Frozen Stiff

by Patrick Logan

  Her gaze drifted upward to the boat moored to the other side of the channel. A long rope extended off the side, the end of which was fastened to a cardboard box that floated in the water. Written on the side of the box was a single word: TEA.

  “Already have people over there asking questions,” the man who had introduced himself as Detective Tim Jasper informed her. From what Chase could gather, this man was in charge of the investigation.

  Aside from Martinez and herself, of course.

  What she also deduced was that Martinez and Jasper went back a ways. It was in the way they looked at each other, the way they had shaken hands and briskly nodded, instead of wasting time with perfunctory introductions.

  Chase squinted across the channel.

  Indeed, she could see several uniformed officers milling about on the boat.

  The tea boxes, Chase knew, were symbolic of protests to the Tea Act of the late eighteenth century. Enraged by the taxes imposed on the local tea trade, and the rebates on product from the British East India Company, protesters boarded vessels and tossed their tea over the side. Now, however, it was a popular tourist destination.

  “When does it open?” Chase asked, noting that there were only a handful of tourists presently on the boat.

  “Nine,” Detective Jasper replied.

  Chase nodded, and turned her attention to the body that the men in scuba gear had just managed to pull from the water. To preserve evidence, they had submerged a thick plastic sheet beneath the partially submerged corpse, and had then used a winch to raise the entire contraption.

  “Medical Examiner is on his way,” Jasper informed her. “But judging by the paleness of her skin, I’m guessing she’s been in there for a good day, day and a half, maybe. No predation, but that’s likely because the water is so cold.”

  As Chase observed the woman—somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age, with dark hair that was pulled away from her pale face—she was reminded of a drowning that she had investigated in Central Park some six months ago.

  When Senior NYPD ME Dr. Beckett Campbell had seen the body, he had taken a particular interest in her hands.

  Washer woman hands, he had said. It happens after the body has been submerged for twelve hours or more. You know how your fingers go all pruney if you stay in the tub for too long? Yeah, well think of washer woman hands as an extreme version of that.

  Chase also knew that the presence of these hands was perhaps the easiest way to estimate the time of death of a submerged body. If Jasper was right and the woman had been in the water for a day or more, her skin would be wrinkled and sloughing off, but if—

  A gasp escaped her, and she whipped her head around to look at Martinez. Only Martinez wasn’t staring back. Instead, he was focused on the body, his jaw clenched.

  Using washer woman hands to estimate time of death required one very obvious and specific element: hands.

  And their victim didn’t have any.

  The woman’s pale arms ended in ragged stumps. If she squinted, Chase even thought she could see gleaming ends of bones buried within the gnarled mess.

  Please, please let us go. We’ll do anything… anything you want.

  “The boardwalk is a popular place to run in the morning,” Detective Jasper said. “And if the time line is accurate, someone might have seen the body being dumped.”

  Chase swallowed hard again, trying her best not to jump to any conclusions about Francine and Yolanda and this poor woman.

  Twenty-six-hundred miles apart… they can’t be related.

  Besides, they already had Brent Pine for the college murders… and as reluctant as she was to accept the fact, maybe Martinez was right; maybe he was their guy, and she had simply overestimated Brent’s intelligence.

  Her gut, however, told her otherwise.

  I need to touch her, Chase thought with a suddenness that nearly overwhelmed her. I need to touch the body.

  Her mouth felt incredibly dry, and any sense of alertness that she had gained during the flight from Anchorage started to leech out of her. In its place was a duo of feelings that Chase was becoming all too familiar with as of late: lethargy and fatigue.

  “Is she—” Chase began dryly, but stopped when another scuba driver suddenly surfaced, a thumb covered in thick, black gloves raised to the sky above.

  Detective Jasper swore and pushed by her, and quickly headed down the stairs to the lower dock.

  Martinez followed after him, but Chase stayed put and observed from above.

  Three was a crowd, after all. And crowds at crime scenes almost always ended in disaster.

  “What? What is it?” Jasper demanded.

  The diver pulled the mask away from his mouth.

  “There’s another body under the boardwalk,” he said. “A male—and his hands are missing too.”

  CHAPTER 28

  They brought the bodies up to the main boardwalk and hastily erected white screens to keep prying eyes out and to form at least a superficial barrier for evidence collection. And while they succeeded to some degree in the latter, the former was proving more difficult. The Boston boardwalk was a popular place, it seemed, and it was near impossible to keep everyone away.

  But that was Detective Jasper and Boston PD’s problem. Chase had other things to worry about.

  She stood inside the makeshift tent, which was already starting to warm from the sun beating down on it, and opened her parka. They couldn’t keep the bodies in here for long, she knew, otherwise they would start decomposing and determining an accurate time of death would become a challenge.

  The ME had since arrived, a stern looking man in his seventies, and he was running some tests on the two bodies that were laid out on the thick plastic sheets that had been used to raise them from the water.

  As the scuba diver had indicated, neither of the victims had hands.

  “The man is Oren Vishniov,” Detective Jasper stated matter-of-factly as he stepped beside Chase. “And I’m not sure, but the woman is probably his girlfriend, Julie Cooper.”

  Agent Martinez spoke up next.

  “You know them?”

  “Yeah… bunch of low level drug pushers, own a Lebanese restaurant maybe fifteen miles from here. We busted them twice last year.”

  “But the charges didn’t stick?” Martinez followed.

  Chase stepped forward, looking down at the nude corpses, at their missing hands. So far as she could tell, there was no evidence that their wounds had been cauterized, as the killer had done to Yolanda and Francine.

  Nor should you expect them to be, she thought with a hint of self-loathing, because they aren’t related.

  “DA recommended suspended sentences both times.”

  Martinez nodded.

  “Think this is drug related?”

  Jasper shrugged.

  “Can’t rule it out.”

  Chase let their conversation drone on in the background while she observed the ME work. When he started swabbing the wounds on their wrists, she walked over to him and squatted.

  “Were they… burned at all?” she asked.

  The man turned to her, the lines on his face so deep that they resembled crinkles in folded wax paper.

  “No, no evidence of burns,” he replied.

  “So, they died from their wounds?”

  Her eyes skipped to the victims’ faces as she spoke, and immediately knew that her assumption was incorrect. There was foam starting to bubble from between their pale lips. Dr. Beckett Campbell had educated her on this as well; a foam cone was a clear indication that the victims tried to breathe underwater.

  “No, they drowned,” the ME confirmed. “The water was so cold that when they were tossed in, all of the vessels in their wrists constricted. They would have died eventually—they were still bleeding out—but it would have taken a lot longer than on land. Best I can figure it is that they struggled to stay afloat, but without hands, they eventually slipped below the surface and drowned.”


  Chase grimaced.

  The killer hadn’t cauterized the wounds, but he didn’t have to; the frigid water had done that for him.

  Or her.

  Chase’s eyes shot up as something occurred to her.

  “Why are we here?” she asked.

  Martinez and Jasper, who had just wrapped up their discussion, turned to face her.

  “What?” Martinez asked.

  “Why are we here?” she repeated, this time softening her tone. What had been meant as an ice breaker now sounded like an accusation, even to her own ears. “I mean, two dead drug dealers? Doesn’t seem to warrant the FBI’s involvement.”

  Martinez glanced over at Jasper, who had since crossed his hands over his chest and pressed his lips together. Eventually, Martinez turned back to her.

  “What do you mean?”

  Chase saw anger flash in the man’s eyes.

  He probably sees his daughter in these people, these victims.

  “It’s just—”

  Martinez suddenly stormed over to her.

  “Go get some rest, Agent Adams, you look tired,” he whispered harshly.

  Chase blinked, recalling that her partner had said something like this in Anchorage when she had first challenged him.

  “I just—”

  “Get some rest,” Martinez snapped.

  Chase swallowed hard, and went to push herself to her feet, when her hand accidentally grazed Oren Vishniov’s thigh.

  “Why are you doing this?” Oren demanded.

  The man didn’t answer. Instead, he continued to root through the small case at his feet, his back to them.

  Julie whimpered, drawing Oren’s attention. A stab of guilt filled him. His girlfriend’s face was a mask of fear, her naked skin covered in goosepimples.

  “I’ll get us out of this, I swear,” he said, but the shiver that coursed through him then made him a liar. “I’ll—”

  The man turned to face them, brandishing a saw in gloved hands.

  “Please,” Julie whimpered. “Take the drugs… we can get you more.”

  The man strode over to them and as he did, Oren’s and Julie’s bodies swayed and rocked…

  Chase’s eyes snapped open.

  “A boat,” she whispered.

  Martinez, who was now hovering over her, scowled.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “The bodies weren’t thrown from the boardwalk, they were dumped out of a boat… and it was the same guy, Martinez, the same guy who killed Francine and Yolanda did this.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Detective Jasper and Agent Martinez’s words were muffled behind the closed window of Paul’s car, but what they didn’t know was that Chase was an adept lip reader.

  “What’s her problem?” Jasper asked.

  Martinez stroked his chin.

  “No, no problem. She’s helpful, smart.”

  “A little fucking weird, if you ask me. See the way her eyes glazed over when she accidentally touched Oren’s leg? She’s fucking as green as they come.”

  Martinez tilted his head to one side, and when he spoke again, Chase peered at him through the cloud of smoke that filtered from Paul’s cigarette.

  “Yeah, she’s pretty green.”

  And yet despite his words, Chase didn’t think that her partner actually believed that. If Martinez had been at this game for, in his words, a long, long time, then he simply had to know better.

  Chase was naive like a high-class escort was bashful.

  “And that boat business? What’s that about?”

  “I’ll look into it. Hadn’t really thought about it, but she could be right. I’ll dig into the logs from the fishing boats, rentals, etc. Have your guys do the same.”

  Martinez’s face suddenly broke into a grin and he slapped the Detective on the back.

  “We’ll help you solve this one, Tim,” he said. “We’ve got your back.”

  Something flickered across Jasper’s eyes, something dark and unexpected.

  “You owe me,” the detective said. He spoke so quietly that his words were completely inaudible from inside the vehicle.

  Martinez offered a simple nod as a reply. After a short pause, Jasper’s expression lightened.

  “Meet for a beer later?”

  Martinez smiled.

  “Mind if I bring the greenhorn?”

  Jasper shrugged.

  “Sure, it’ll be fun. At the Anchor, like old times? How about ten?”

  “Perfect. That’ll give me time to catch up on some sleep.” Martinez’s smile grew and he slapped Jasper on the back a second time. “See you then, Timmy. Maybe you should get some sleep, too. You look like you’ve got one foot in the grave.”

  With that, Martinez slid away from the detective and approached the car. Paul rolled down the window.

  “Hey Paul, thanks for taking Agent Adams around,” Martinez said, his face stern again.

  Paul took a drag from his cigarette.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  Martinez raised his eyes to Chase, but when he spoke, his words were directed at Paul again.

  “Can you take Agent Adams to get some fresh clothes? Something to wear? Luggage was misplaced somewhere in the South East.”

  Paul grunted and Chase detected a hint of a smile on his lips.

  “Sure.”

  Then to Chase, Martinez added, “You’ll be happy to know that we’ve got nicer digs here in Beantown… I know the owner of the W Hotel. We’ll be staying there.”

  Just the mention of the W hotel and the idea of a giant, king-size bed covered in dozens of plush pillows, was enough to make Chase’s eyes droop.

  Besides, anything would be better than Girdwood Motel.

  “Sounds good,” she said with a tired smile.

  Martinez placed both hands on the partially opened window.

  “And be ready for ten, we’re going for drinks with Jasper.”

  The man straightened, and then backed away from the car.

  “Oh, and Paul?”

  Chase’s driver looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  “Put out the damn cigarette. That shit’ll kill you.”

  ~

  Chase wasn’t one for shopping, never had been, so she managed to make it in and out of a Winners in under ten minutes armed with a handful of undergarments, three tops, and two pairs of pants. She also purchased a hat, a scarf, and some gloves, but kept the red coat that Martinez had loaned her.

  It wasn’t the money—she had enough of that from her online poker days—but there was something about the jacket that offered her a modicum of comfort, of consistency.

  She had been zipping around the country over the past week, racking up the air miles, without any idea of how long this whole ordeal was going to last.

  Surely, this couldn’t be all there was to the FBI, could it? There had to be some down time, a day or two to catch her breath, to discuss the cases that they formulated then fled before they could see them through.

  All she knew was that Agent Martinez had told her to get up, pack her bags—a lot of good that had done—and head to the airport.

  Chase yawned as she approached Paul’s sedan.

  A good… afternoon… nap, that’s all I need to collect myself. To think clearly again.

  Paul had put out his cigarette when Agent Martinez had asked, but had lit up another… and another… the moment they had hit the road.

  Chase stashed the bags in the backseat and then got into the front.

  “Where to next, boss?” Paul said, a fresh cigarette dangling from between his lips.

  Boss… that’s what Drake used to call me.

  A strange wave of nostalgia washed over her. Things hadn’t gone smoothly in New York, but at least they had followed a reasonable pattern, something that she could understand.

  Chase shook her head and yawned again.

  “Yeah, take me to the hotel, Paul. I need to get some rest.”

  CH
APTER 30

  “Come on, Georgina. Let’s go. Mom’ll be waiting,” Chase said.

  The man in the van smirked, pulling his large aviator sunglasses down his nose.

  “You’re going to regret it,” the man said, leaning out of the window of his van and peering up at the bright sun. “It’s only going to get hotter.”

  Chase moved closer to her sister, putting her body between the young girl and the car.

  “We’re fine.”

  “You don’t look fine; you guys look hot. Come on, I’ll give you a lift. I won’t bite, promise,” the man held up crossed fingers as he spoke. “This is your last chance.”

  Something chimed inside Chase’s head then. It wasn’t what the man said, per se, but how he said. And despite this realization, she wasn’t actually sure what it was that had activated the alarm bells.

  And yet they were blaring—blaring long and loud.

  “Come on, let’s go,” she hissed at her sister.

  But Georgina didn’t go; instead, she slid toward the car.

  “But it’s soooo hot,” she whined. “Let’s just—”

  Chase’s eyes narrowed.

  “Let’s go.”

  “No, I—”

  “Georgina—Now.”

  Behind her sister, Chase heard a car door open.

  She reached for Georgina then, tried to grab her hand.

  Only, to her horror, she realized that her little sister, her five-year-old sister, didn’t have any hands. She had arms, small, thin arms, but where her hands should have been were only ragged stumps.

  “Georgina!” she screamed.

  Someone was laughing, Chase realized.

  The man in the aviator sunglasses stepped out of the van. Only now he wasn’t just a large man, but huge, a massive shadow that grew until he blacked out the sun.

  “Run Georgie! Run!” Chase screamed.

  Her sister’s body suddenly went limp, and Georgina looked down at her own legs.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  Chase followed her gaze and realized why.

  Like her arms, Georgina’s legs ended too soon.

  Her feet were gone, sawed off by the same crude tool that had been used to remove her hands.

  Georgina looked up at her, tears in her eyes.