Grimm: The Chopping Block

by John Passarella

  “I—bumped into him once,” Monroe said, recalling the time Hank first saw him woge in the woods.

  “That’s the only—?”

  “Okay, he’s Nick’s partner.”

  “Another cop,” Decker said. “Dude, are you some kind of informant?”

  “What—? No, I’m not an informant—what would I inform about? And do cops live in the same house as their informants?”

  “I wouldn’t know, bro.”

  “Look,” Monroe said, relieved. “We’re here.”

  He pulled into the first parking space he saw in the studio’s lot, and hoped management wasn’t Facebook friends with the folks at Portland Precision Pilates or they’d get tossed out on their ears before the class even began.

  As they approached the front door, Decker massaged his lower back with both palms, flashed a wince of pain. He caught Monroe staring at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You ready for this?”

  “Sure,” Decker said. “Why not?”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “A bit sore,” Decker said. “Long nights. Not enough sleep. That’s all.”

  Inside, they moved to the back of the classroom. Again, Monroe thought to limit Decker’s exposure and potential embarrassment. Plus, he could mimic those in front of him without worrying about anybody criticizing his form.

  “This is a beginner’s class,” Monroe said. “It’s about slow movement, controlled and smooth. Okay?”

  “Relax,” Decker said. “No sweat. I got this.”

  Monroe believed him.

  He should have known better.

  This time, Decker lasted about five minutes. But it wasn’t the difficulty of the moves or postures that bedeviled him, it was the movement itself, the slowness and steadiness of it. He began to exaggerate the leaning and weaving, the crouching and arm motions, turning it into a mocking pantomime. The instructor tried to correct him, assuming the exaggeration was a lack of refinement or understanding rather than a direct insult to the whole process. Then Decker took it too far, lost his balance and crashed into Monroe, who staggered and bumped the woman beside him.

  Everyone looked at the disturbance, briefly, before turning their attention back to the instructor. But Decker shook his head in frustration.

  “Look at you people! What the hell are we doing here? Everyone prancing in slow freaking motion! You look silly, you know that, right? You look like you’re dancing underwater with an itch you can’t scratch.”

  “Decker!” Monroe grabbed his arm, tried to pull him back to his former spot on the exercise floor.

  “No, Monroe,” Decker said angrily. “This is some kind of joke, right? A reality show. Where are the hidden cameras? C’mon, where are they? Because I know people are watching us right now and laughing their asses off.”

  “Sir, you need to leave,” the instructor said. “Now.”

  “Okay, Sensei Water-Dancer,” Decker said with a mock salute as he headed toward the exit with plodding steps. “Watch me as I walk out of here in”—he dragged the last two words out like aural taffy—“slow motion.”

  Monroe backed out of the room, at a normal pace.

  “He’s been off his meds for twenty-four hours, and this happens.” He called over his shoulder, “I warned you! ‘Taper off,’ I said, ‘Don’t go cold turkey.’” Then, to the class: “I’m truly sorry about this. Please, accept my apology. Forget this ever happened and go on about your day.”

  Two days, two life-time bans, Monroe stewed as he hurried to the parking lot. At this rate, I’ll need to leave Portland before the week’s up.

  * * *

  Nick found Dr. Harper in the morgue of the Medical Examiner Office building, wearing her usual white lab coat, red hair pinned up in its usual bun. What he found unusual was the row of stainless steel gurneys holding skeletons rather than draped cadavers.

  Though the skeletons were in pieces—with long bones bisected—somebody, or, more likely, a team of somebodies, had placed all the bones in the proper alignment. The process would allow the medical examiner to discover any missing bones, and likely establish probable cause of death. But the effect was eerie, reminding Nick of the skeleton army brought to life with Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion animation in Jason and the Argonauts. He shook off the odd feeling. These skeletons were destined for proper graves. But with their help, in the clues they provided, Nick hoped to bring their killer to justice.

  Dr. Harper called him over to a computer display at the far end of the morgue.

  “What have you got?” Nick asked.

  “You know about the boiling of the bones,” she said and he nodded, even though it hadn’t been a question. “Boiled until the remaining flesh came off.”

  “Remaining?”

  “Any flesh that didn’t come off during the manual removal.”

  “The murderer stripped the flesh from the bones?”

  “Chopped the bones, then stripped them,” she said. “I’m fairly certain the chopping was done with a meat cleaver. Clean breaks.”

  She clicked on a computer screen and brought up a slide show of magnified images of chopped bones, zoomed in to the point of separation.

  “One blow, right through flesh and bone, no splintering or second hacks,” she said, sounding clinically impressed. “Incredible force.”

  She switched images.

  “But now that I’ve had more time to examine the bones—and more bones to examine—I noticed some saw marks along the spine, through many of the ribs.” She tapped the screen with the tip of her index finger, pointing out the marks on the ribs. “I match those to a common butcher’s meat saw.”

  She looked at him expectantly. “Meat cleaver, meat saw, boiling bones. You see how this adds up?”

  He did. He’d discussed with Monroe the possibility of a Wesen with a taste for human flesh. Given what he’d witnessed so far as a Grimm, not a big leap of deduction to go there. Now, with the medical examiner’s conclusion on record, the whole department would know; one step closer to a press leak and outside exposure. And that made a Grimm-like resolution to the problem all the more difficult.

  He sighed in resignation and said, “We’re dealing with a cannibal.”

  Her gaze traveled meaningfully down the row of skeletons on gurneys.

  “By the looks of it, this cannibal has a big appetite.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Decker was leaning against the front of the Super Beetle, arms crossed over his chest. He shook his head as Monroe approached.

  “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

  “I was about to ask you the same question,” Monroe replied, unwilling to excuse his friend’s tantrum. “Are you even trying?”

  “I showed up.”

  “That’s about all you did.”

  “That—in there—will never get me to reform,” Decker said. “That is not me, okay? It’s like exercising on Valium, all that slow motion nonsense. I need action.” He made a fist and struck the open palm of his other hand. “I need to punch something, kick something.”

  “If you’re thinking mixed martial arts,” Monroe said. “I’d advise against it.”

  “Why not, man?” Decker asked. “Hard contact. Takedowns. I’m there!”

  “You don’t treat alcoholism with six-packs of beer.”

  Decker spread his arms and smiled. “What about light beer?”

  Monroe shook his head. “That’s it. I’m done.”

  He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. Decker scrambled around to the passenger side door and hopped in.

  “C’mon bro, I’m kidding.”

  “I agreed to help you reform,” Monroe said, staring straight ahead. “You don’t care about this and that’s fine for you, to each his own path. I never asked you to do this. You asked for my help. If I have to drag you kicking and screaming, well, it won’t work. You can’t reform unless you want to and clearly that’s not part of your agenda. So let’s end this littl
e experiment.”

  “Monroe,” Decker said. “Brother?”

  Monroe finally turned to look at him.

  “What is this really about? We were friends once, but that doesn’t make us friends now. We’ve gone our separate ways. We’re different people.”

  “You can look me in the eye and say it wasn’t hard for you?” Decker said. “Changing everything about who you really are?”

  “Of course it was—is—hard,” Monroe said. “But it’s something I chose. Nobody forced me to change, and nobody has a gun to my head now. It’s still my choice and I work at it every day, to be the man I prefer to be. I like my life the way it is. If you’re happy with the way you are, it’s not up to me to change your mind. This path has to come from within.”

  “No arguments here, brother,” Decker said. “I dragged my ass out of bed these past two mornings to try this stuff, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s me trying.”

  “But, honestly, Decker, that’s not enough,” Monroe said. “Not nearly enough.” He sighed, palms pressed against the steering wheel. He sat with the engine idling, as if balanced on the precipice of a decision and shifting into drive meant an ending. “You have to want it more.”

  “Are you quitting on me, Monroe?”

  “You haven’t started yet,” Monroe said. “So how can I quit on you?”

  “How can you say that?”

  “When’s the last time you ate meat?”

  “Not a bite since breakfast,” Decker said with a sly smile.

  Monroe failed to see the funny side.

  “You know what? This was a bad idea.”

  He shifted the car into drive and steered out of the parking lot, placing his attention exclusively on the flow of traffic. If he’d seen a bit of himself in Decker, an attempt to change his ways, he’d imagined it. That was the only explanation that made sense. The veil of self-delusion lifted, Monroe would turn the page on the old friendship. As Decker often said: Eyes forward, full bore, no regrets.

  After a couple minutes of awkward silence, Decker spoke. “Don’t you miss it?”

  “I don’t dwell on it,” Monroe said. “I focus on what I have now.”

  “Ever fall off the wagon?” Decker asked. “Or are you perfect, Monroe? Not a chink in your Blutbad chastity belt.”

  “Aside from the fact that you’re mixing metaphors,” Monroe said, “nobody’s perfect. If you fall off the wagon, you have to want to get back on. That’s how we’re different.”

  “Maybe,” Decker said. “What’s that expression? Have the courage of your convictions?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” Monroe said, experiencing a wave of genuine sadness. Not easy, giving up on someone whose friendship you once valued. “Gotta have that.”

  Decker massaged his right hand with his left, staring down, falling silent for a couple minutes. When he spoke again, his voice was subdued, the bravado gone.

  “I love it, you know. The thrill of it. I never want to give that up.”

  “I understand,” Monroe said with a slight nod. He’d changed, but many Wesen never could or never wanted to. They thought it went against their nature. And that was hard to argue. But the right choices were often the hard ones. Otherwise, everyone would always do the right thing.

  “But sometimes, I worry I’ll go too far,” Decker continued softly. “A point of no return. Hell, maybe I’ve already gone too far. Never been a choirboy.”

  “Are you talking about redemption?” Monroe asked. “Because if that’s what this is about, you’re putting way too much pressure on yourself. It’s like that riddle, ‘How do you eat an elephant?’” He glanced at Decker, who stared back at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. “What? You never heard that expression?”

  “No. But you’re making me hungry.”

  “The answer is, ‘One bite at a time.’” Monroe said. “When the problem is too big to handle all at once, you tackle it one bit at a time.”

  “Baby steps?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, if you, for example, happened to fall off the wagon, you could climb back on the next day?”

  “Uh, sure, okay,” Monroe said, not sure where Decker’s line of reasoning was headed. “But I don’t think that way. That’s not how I approach life. It’s not okay to ‘cheat’ today because I can be good tomorrow.”

  “But, theoretically you could cheat,” Decker said. “And that would be okay.”

  “Well, theoretically, maybe—in hindsight—but not in a premeditated way. But I think you’re splitting hairs. What’s your point?”

  “I’m on the outside, looking in,” Decker said. “You wake up in the morning and see another day to stay reformed. But me? I look at each day and ask myself how I can stop being—unreformed.”

  “One bite at a time.”

  Decker chuckled. “Trying to figure out that first bite is the killer.”

  “What about meditation?” Monroe said. “Ever try it? No straining, no awkward postures, no slow motion. Just sit and relax and focus. You need to find a way to stay calm within yourself.”

  “No stupid stuff?” Decker asked. “Sitting still? That’s it.”

  “As far as the physical aspect, yes,” Monroe said. He tapped his temple. “The rest is up here.”

  “No more classes with a bunch of posers?”

  “We could meditate in my house,” Monroe said, not quite believing he hadn’t shut the door on his involvement in Decker’s life once and for all. “No outsiders.”

  “Okay,” Decker said, slapping his knee. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Great,” Monroe said, while inwardly cringing at his inability to admit enough was enough. But he could accelerate the process. “I have some errands to run, but let’s meet later. How about meditation and dinner? I’ll cook. A zero-stress evening will make for a good start.”

  “Fantastic, brother.”

  Lacking Decker’s enthusiasm, Monroe’s thoughts skipped ahead to the inevitable disappointment to come. Three strikes and I’m officially out. If meditation fails to make an impression on Decker, I’m the wrong mentor. One way or the other, after tonight, I’m done.

  Then, strangely, Decker’s words intruded on this feeling of impending release. “I love it, you know. The thrill of it… Theoretically, you could cheat. And that would be okay.”

  Monroe had the disturbing notion that the seeds of his own corruption had been planted: self-doubt, temptation, rationalization. And a more unsettling thought followed. Who was mentoring whom?

  His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

  * * *

  Nick returned to the precinct and updated Renard and Hank on the coroner’s findings. As Nick suspected, Renard embargoed the word ‘cannibal’ when dealing with the press.

  “That’s a theory,” he’d said. “No more than that. We don’t speculate on the reason for the murders.”

  Not that Nick or Hank planned on making any statements to the press. That was the captain’s prerogative and he was welcome to it. But reporters sometimes bypassed official press conferences in favor of a well-timed ambush interview. So Renard made sure the detectives knew the party line.

  Back in the conference room, Hank asked, “So, we dealing with a Wesen cannibal or a human cannibal?”

  “Does it matter?” Nick said, thinking only of the end result.

  “Speaking as a non-Grimm,” Hank said, “yes, it matters. Wesen play by different rules. Don’t want to bring a knife to a gun fight.”

  “Smart money’s on the Wesen,” Nick said, but didn’t elaborate as he spotted Wu veering toward the conference room, case folders tucked under his arm.

  “More dental record matches?” Nick asked the sergeant.

  “No,” Wu said. “This is something else.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The rash of disappearances got me thinking,” Wu said. “When did the uptick start?”

  “A month ago,” Hank said, glancing at Nic
k for confirmation. “About the time our vacant lot victims started disappearing.”

  “Right,” Wu said. “But the trend actually began a little before that. I noticed something weird in the files from five weeks ago.”

  “How weird?” Nick wondered. After all, they had reports of at least two people coming back from the dead and a Cracher-Mortel on the loose. Weird was relative.

  “A delivery man disappeared,” Wu said. “Hauling industrial-grade restaurant equipment to a new place opening in Portland. The shipment never arrived. Truck was found lying on its side at the bottom of a ravine, abandoned and empty. No sign of the driver.”

  “Hijacked?” Hank asked.

  “That was the theory at the time,” Wu said. “Nothing else indicated. Restaurant supplier assumed the driver was killed offsite, or that the hijacking was an inside job.”

  “Restaurant equipment,” Nick said. “Even if he split a black market sale with a single accomplice, how much could he have netted? Ten thousand? Twenty?”

  “Hardly enough to retire in luxury,” Hank said.

  “Driver have any gambling debts?”

  “Nothing that turned up,” Wu said. “Financially stable, retirement accounts, manageable credit card debt.”

  “So back to option one,” Hank said. “Hijacker murdered the driver, dumped the body elsewhere.”

  “Industrial restaurant equipment,” Nick said, shaking his head. “Can’t be easy to move that kind of stuff. And it comes back to the money. Something doesn’t add up.”

  “Unless it does,” Hank said. “Cannibal killer. New restaurant opening. Don’t make me do the math.”

  Nick turned to Wu. “You have a name and address for that restaurant?”

  “Yes, it’s in the file,” Wu said. “But they never received the shipment.”

  “Maybe not,” Nick said. “But they knew it was coming.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Unfortunately, Roxy’s test results came back as Juliette had expected, showing the six-year-old labrador back in kidney failure. She’d had a remarkable twenty-four-hour reprieve after the aggressive IV treatment, but that’s all it had been. For one day the Bremmers had had the illusion of a miracle cure. In a way, that had made the obligatory phone call to Melinda Bremmer even crueler. To nurture hope and to have that hope rewarded, only to see it snatched away just as abruptly… Juliette wondered if it would have been kinder on her part to not have suggested the IV treatment. She’d done nothing more than postpone the inevitable heartache. Now, after throwing the Bremmers’ emotions in a blender, she’d called Melinda to recommend euthanasia for the dog.