The Coldest Fear

by Rick Reed

  “You mean she doesn’t like your state-of-the-art Polaroid ?”

  The sergeant in charge of the Crime Scene Unit, Tony Walker, stepped out of the room and motioned for Jack and Liddell to come in. “Stay with me,” he said.

  Sergeant Tony Walker was fifty years old with the physique of a thirty-year-old, and except for his salt-and-pepper hair you would easily mistake him for the latter. They followed Walker into the room and stopped just outside the bathroom door, where Jack could see two crime scene techs in white Tyvek clothing, booties, and hoods. One was taking digital photos. The other was busy taking notes and making a pencil sketch that was better than a computer-generated drawing.

  “So what have the techs come up with?” Jack asked. Their backs blocked most of his view of the bathtub, but he could see one slender arm draped over the side of the tub. The arm ended at a bloody wrist. No hand.

  Walker shrugged. “She’s in pretty bad condition.” He tapped the shoulder of the nearest tech. “Give us a minute, guys.”

  Darkish water trickled over the edge of the tub, running down the side and flooding the tiled floor of the small room. Inside the tub was the body of a white female, submerged, with only the top of her head and right arm above water. Her red hair floated like the bloody spokes of a wheel, radiating away from her skull. Her right arm was draped over the side of the tub. The skin near the wrist glistened with droplets of blood. A little blood had gathered where the arm made contact with the side of the tub, but Jack guessed that most of it had washed away with the water that spilled over the side of the tub.

  The red hair floated away from the front enough for Jack to see that her face had been destroyed. He hoped they would find some identification in the hotel room because there would be no easy way to identify this woman. Whoever had killed her had removed her face and her right hand. The left arm was down in the water beneath her.

  “The killer smashed her teeth out,” Walker commented.

  “The other hand?” Jack asked.

  Walker shook his head. “We won’t know until we move her.”

  Jack looked more closely at the wounds on top of the victim’s head. The red hair was thick, even though it was now soaked with blood where it was pasted against the top of the woman’s skull. Several deep gashes crisscrossed the scalp. Maybe she put up a fight and was struck on top of the head with something, but she wasn’t killed in this room, Jack thought.

  The body was turned slightly away from the threshold of the doorway where Jack stood, but he was able to see that the wound to her face started at the top of the forehead and moved downward, slicing through meat, skin, and sinewy muscle. The killer had cut away most of the face, including the nose and lips. It looked as if he had hacked downward with something wide and sharp. Where there should have been a face, only a skeletal mask remained. The eyes were missing, leaving bloody chasms in the orbital sockets.

  “Is it okay if I get closer?” Jack asked. Walker nodded.

  Jack stepped into the room and felt the water soak into his loafers. He stood directly above the corpse’s head and looked down, then quickly retreated out of the room.

  “Any weapons yet?” he asked Walker.

  Walker turned and spoke to one of the techs, who handed him a plastic bag sealed with red evidence tape. Inside the bag was a long-handled teaspoon. The steel surface was smeared with something dark.

  “This was left on top of the sink,” Walker said.

  “Can you take out someone’s eyes with a spoon?” Liddell asked.

  Walker shrugged. “It would be pretty hard. Whoever did would have to be incredibly strong to tear the ocular muscles free.”

  “Did anyone check to see if the hotel has a video system ?” Jack asked.

  Liddell and Walker looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “You’re not just another pretty face, pod’na,” Liddell said and called downstairs to the uniformed sergeant in the front lobby. He listened for a few beats before saying, “Oh yeah? It figures.” Turning to Jack he said, “They don’t have a video camera at the entrance. We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

  “You said the water was still running in the bathtub when the hotel employee found her?” Liddell asked Walker.

  “The overflow of water could have carried away quite a bit of blood, but as you can see much of the water has soaked into the carpeting at the threshold,” he said, and pointed at the doorway. There was a bright red stain in the dull Berber carpet. “The employee—the manager, I think—had a complaint from the guests on the next floor down that water was leaking through the ceiling into their room. She came up and found the body and turned the water off.”

  “It was very cost-conscious of her to think of saving water,” Liddell said, earning a warning look from his partner.

  Walker said, “I think the murder took place in the bedroom. The bedspread is soaked in blood, and the arterial spray we were talking about is all over the room. We found more blood pooling on the floor at the bottom of the bed. Also, there is arterial spray on the ceiling and wall near the side of the bed nearest the door to the room.”

  He reached a gloved hand into the water and moved the victim’s head only slightly to the side. A swirl of blood issued from an area of the victim’s neck about two inches below and forward of the right ear.

  “Let me know as soon as you get something, Tony,” Jack said.

  “Little Casket’s here, but she went back downstairs just before you arrived.” Walker was referring to the chief deputy coroner, a diminutive woman named Lilly Caskins. “Little Casket” was a nickname that suited her well, because she was evil looking, with large dark eyes staring out of extra-thick lenses, and horn-rimmed frames that had gone out of style during the days of Al Capone.

  Jack respected her work for the most part, but she had an annoying habit of being blunt at death scenes. He found it surprising that a woman could have absolutely no compassion for the dead, and no love for the living.

  Jack felt a presence nearby and turned to see the squat figure of Detective Larry Jansen standing just inside the entrance to the room. Jansen reminded Jack of a bumbling TV sleuth, with his wrinkled and dirty car coat, worn and scuffed black shoes, and mop of uncombed greasy hair. Jansen was questioning the officer who was keeping the crime scene entry log. He made some notes and then looked up, noticed Jack, and walked over.

  “Well, look who’s back,” Liddell said.

  Jansen had just returned to duty after receiving a thirty-day suspension without pay for violating department policy. A less connected detective would have been fired on the spot, but Jansen knew where all the political bodies were buried. The man seemed to be coated in Teflon, and it was a surprise to almost everyone that he had been suspended.

  “You gonna take this one, Jansen?” Walker asked jokingly.

  “Yeah, I’ll take it. I was in the area,” Jansen responded.

  This was not the kind of case that could be entrusted to a detective like Jansen, who would undoubtedly shuffle it into a folder and bury it. In truth, any type of case should not be assigned to him. “Too late, Larry. The captain already assigned it to us,” Jack lied.

  Jansen glared at Jack and Liddell, his mouth a tight line, and then he shrugged and left the room.

  Jack pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number for Captain Chuck Franklin, the commander of the Homicide Unit. Franklin would then call the chief. The chief would probably call the mayor and the mayor would call whoever was holding his leash at the moment. Politics was a wonderful thing. No one wanted to get caught with their pants down when the news media got wind of this.

  Outside the hotel Jansen was dialing his own cell phone. He could care less about the captain or chief of police. I’ll take care of Murphy and that Cajun partner of his, Jansen thought.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Blake James finished running four miles along the riverfront and was leaning against a marble column of the Four Freedoms Monument to stretch. This
morning’s run had been shorter than he would have liked, but he had to get to work, and he had not been late a day in the last three years since taking over as the news anchor for Channel Six television. At twenty-six years old he was the youngest anchor in the history of the station. Since he ran religiously he was in the best shape he had ever been in. His muscles sang with the exertion he had just put them through, but he was on a runner’s high and when his phone rang it didn’t surprise him. He was on call twenty-four hours a day. It was probably the station.

  He looked at the display and groaned out loud. Two icons appeared on the screen: DECLINE and ANSWER. His thumb hesitated over the DECLINE icon for a few rings, but then he pressed ANSWER and said, “Hello, Detective Jansen. What can I do for you so early in the morning?”

  “Ask not what you can do for Larry Jansen, but what Larry Jansen can do for you,” the detective said with a chuckle. His intention was to quote the late, great President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. It was a game he and Blake played. Blake was somewhat of a historian.

  “Friday, January twentieth, 1961, the inaugural speech of John F. Kennedy,” Blake said. “Outgoing President Eisenhower was present at the inauguration. In fact, Kennedy had attended Holy Trinity Church earlier and rode to Congress with Eisenhower. Snow had fallen the night before and there were thoughts of cancelling the speech. The elections had been close, but the senator from Massachusetts had beaten the incumbent vice president, Richard Nixon, and was anxious to start the arduous task of gathering support for his agenda. Chief Justice Earl Warren administered the oath of office and a poem was read by none other than Robert Frost.” Blake hesitated and then asked, “Do you know what the poem was, Detective?”

  As always, Jansen had a short fuse. “Nah. I don’t know what the poem was, Blake. But I got something real hot for you. Do you want it or not?”

  “The answer is ‘The Gift Outright,’ Larry. Of course, the handwritten poem he had composed for the presidential occasion was actually ‘Dedication,’ but no one really knows why he read the shorter poem in place of it. Both poems spoke to the same human conditions—those of power and control and abuse of the lower classes.” Blake delivered this narrative as if he had been present during this oration by Robert Frost.

  “Okay, Blake. I’m a dumbass! Is that what you want to hear? Well, screw you very much and I’ll give my tip to someone else.”

  Blake James laughed and the sound was infectious. Jansen could no more be mad at this man than he could be mad at himself. It was no wonder someone with the personality of Blake James was the most popular news anchor in Evansville media history. Jansen started laughing, too.

  “We still friends, Larry?” Blake asked.

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Then all is well with the world,” Blake said, and laughed again.

  “I got a murder for ya,” Jansen said.

  “Oh? Are you the lead investigator?” Blake asked.

  The line was silent for a moment; then Jansen said, “No, Blake. I’m not the lead investigator. Why’s that matter?”

  “Is Murphy the lead?”

  The line was silent much longer this time. Blake could imagine Jansen struggling with his anger. It was no secret that he hated Murphy. It was also no secret that Jansen was a horrible detective and could screw up a confession.

  “Okay, you’re right. It doesn’t matter, Larry. Tell me about it. And don’t leave anything out.” Blake slipped into news-anchor talking-head mode, all business.

  Blake had Jansen repeat the whole story twice to be sure he hadn’t left anything out, and then ended the call. Blake then punched in the number for the newsroom at Channel Six. His co-anchor, Claudine Setera, answered on the first ring.

  Larry Jansen looked at the business card he had kept in his wallet for the best part of a week now. He wondered if he should have called her instead of Blake. But then he thought about his wife and a momentary fit of conscience struck him.

  He remembered when his wife was young and beautiful and desirable. Not as desirable as Claudine Setera, but nice. Real nice. Back then the smell of her hair was like fresh flowers, the taste of her lips—and other parts as well—was like a drug that made him shake with need. But since she had become ill she smelled like dried urine and he didn’t dare breathe when he gave her a quick peck on the cheek before going to work. He wondered how things had gotten so messed up.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lilly Caskins looked on with consternation as Blake James pulled into the parking lot. He slid his athletic body from his vehicle and smoothed his long dark hair back out of his eyes. He reminded her of Antonio Banderas. She normally didn’t like reporters, but Blake was cute. Even an old dame like her could see that he had a cute butt. But she didn’t like her name in the news, didn’t like seeing herself on television, and absolutely hated the way the cameramen seemed to deliberately catch shots of her when she was standing next to the tallest policemen, thereby making her look like a fussy old dwarf.

  “Hello, Lilly,” Blake said. Coming up quickly, he gave her a firm hug, enveloping her diminutive form into the folds of his clothing like Count Alucard in the old Dracula movies.

  “Hmmpf. Hello yourself,” she muttered, but didn’t try to extricate herself too strenuously. He smelled of sweat and cologne and man scent. She backed up a step and had to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

  “Why, Lilly, you’re blushing,” he said with a smirk.

  She could feel her face flush and looked around the parking lot to be sure that no one else had noticed. Behind her she saw Claudine Setera, a smarmy smile pasted to her face, and a Channel Six cameraman pointing the camera lens her way. The bitch filmed the whole thing, Lilly thought as she stormed away and back into the safety of the Marriott.

  “What do we need that shot for?” the cameraman asked.

  Claudine ignored him and approached Blake. “What was that all about?”

  Blake’s expression turned to ice. “Just watch me work, little girl,” he said and strode away toward the front entrance of the Marriott.

  Claudine and the cameraman trotted along behind.

  Lilly Caskins entered the hotel room and headed straight for Jack.

  “The jackals are at the door,” she said.

  “Yeah? Well, I guess they were bound to show up sooner or later, eh?” Jack said.

  “That damned Jansen,” Liddell muttered.

  Jack looked at him and shook his head. Jansen. Which means the “jackal” Lilly is referring to is Blake James. Jansen talks about Blake like he’s the best thing since sliced bread, he thought.

  “Blake James’s down there,” Lilly said, confirming Jack’s thoughts. “And he’s got that little Italian honey you guys have been ogling.”

  Liddell straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and popped a piece of gum into his mouth. “I guess I’d better go talk to her—them, I mean,” he said.

  “You’re married, Bigfoot,” Lilly reminded him. “Better send Jack. It’s just a matter of time before that parole-officer gal kicks him to the curb.”

  Jack gave her a severe look. “Her name is Susan. She’s not a ‘parole-officer gal,’ she’s the chief parole officer in Evansville, and I didn’t get kicked to the curb yet.”

  Liddell smirked. There was going to be a fight. Six-foot-tall, hard-as-nails Jack Murphy, against four-foot-five, skinny-as-a-rail, and old-as-a-redwood Lilly Caskins. Murphy didn’t stand a chance.

  “Sorry, Jack,” Lilly said, “I didn’t mean it that way. Just having a bad day.”

  Liddell swallowed his gum and choked as it went down the wrong way. Neither Jack nor Lilly made a move to help him, suspecting he was just putting on a show.

  Liddell coughed into his hand a few times and excused himself to go and meet the press.

  “You need to keep him on a leash,” Lilly said, coming as close to a grin as Jack had ever seen.

  “He’s all right, Lilly. Give him a break.” Jack looked back toward the bathroom, where the crime
scene techs were lifting the body from the bathtub. A body bag was open on a gurney near the tub. The techs gently lowered the body into the black plastic bag. Jack stopped them before they zipped it shut.

  “Just a minute,” he said, and both he and Lilly took another look at the victim.

  “Destroyed the face,” Lilly said, and then added, “She knew her killer.”

  Jack looked at her. He was thinking the same thing, but he was curious why Lilly thought so. “Have you seen something like this before?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “When I was in Vegas at a medicolegal death-investigation school. They showed photos of a woman with her face smashed in with a brick. In that case it was an ex-husband that was smashing what he could no longer have. What he couldn’t stand to look at.”

  “But have you ever seen a face removed?” Jack asked. Lilly shook her head.

  Jack was still gloved up. He looked down on the grisly thing that was once a human head and carefully moved the face to the side. Long red hair fell across the gaping wound in the slender neck. Her head had almost been severed from her body. So that explains all the blood in the bedroom, he thought.

  The face was flattened, as if something heavy had been slammed into it, smashing it down and crushing the bones. But when he looked closer he didn’t see bone fragments, or the radial fractures that you would expect from a blow that came straight into the face. He wasn’t a medical examiner, but Jack could tell the direction of the blow was from above the face and down to the chin.

  He lifted the left arm gently by the wrist and could feel the coldness of the flesh even through the gloves. Rigor was beginning to set in, and the muscles were becoming rigid. He wondered why only one had been removed. Not trying to hide her identity, Jack thought. So why cut the face off and smash out the teeth?

  Lilly got a funny look on her face. “Jack. Look at the top of her head.”