I sank back into the inviting warmth and softness of the quilts and drifted back to sleep. This time I saw a man’s body peppered with bullets; a young woman hanging from the ceiling, her entrails touching the floor; an underground chamber painted to show all the horrors of hell; and a savage beast with yellow fangs leaping up at me-
I woke with a start. It wasn’t the dream that had roused me. I had heard the unmistakable sound of an ammunition clip being pressed home. I felt for my weapons and slid silently to the edge of the loft.
Thirteen
Detectives Simmons and Pinker had been at the murder scene in Shaw since 2:12 a.m. They’d been contacted by a friendly MPDC dispatcher, who had thought there were potential links to the rock-singer killing they were already investigating. Before they went up to Monsieur Hexie’s apartment, they spoke to the patrolman who had discovered the body.
“Neighbor called it in,” the heavily built, middle-aged officer told them.
Simmons raised an eyebrow. “How’d that go, Max? Get over here quick as you can, I got a full description of the killer?”
The uniformed officer grunted. “In your dreams, Detective. Old lady across the street, she woke up and noticed the door here half-open.”
Pinker looked over and made out a white-haired woman next to a uniformed female officer in the back of a cruiser. He went to get a preliminary statement.
“That it?” Simmons asked.
“We rang the bell, Detective,” said the patrolman’s partner, a young man whose expression was avid. “No answer. So Max went up and found…”
“And found the vic,” Max completed. “Facedown on the bed, two knife handles sticking out of his lower back.”
“Lovely,” Clem said under his breath.
“And that wasn’t all.” The young officer had found his voice again. “There was-”
“Shut the fuck up, O’Donnell,” Max said. “You keep a grip on your dinner, you get to tell the story.” He turned to Simmons. “There was a piece of paper on his upper back.”
“It had been nailed there,” Officer O’Donnell put in, his eyes wide.
“Squares and rectangles in black?” Simmons asked.
The patrolmen nodded.
“Looks like you got yourselves a serial killer, Detective,” O’Donnell said.
Simmons gave him a weary look. “According to the FBI, three victims are required before that term is applied.” He stepped closer to the young man. “You pay attention, now. Number one, we don’t know if it’s the same killer, even if the M.O.’s been repeated. Number two, nobody’s using the word serial, not if they want their balls to stay attached. Number three, the Chief of Detectives banned disclosure of the paper found on the dead rocker. Just how the hell do you know about it, Officer?”
Simmons wasn’t expecting an answer. He watched as Max dragged his partner back to the cruiser. He didn’t think there would be any more leaks from the rookie. It didn’t surprise him that the disclosure order had been ignored-beat cops always found out stuff in record speed. But the last thing they needed right now was someone blabbing to the media.
“Neatly done, Clem,” Pinker said from behind him. “Shall we?”
They accepted overshoes and gloves from a CSI and went up the stairs to the dead man’s apartment, avoiding the areas flagged up for closer inspection.
“Your kinda place, Clem,” Pinker said, taking in the voodoo mask above the bed.
“Screw you, Vers,” the big man said, moving farther into the room. He had his eyes on the uncovered body lying facedown on the bed. Two handles protruded above the waist, one on the right and one on the left.
“Skewers, you reckon?” Pinker said, leaning over the body.
“Yup.” Simmons looked at the piece of paper inside a plastic file on the victim’s upper back. “You got the copy of the last one?”
“Yup.” Pinker unfolded a sheet. “Same idea, but the shapes are in different places.”
“If you were to put them together, would they make any sense?” Simmons asked.
Pinker tried that. There was no obvious overlap, so it was impossible to say if the squares and rectangles were supposed to fit against each other.
“Who knows?” the smaller man said. “Maybe numbers go in the shapes. Or letters.”
“We got to do a crossword now?” Simmons said, with a groan. “Where are the clues?” He raised a hand. “And don’t even think about saying ‘Haven’t got a clue,’ if you want to do anything creative with your dick in the future.”
Gerard Pinker grinned. “You sure the shapes don’t mean something in that weird religion of yours.”
“Last time I looked, I was a Catholic,” Simmons said, looking at the black candles that surrounded the bed.
“Not that abomination,” Pinker said. He’d been raised Southern Baptist.
“Oh, you mean, voodoo. I told you, I’m only interested in that from an anthropological point of view.”
Pinker’s eyes were still on the victim. “Say, what?”
“Don’t play dumb, college boy,” his partner said.
“You think the skewers killed him right away?” Pinker asked.
“A good question.”
Both detectives turned to the door. Marion Gilbert was standing there, wearing a protective suit and overshoes.
“Evening, Doctor,” Pinker said. “Or should I say morning?”
“I notice you’ve dispensed with good.” The medical examiner put her bag down by the bed. “Is the photographer finished?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the crime-scene supervisor from where he was dusting for prints.
“Let me see if I can answer your question, Detective.” The M.E. set to work, measuring temperatures and filling in a checklist. Simmons and Pinker went over to the CSI.
“Anything for us?” Pinker asked.
The bespectacled man raised his shoulders. “Nothing very striking so far. We’re collecting traces and fibers, of course. The main light was on. There’s a dimmer switch and, assuming the beat guys didn’t touch it as they say, then it was on low. That red bedside light was on, too. And the candles.”
“Romantic atmosphere, huh?” Simmons said. “Windows closed?”
“And locked,” the CSI replied. “The killer left out of this door and the one on the street.”
“Leaving the latter half-open,” Pinker said. “He was either in a state of panic or he didn’t care.”
“Nothing here that wouldn’t belong to the vic?” Simmons asked.
“Not obviously so.”
“Oh, Detectives,” Dr. Gilbert called.
“That was quick,” Pinker said, walking over to the bed.
“A preliminary report only,” the M.E. said, with a tight smile. “To help you out.”
“Kind of you, Doctor,” Simmons said, giving his partner a blank look. Pinker got the message and kept quiet. “Time of death?”
“Rigor mortis has been developing for several hours. Calculating from the temperature, I’d say between six and, say, nine hours ago. As for cause, Detective Pinker, yes, the victim could well have died from his wounds. Until I see the internal damage, it’s impossible to be sure. It looks very likely that the weapons punctured his kidneys. There isn’t much blood loss, so I’d be inclined to think he died from shock.”
“Not surprised,” Simmons muttered.
Marion Gilbert pointed at the sheet of paper. “What’s that all about?”
The detectives exchanged glances.
“Haven’t a clue, Doc,” Pinker said, stepping away from his partner.
The M.E. looked at them and shook her head in what looked like disgust. “Well, I wish you luck in finding one, gentlemen. No doubt I’ll see you at the autopsy later on today.”
Simmons and Pinker moved to the door.
“Asshole,” the big man said. “What’s with the clues shit? You reading Agatha Christie?”
“No,” Pinker said, grinning. “I’d like to look for the doctor’s clue, though.”
Simmons scowled at him. “Pussy hound. You’d better start wearing out your expensive calfskin loafers. We need witnesses. You heard the doc. Between six and nine hours takes us back to between six and nine last night. Get canvassing.”