It quickly morphs into rage.
Moni doesn't hesitate, bringing the blowtorch around, swinging it like a club, connecting hard with the side of the freak's head, and then he's falling forward, past her, arms pinwheeling as he dives face-first into the stairs.
Moni continues to run, up into the house, looking left and right, finding the front door, reaching for the knob...
And pauses.
The freak took a hard fall, but he might still be alive.
There will be other girls. Other girls in his basement.
Girls like Charlene.
Cops don't help whores. Cops don't care.
But Moni does.
Next to the front door is the living room. A couch. Curtains. A throw rug.
Moni picks up the rug, wraps it around her body. Using the torch, she sets the couch ablaze, the curtains on fire, before throwing it onto the floor and running out into the street.
It's early morning. The sidewalk is cold under her bare feet. She's shaken, and her burned arm throbs, but she feels lighter than air.
A car stops.
A john, cruising. Rolls down the window and asks if she's for sale.
“Not anymore,” Moni says.
She walks away, not looking back.
With a Twist
Another locked room mystery, this one even more complicated. What's fun about Jack is that I can put her in different sub genres without changing her character. She can function as Sherlock Holmes, or Spenser, or Kay Scarpetta, depending on the story. This won 2nd place in the Ellery Queen Reader's Choice Contest.
“His skull is shattered, and his spinal column looks like a Dutch pretzel.” Phil Blasky straightened from his crouch and locked eyes with me, his expression neutral. “This man has fallen from a great height.”
I glanced up from my notepad, not having written a word. “You're positive?”
“I've autopsied enough jumpers in my tenure as ME to know a pancake when I see one, Jack.”
I stared at the body, arms and legs akimbo, splayed out on a living room carpet damp with bodily fluids. On impulse I looked up, focusing on a ceiling that couldn't be any higher than eight feet.
“Maybe he jumped off the couch.” This from my partner, Detective First Class Herb Benedict. His left hand scratched his expansive stomach, his light blue shirt dotted with mustard stains. It was 11am, so how the mustard got there was anybody's guess.
I frowned at Herb, then located a patch of dry beige carpeting and knelt next to the corpse, careful not to stain my heels or pants. The victim was named Edward Wyatt, and this was his house. He was Caucasian, 67 years old, and as dead as dead can be. The smell wasn't too bad—this was a fresh one—but the wake would definitely be a closed casket.
“What do you make of the blood spatters, Phil?”
“Unremarkable star-configuration, arcing away from the nexus of the body in all directions. Droplets coating the walls and ceiling. Notice the double pattern—see the large spot here, next to the body? It has it's own larger radius of spatters.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he bounced once, when he hit the carpet. Consistent with jumpers, leaving a primary then a secondary spatter.”
Benedict cleared his throat. “You're telling us this is authentic? That he fell five stories into a living room?”
“I'm telling you it looks that way.”
I've been with the Chicago Police Department for twenty years, half of those with the Violent Crimes unit, and have seen a few things. But this was flat-out weird. I almost ordered my team to do a house sweep for Rod Serling.
“Could somebody have dumped him here? After he died someplace else?”
“That seems reasonable, but I don't notice any tissue or fluid missing. If he were scraped off the street, there would be blood left behind. If anything, there's too much blood in this room.”
I would have asked how it was possible for him to know that, but Phil knew more about dead people than Mick Jagger knew about rock and roll.
“Also,” Phil motioned us closer, “take a look at this.”
He crouched, holding some tweezers, and used a gloved hand to gently lift the corpse's head. After some prodding and poking, he removed a small fiber.
“Beige carpeting, deeply embedded in his flesh. The deceased has hundreds of these fibers in the skin, consistent with...”
I finished the sentence for him. “...falling from a great height.”
“However improbable it seems. It's as if someone took off the roof, and he jumped out of a plane and landed in his living room. And don't forget about the doors.”
I felt a headache coming on. The house had two entry points, the front door and the rear door. Each had been dead-bolted from the inside—no outside entry was possible. The locks were privacy locks, similar to the ones on hotel rooms; there were no keyholes, just a latch. The first officers on the scene had to break through a window to get in; the windows had all been locked from the inside.
“Lt. Daniels?” A uniform, name of Perez, motioned me over to a corner of the room. “There's a note.”
I watched my step, making my way to the room-length book shelf, crammed full of several hundred paperbacks. Their spines were splashed with blood, but I could make out some authors: Carr, Chandler, Chesterton. Perez pointed to a pristine sheet of white typing paper, tacked to the shelf between Sladek and Stout. The handwriting on it was done in black marker. I snugged on a pair of latex gloves I keep in my blazer pocket, and picked up the note.
God doesn't understand. Eternal peace I desire. The only way out is death. Answers come to those who seek. Can't get through another day. Let me rest. Until we meet in heaven. Edward.
I pondered the message for a moment, then returned to Benedict and Blasky.
“What about a steamroller?” Herb was asking. “That would crush a body, right?”
“It wouldn't explain the spatters. Also, unless there's a steamroller in the closet, I don't see how...”
I interrupted. “I'm looking around, Herb. When the techies get here, I want video of everything.”
“That a suicide note?” Herb pointed his chin at the paper I held.
“Yeah. Strange, though. Take a peek and let me know if you spot the anomaly.”
“Anomaly? You've been watching too many of those cop shows on TV.”
I winked at him. “I'll let you know if I find the steamroller.”
Notebook in hand, I went to explore the house. It was a modest two bedroom split-level, in a good neighborhood on the upper north side. Nine-one-one had gotten an anonymous call from a nearby payphone, someone stating that he'd walked past the house and smelled a horrible stench. The officers who caught the call claimed to hear gunshots, and entered through a window. They discovered the body, but found no evidence of any gun or shooter.
I checked the back door again. Still locked, the deadbolt in place. The door was old, its white paint fading, contrast to the new decorative trim around the frame.
I checked the linoleum floor and found it clean, polished, pristine.
Running my finger along the door frame, I picked up dust, dirt, and some white powder. I sniffed. Plaster. The hinges were solid, tarnished with age. The knob was heavy brass, and the deadbolt shiny steel. Both in perfect working order.
I turned the deadbolt and opened the door. It must have been warped with age, because it only opened 3/4 of the way and then rubbed against the kitchen floor. I walked outside.
The backyard consisted of a well-kept vegetable garden and twelve tall bushes that lined the perimeter fence, offering privacy from the neighbors. I examined the outside of the door and found nothing unusual. The door frame had trim that matched the interior. The porch was clean. I knelt on the welcome mat and examined the strike panel and the lock mechanisms. Both were solid, normal.