I relayed the info, but they weren’t swayed. Herb suggested calling the Crocodile Hunter, but neither of us knew his number.
“We can’t let him stay here, Jack.”
I agreed. A cat could mess up a scene in a dozen ways. Not just by destroying evidence – it could get in the team’s way, hurt someone, or even get hurt itself if it inhaled the wrong chemical.
“You want him?” I asked.
Herb frowned and tore off another paper towel to blot his scalp.
I reached a tentative hand out to stroke the cat, and he bared claws and took a swipe at me.
“Try offering him your head,” Herb suggested. “He’ll jump on and we can walk him out.”
I left the kitchen and went into Davi’s bedroom, returning a moment later with the cat carrier and some ski gloves.
Herb raised an eyebrow. “Should I start dialing 911 now?”
“No need to worry. Animals love me, because they can sense my pure heart.”
Without hesitating, I grabbed Mr. Friskers around the body. He countered by screaming louder than humanly possible and locking his fangs onto my right index finger. The gloves protected me, and I managed to get him in the carrier without losing a digit.
“So now we throw him in Lake Michigan, right?”
“I’m sure one of Davi’s friends will take him.”
“And in the meantime?”
I let out a big, dramatic sigh.
“I guess I’ll have to keep him for a few days.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack. I don’t want the next murder I investigate to be yours.”
“He’s just scared and grumpy. You’d be grumpy too if you had the same diaper on for four days. Right, little guy?”
I poked my gloved finger into the cat carrier, and Mr. Friskers pounced on it, biting and scratching.
“Try showing him your pure heart,” Herb suggested.
The cat screamed for the entire ride back to the office.
CHAPTER 8
“My place is just up the next block.”
“This isn’t a very nice neighborhood.”
“On purpose. My wife would never think to look for me here.”
He smiles at the girl. Eileen Hutton. Young, pretty, perfect body. She knew it, too, which is why this date cost a cool thousand bucks.
She won’t get the chance to spend it.
They’re driving south on Kedzie, property values dropping block by block. The flophouse where he takes his women is dilapidated, filthy, and came complete with a handful of winos lounging in front. When he parks in the adjacent alley, she doesn’t want to get out of the car.
“What’s wrong?” He grins. His head feels ready to burst, an incessant pounding that’s making his vision blur. Sweat streaks down his face in rivers. Hopefully, she’ll think it’s just the heat.
“I don’t feel comfortable here.”
“Don’t you trust me? I’m one of the good guys.”
He unlocks the glove compartment, takes out a silver cigarette case. Lined up inside are six rolled joints. He lights one up, hands it to her.
“I married my wife for money, and believe me, she’s got a lot. She won’t put out, though. So I have to get it on the side, and I have to be discreet about it. You understand.”
She puffs and nods.
Enjoy it, baby. It’s your last.
No one gives them a glance as they walk into the building. The hallway smells like piss and worse. Lighting is at a minimum. She holds his arm until they get to his room.
His hand is trembling as he unlocks the door.
Almost there. Just a few more minutes.
They enter and she turns in a full circle, taking it all in. “Wow! What’s your kink, man?”
The floors and walls are lined with clear plastic sheets. The only piece of furniture in the room is a bed, and that’s also similarly covered.
“I like plastic.”
“I can tell.” She smiles in a way that she probably thinks is sexy. Annoying bitch. He’s going to enjoy slicing her up.
“I want you to wear something for me.”
“Let me guess. A plastic garbage bag?”
“No. These.”
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a pair of earrings. Silver hoops, antique-looking.
“Those are pretty.”
She removes the dangly gold ones she has on, shoves them into her little spaghetti strap designer purse. When she puts the first hoop in, he begins to pant. His expression must scare her, because she stops smiling.
“You know, I usually don’t make dates on my own. I normally go through the escort service.”
“Don’t worry. You trust me, remember?”
She nods, but it’s uncertain.
“These earrings look beautiful on you, Eileen.”
“Thanks. Um, how did you get my number, anyway?”
“I have ways.”
“Yeah. I guess you do.”
“The bathroom is over there. I’d really like it if you came out wearing nothing but those earrings.”
She gives him a half smile, hesitates, then trots off to the bathroom like a good little whore.
He undresses, folding his clothes neatly and putting them on the floor of the closet, next to the axe. His other instruments are laid out on a stained towel.
What to use, what to use?
He selects a garrote for the murder and a box cutter for the detail work. The garrote is something he picked up at work – a twenty-inch strand of piano wire, the ends twisted around wooden pegs. He hasn’t tried it yet. Should be fun.
She comes out of the bathroom, strutting. Her confidence is back. Her naked body is flawless.
But it won’t be for long.
“Well, you’re a big one, aren’t you? What do you want to do first, big boy?”
Severing her head is harder than he’d have guessed. He has to prop his knee up against her back for leverage, and then use a sawing motion with the garrote to get through the spine.
There’s a lot of blood.
When he’s finished, he goes to work with the utility knife.
He attends to her eagerly, like a starving man. The feeling is more than sexual. It’s euphoric. Mind-altering.
Pain-relieving.
The moment he walked behind her and stretched the wire across her pretty little throat, the pain vanished. His vision cleared, his jaw unclenched, and a feeling of pure relief a thousand times better than any orgasm flooded through him.
He doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t care why. The throbbing is gone, replaced by a mad giggling fit as he works harder and faster with the utility knife.
It soon escalates into a mindless frenzy.
Afterward, he takes a shower. The water is tepid and smells like rust. He doesn’t care.
The pain is gone.
How long it will stay gone is unknown to him. Sometimes it lasts for weeks. Sometimes, only a few hours.
He takes what he can get.
He scrubs his nails with a toothbrush and a lot of soap, cleaning out all of the gore and little bits. He notices similar bits in his mouth, spits something bloody onto the shower floor.
Must have really gotten crazy there.
Stepping out of the bathroom, he sees how crazy he’s actually been.
It’s a mess. Worse than he’s ever done.
He sits on the bed, naked, in a Thinker pose, staring at the body. He doesn’t even remember doing half of these things to her. And using only a one-inch blade and pure strength. Impressive.
“I am one scary son of a bitch,” he says to himself.
Careful to avoid the blood pool, he pads over to the closet and quickly dresses. On his cell phone, he presses 3 on speed dial.
“I’ve got another one.”
Chuckles on the other end. “Busy little bee, aren’t you?”
“Come get her.”
“I’m already out the door.”
He stands in the corner. Staring at the mess. Memorizing it.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock.
“Who the hell is it?”
“The password is psycho. Open up.”