked as a waitress at a local diner—probably only when she felt like it—but spoke as if she were well educated. Her voice was quiet, and she presented a meek posture, her head hung low.

  As Bruce stared at the witness across his desk, his gaze lacked the hint of desire Maura’s long legs, slender hips, and luscious lips likely garnered from most men. He seemed annoyed and skeptical, and his tone failed to mask his contempt.

  Still, Maura was trying to help them, but they weren’t making it easy for her.

  Jocelyn released a breath, letting the resentment blow out with it. “What do you know?” she asked.

  Maura jumped as if she had forgotten Jocelyn was behind her. She didn’t turn to face Jocelyn; instead, she looked up at Bruce as if to ask if it was okay to respond.

  “Well?” Jocelyn pressed. “What do you know about Garrison Huntley?”

  Maura finally looked over her shoulder. “Who?”

  “Garrison Huntley, the fourth victim.” Crossing her arms, Jocelyn went to sit on the corner of Bruce’s desk. “Damn, Bruce, another one wasting our time?”

  Maura frowned. “Garrison who? He… he told me his name was Steve Austin.” No sooner were the words spoken than Maura’s face reddened as she no doubt realized the married man’s deception. With knowledge came sullenness. She buried her chin into her chest.

  Marklin smirked. “Stone Cold or the Six Million Dollar Man?”

  The witness looked away. Jocelyn sighed, letting a tinge of sympathy for the woman breach her otherwise-impregnable wall. It vanished quickly, and she reset her face into her usual on-duty mask that lacked pity, understanding, friendship, or anything else remotely amicable. After all, Maura was married, and so was Huntley—and not to each other. One of the biggest laws in the book addressed that particular crime, and its rule was absolute. She shot Marklin a look meant to suggest he lay off a bit.

  That didn’t stop him from continuing. “His name was Huntley. His wife already identified the body, their two kids crying in the hall. They couldn’t understand why their father was still here since he was supposed to be away on business. You did know he was married, right?”

  Maura shrank in her chair. “I… I saw the indentation around his finger.”

  “So you were screwing him?” Jocelyn hadn’t intended to sound harsh. She just wanted to get that settled so they could all move on to the questions that really mattered.

  “Yes, for almost six months. And yes, I knew he was… we were both married.” Maura scowled.

  Jocelyn looked to see if Bruce, the senior officer in the room, had any objection to her taking control of the questioning. When he nodded, she pulled a small notebook from her breast pocket and flipped it open then uncapped the slender pen she kept inside the spiral rings. “Were you with him on November third?”

  “Yes.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “We met for dinner at Colafranceschi’s in Providence,” Maura said.

  “Just the two of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you make reservations?”

  “He did.”

  “Under what name?” Jocelyn asked without a hint of sarcasm.

  Maura blushed. “Austin, I suppose.”

  Jocelyn didn’t miss a beat. “What time was dinner?”

  “Seven. We finished around eight forty-five.”

  “And after?”

  “We went to watch the WaterFire.”

  “What time were you through there?”

  “About eleven. We had a few drinks at one of the cozy places nearby, an outside bar. We were surprised it was still open because of the cold weather. I guess with the city putting on the WaterFire show longer this year, everyone stays open longer. Afterward, we walked back to Providence Place, where we’d parked our cars. I’m separated from my husband, so I live alone.” Heat reddened her cheeks, and she sat a little straighter. “I invited him back to my place.”

  “On Everett Street in Seekonk, correct?” Jocelyn asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Huntley was from Somerset. Where did you meet him?”

  “Online.”

  “Of course.” Marklin rolled his eyes. “How long was he at your place?”

  “Until about one thirty in the morning. He got a call on his cell phone about one fifteen. I knew something was wrong. Steve—Garrison looked so worried. I asked if everything was okay, but he refused to talk about it. A short while later, a white van pulled up in front of the house. I asked if he wanted me to go with him, but he said no and ran out the door. He got into the van, and it drove off.” Maura shivered. “That was the last time I saw him. His car’s still parked in my driveway.”

  Marklin rocked back in his office chair, absently tapping the end of a pencil on the chair arm. “Did you see who was in the van?”

  Maura shook her head. “No. It was dark, and my street is poorly lit. But there were at least two people. The driver, I couldn’t see, but the passenger… he smiled and waved when he saw me at the door.”

  “Caucasian?”

  “I think so, with dark hair, short. I can’t remember much more about him. They were only there for a moment, then they were gone.” Maura gasped. “You don’t think I could be next, do you?”

  Detective Marklin waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t think so. Doesn’t seem to be his MO.”

  Maura’s eyes narrowed on the detective. When Bruce didn’t say anything more, she glanced up at Jocelyn.

  “Modus operandi,” Jocelyn clarified.

  “Oh.”

 
Maura still looked confused, but Jocelyn didn’t feel the need to explain further. “Can you tell me any more about the van? Did it have a sliding door? Was it a minivan?”

  “Yes, it did have a sliding door, but it wasn’t a minivan. I only saw the front and some of the left side while it was parked in front of my house. There was no front plate, which I only noticed because I thought that was illegal. Nothing seemed unusual about it. It looked like most vans, like those a friend of mine uses for her catering business, except it didn’t have any markings that I could see. I didn’t bother to watch it drive off.”

  “Can you think of anything else that could help us find Mr. Huntley’s murderer?”

  “Not really.” Maura’s knee began to bounce.

  Jocelyn looked at her partner. “Bruce, do you have any more questions for Ms. Fleurent?”

  “Not at this time, but I’m sure I’ll think of some later. Ms. Fleurent, thank you for your assistance. We’ll keep in touch. In the meantime, let us know if you think of anything else that could help us, no matter how trivial it may seem.” He held out a business card.

  Maura snatched it from his hand as she popped out of her chair. She hurried out of the office without so much as a goodbye.

  Once the door shut, Jocelyn took the chair the woman had vacated. “A bit rough on her, weren’t you?”

  “I’m just sick and tired of people wasting our time.”

  “Are you sure it’s not because you’re a sexist prick who hates women?”

  “My two ex-wives might agree with that assessment.”

  “It’s hard to picture Bruce Marklin in love. Bet you were a different guy then.”

  “I was. But you talk to me after twenty years doing this job. We’ll see how your marriage holds up. Now, can we get back to work, or would you like to pour some more salt on old wounds?” He smirked.

  “Jerk.” She laughed, but the thought of her and Gabriel not lasting had made her uneasy. When she’d said her vows, she’d meant them. Shaking it off, she delved into her work and the one question that had to be as prominent on Bruce’s mind as it was on hers. “Are we dealing with more than one killer here?”