Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  The governor’s naked, blood-soaked body lay in the middle of a king-size bed. His wrists and ankles were tied to the headboard and footboard with expensive-looking silk ties. All of his fingers were missing—sawed off with some type of serrated blade. One-inch stumps with bony ridges and jagged flaps of skin were all that remained. Hollow eye sockets stared off into the great beyond. His nose and ears were gone. Penis and testicles were also notably absent.

  This murder was remarkably different from the other two. The first two victims had been killed with meticulous precision. The governor, on the other hand, appeared to be the victim of pure unadulterated rage. If Reid didn’t know better, she’d think these murders were totally unrelated.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Reid noticed that Boyle seemed to be paying particular attention to London’s reaction as they all stepped inside.

  London put an arm over her mouth as she stepped away, turned, and threw up in the corner.

  “I’ll tell Forensics not to bag that as evidence,” Boyle said nonchalantly as she returned to them. He handed her a small bottle of water and a stick of sugarless gum. “No need to be embarrassed. Barely made it to the toilet myself. Everyone who’s set foot in here so far has lost their shit. Pardon the expression.” He withdrew a second bottle of water from his coat pocket and offered it to Reid.

  “I’m good, thanks,” she said, declining the water.

  He shook his head. “Not even this, huh?”

  She was the only detective in their squad who’d never thrown up at a crime scene. “Close, but no dice,” she said, patting her stomach. But even she felt a little queasy.

  “We found every body part, except the genitals.”

  Reid pulled on her latex gloves and stepped over to the body. “Look no farther.” She set her fingers over the governor’s top and bottom teeth and, with substantial effort, pried his jaw apart. “Testicles are in here. Penis is lodged in his windpipe.”

  “Didn’t think to look there.” Boyle cleared his throat and looked away. “And I’m not sure I could’ve, even if I had thought of it.”

  “You said you found all the other body parts,” Reid said. “Where?”

  “In the den, where it looks like all this started.” He led them back downstairs and through an expansive kitchen before pausing at a closed door once again. “Our governor had more dirt in his closet than he knew what to do with. I am not, by any means, condoning this bloodbath. Let’s just say, I won’t be losing any sleep over it.”

  Reid, London, and Boyle stepped inside the den. Straight from the pages of a Sherlock Holmes mystery, dark walnut surrounded them from floor to ceiling. Built-in bookshelves teeming with hardcover texts comprised two walls. Brown leather armchairs with matching ottomans sat atop a Persian rug and faced a massive stone fireplace.

  This was probably where the governor spent much of his time and obviously where he was tortured. A faded eighteenth-century French tapestry had been moved aside to reveal a hidden panel in the wall. The panel lay open, exposing a large walk-in closet with empty shelves.

  Reid stepped over for a closer look.

  London followed at her heels. “Why would he have a hidden closet with nothing inside?”

  A metal stepladder was folded up and lying on its side in the far corner of the closet. Reid slid it out, pried it open, and ascended the narrow steps. There, on the highest shelf, hidden from plain view, was a leather-bound journal. Her stomach somersaulted. She had an inkling about what was inside. For London’s sake, she hoped she was wrong.

  “How’d you know that was up there?” London whispered as Reid climbed back down.

  “Deductive reasoning,” she answered defensively. She knew what London was thinking, but no one had paid her a visit from the Great Beyond to help her this time.

  “Okay.” London shook her head and sighed. “Whatever you say.”

  She pointed to the stepladder. “Why would he hide a stepladder in a secret closet unless he needed to reach something high?”

  London nodded. “Good point,” she conceded. “That explains why you’re the trainer, and I’m the trainee.”

  Even after the short time they’d worked together, she realized it wasn’t like London to miss something so obvious. London was understandably distracted.

  London peered over her shoulder as she flipped through the journal’s pages. It was less like a journal and more like the scrapbook of a proud parent. Dozens of photos with handwritten captions filled its pages, chronicling a young girl’s childhood from infancy through adolescence. The captions started out innocent enough, detailing memorable moments and milestones reached. But the caption that was written alongside a photo of the girl at her sweet-sixteen gala revealed the governor’s not-so-innocent cravings.

  The young girl in the journal was London.

  Unable to hold herself back, Reid flipped forward to the final entry. It detailed the night he’d had his way with London when she was eighteen.

  London stared at the journal in Reid’s hands but said nothing. She looked like she was in shock.

  “There are others,” Boyle called out from across the room.

  She closed the journal and scanned the empty shelves around her. “Where?”

  “He kept files on all of his quote-unquote”—with a look of disgust, he made air quotes—“conquests in his computer.”

  Boyle’s complete lack of surprise about the discovery of this journal was suspect. He also made no move to join them to see what was inside, which could mean only one thing: he’d already found it.

  London stepped forward. “You know.”

  Boyle nodded.

  * * *

  London closed her eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to ground herself. She was determined not to cry in front of her lieutenant.

  How could her own godfather have done this? She felt betrayed, humiliated, and angry all in one breath. In that moment, she hated Bill more than ever. For violating her trust. For violating her body. For standing between her and her parents for the last ten years. He’d stolen so much from her already. Now this.

  On the heels of her anger came guilt. She glanced at Bill’s computer. There were others? Had she thought for a second that he was preying on other women, she would have confronted this thing head-on. But at eighteen, she’d been inexperienced, naive, and embarrassed. She’d made the mistake of thinking it was somehow her fault. Deep down, for all these years, she’d believed she’d done or said something to encourage him. She shook her head, chastising herself. She should have known better.

  * * *

  Reid watched as Boyle crossed his arms and spoke to London sternly. “I need to know—one cop to another—did you kill him?”

  She stepped to London’s side, feeling suddenly protective. “She couldn’t have killed him, Lieutenant. Gold was with me last night. We were working the case at my house and ended up crashing there. I have the leftover pizza and empty beer bottles to prove it.”

  London looked from Reid to Boyle. “The killer must’ve overheard me telling Sylver about…about what happened. But it was a long time ago, Lieutenant.”

  “Ten years,” Reid added in London’s defense.

  Seemingly satisfied with London’s alibi, Boyle uncrossed his arms.

  “You said the governor kept files on his victims in his computer?” Reid asked.

  Boyle nodded.

  “Does he have one on Gold?”

  Without a word, Boyle strode over to the governor’s grand, ornately carved mahogany desk in the corner of the room. He leaned over, made a few clicks with the mouse, and straightened. “Not anymore.”

  London let out an audible breath.

  “What should we do with the journal?” Reid asked, holding it up.

  Boyle didn’t blink. “What journal?”

  Reid slipped the book inside her coat pocket, grateful to Boyle on London’s behalf. Cap would have done the same. Maybe her new lieutenant wasn’t such a far cry from the captain, after all.
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  “I read the ME’s report on the other two vics,” Boyle went on. “Organized, meticulous, but this”—he gestured around the room—“this is pure rage. Totally outside his MO, if he even has one. Because now, I’m not so sure.”

  “He has one,” Reid said. Of that she was certain. “This was just his knee-jerk reaction to a sexual predator.”

  “Are you saying even psychopathic killers have standards?”

  “I’m saying he lost his shit on this guy after he heard what he did to London. I think our killer was physically and sexually abused as a kid by an older woman. That’s why he sexually violated the first two vics postmortem.”

  Boyle shook his head. “Poor bastard.”

  Reid was anxious to find out from the ME if the killer had also sexually assaulted the governor. That would yield even more insight into his psychological profile.

  Boyle pointed to the center of the desk. “He left a note for you, Sylver.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Reid and London stepped over to the governor’s desk. The note was written in blood. Reid couldn’t help but wonder if the killer had forced the governor to write it as he lay dying.

  One less cockroach afoot. Consider this my engagement gift to you and your new partner.

  It appeared the killer was aware of her involvement with London. Knowing Reid was now embarking on a relationship when his had just ended—and had, more than likely, ended against his wishes—was just too big a pill for him to swallow. No longer superior to Reid in the relationship department, he’d feel the sting of rejection even more deeply. That feeling of rejection no doubt contributed to his loss of control, inciting his violent attack on the governor.

  Reid was fairly certain the governor had been tortured, that he’d been dismembered while still alive, but she wouldn’t know for sure until the ME determined official cause of death. Judging from the amount of blood scattered throughout the den, it appeared as though he’d exsanguinated, and over a prolonged period of time, from the looks of it.

  “What’s your next step?” Boyle asked. “How can I help?”

  Boyle was obviously just as anxious to get this killer off the streets. She checked her watch: 7:19 a.m. “We’ll pay a visit to my good friend Wanda, over at the—”

  “Department of Children and Families?” Boyle finished, snorting in disbelief. “Good luck with that. Mrs. Alinski will be thrilled to see you. Make sure you’re wearing your vest.”

  Reid had brought Wanda four apple pies last year to share with the rest of her office staff. She’d been attempting to butter her up in an effort to get some quick—and rather sensitive—information for a case she was working. She’d mistakenly claimed that she made the pies herself. Problem was, she hadn’t. An ex-con she’d helped put behind bars had gifted them to her after his release from prison. He’d dropped by the precinct to thank her, claiming he was a reformed man. Turned out the pies—all four of them—had been laced with a rather potent laxative. Reid had singlehandedly wiped out the entire DCF office in one fell swoop.

  “Not a problem. I’m sure she’s forgotten all about it by now.” Since DCF didn’t open their doors for another ninety minutes or so, that left her some time to swing by the vet and get Mug checked out.

  Boyle cleared his throat. “How about I keep Mug with me for the day? I can drop by Angell on my way back to the station, get him looked at, and make sure he’s good to go,” he suggested, as if reading her mind.

  Boyle kicked ass at co-parenting. Reid nodded as she stroked Mug’s back and shoulders. She trusted Boyle. Mug would be safe with him. “Just do me a favor—take him to a different vet. There’s someone we’re looking into at Angell who might be connected to the killer,” she explained. “And don’t take your eyes off Mug. He’s with you every second.”

  Boyle pointed to his overstuffed pockets. “Dog biscuits in this one. Extra tennis balls over here.”

  She leaned over and kissed Mug between the eyes. “You’re staying with Boyle today. I’ll see you later.”

  As she and London turned to leave, Boyle called out behind them, “Don’t think I didn’t notice you never showed for our workout this morning. I cut you some slack for today, but I plan to be a real dick about it next time.”

  “Promises, promises.” She flipped him the bird and rounded the corner.

  “That’s going in your file, Sylver!” he shouted.

  Back at Boyle’s truck, London tossed her the keys. “You drive,” she said.

  They climbed inside and buckled their seat belts in silence. Though tempted, Reid said nothing, remembering London’s request not to be babied. She reminded herself that London would talk about everything when she was ready.

  “We have to find who did this to him.”

  Reid reached over to hold London’s hand. “We will.”

  “Bill did terrible things, but he didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that.”

  Reid said nothing. She wasn’t sure she agreed. “Here, this is yours.” She slid the journal from her pocket and handed it to London.

  London set it in her lap and sighed. “Okay, lay it on me.”

  Reid pulled out of the governor’s driveway and glanced at London, confused. “What am I laying on you?”

  “On a scale of one to ten, how much does Mrs. Alinski hate your guts?”

  Reid didn’t hesitate. “Like…a one. Definitely a one. Barely even a one.”

  London rolled her eyes. “Let’s stop by the precinct so we can pick up our vests.”

  * * *

  They walked through the front doors of the DCF office promptly at 8:45 a.m. Reid shifted uncomfortably in her vest. “Can’t believe you talked me into wearing this thing. Killer isn’t coming after us with bullets. That’s not his MO.”

  “This isn’t for him,” London whispered as they checked in with security, got their visitor stickers, and strode with purpose to the elevator. “It’s to give us some extra protection against Mrs. Alinski and the rest of her office. Considering everything they have to deal with, DCF workers are on edge enough as it is. Giving them pies filled with laxatives probably sent a few over the edge. No doubt, they’ll want to grab your gun and shoot you on sight.”

  “You can’t be serious. It’s been a year. I’m sure they’ve forgotten all about it by now.” She felt suddenly nervous. Her hands grew clammy. “Besides, I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “You said you were sorry, though. Right?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly, but—”

  “You never called to apologize? Explain what happened?”

  “Cap advised me not to. Said he’d handle it.”

  London sighed. “I’m not sure why we even bothered coming here. No one is going to help us.”

  “Can’t you just save the day, and do that thing you did with the nun?”

  “Sister Margaret?”

  “Yeah. Her.”

  “What thing are you referring to?”

  “You know, that bonding thing you did.”

  “You mean when I was courteous, honest, and respectful?”

  “Yeah. You’re good at that stuff.”

  “This might come as a surprise to you, but lots of people make those behaviors part of their everyday routine. It’s called basic human decency.”

  “How come I feel like there’s a lecture coming on? Are you really mad about those pies?”

  The elevator doors parted. “I just think you owe Mrs. Alinski an apology.”

  “It’d be insincere, so what’s the point?”

  “Sometimes, it doesn’t matter if you mean it,” London said, stepping off the elevator. “Just saying it and putting it out there for the other person does a world of good. Haven’t you ever heard of karma?”

  “Whatever. She probably won’t even remember who I am.” Reid led the way to Wanda’s office. DCF workers were darting about with files, coffee mugs, and overstuffed briefcases. Thankfully, no one paid her any mind as she and London traversed the jungle of the overworked a
nd underpaid.

  She knocked on Wanda’s open door and hesitated in the doorway. Wanda was just hanging her overcoat on the hook behind her desk. A plump woman with short gray hair and rose-colored glasses, she’d been on the job longer than Reid had been a cop.

  “Mrs. Alinski”—Reid held up her badge—“a word, please?”

  She turned and pierced Reid with a gaze that said she wasn’t happy about the interruption. She crossed her arms, giving Reid a once-over. “Put on a few pounds, did we?”

  “It’s the vest.” She pointed at London. “My partner made me wear it. She’s convinced you’re holding a grudge from the unfortunate misunderstanding we had last year.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Reid turned to London. “See? I told you.”

  “Better be quick.” Wanda stepped over to her desk and sat down. “There are about fifty people in line ahead of you.”

  “Really?” Reid pretended to look around the office. “Well, they must be pretty small because I don’t see them anywhere,” she said, hoping to lighten the tense mood.

  Shaking her head, London stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “I’m Detective Gold. We know you’re busy. Hope not to take up too much of your time.”

  Wanda didn’t bother to stand as she reached back. Her eyes quickly sized London up. “What zone?” she asked. “Green, yellow, orange, or red?”

  “I beg your pardon?” London replied.

  “Trivial, pressing, critical, or life-threatening? Each worker’s time is in such high demand around here that we must allocate our time with the utmost care. All meetings, phone calls, and conversations are tiered according to their level of importance. If it’s not in the red, then you’ll have to take a seat and wait.” She pointed to the sitting area immediately outside her office door.

  London didn’t skip a beat. “This is way beyond red.”

  “There’s no such thing as way beyond red.”

  “Then you should add it. Because we’re in the blinking fluorescent-green three-people-have-already-died-with-more-to-come zone, if we don’t get information from you.”