Moon Music (39 page)

Just as soon as he identified…

Weinberg shouted, "It's not Alison."

He answered back, "You're sure?"

"Positive."

Relief shot through Poe's body. He waited a second to compose himself, then began his climb downward. As his feet touched the floor, he ripped off his goggles and studied the corpse.

He grimaced.

Like Brittany Newel's, half the face was untouched, with the other half neatly raked in raw furrows. Not unlike his cheek. Poe forced himself not to touch his face, to concentrate on the job.

Unlike Newel's, this one's body had been devoured, eaten away, with whole chunks missing from the torso. All that remained was a massive lump of torn flesh and tissue. Her legs had been gouged and, in some places, skinned to the bone.

"Dear God!" he said.

Rukmani took his hand. "At least it isn't her."

"I know." A breath in and out. "Thanks for giving a damn."

"Even a damn and a half."

He blew out air, studied the face. And then it hit him. "Oh my God! I know who this was! Gretchen Wiler!"

All eyes went to him.

"Who?" Weinberg asked.

"Gretchen Wiler!" Poe repeated as he bounced on his feet. "You know Gretchen. She was Steve's mistress!"

THIRTY-SIX

R
OOM
24
had been designated the "hospitality suite," although the fleabag had plenty of vacancies. As soon as Poe stepped inside the room, he ripped off his gloves and goggles and slammed the door with his foot. Beelining it to the bathroom, he turned the taps on full blast and splashed tepid water over his dirty face. Head pounding, he popped pain pills, then peeled off his clothes and showered, drying his body with a towel as absorbent as cheesecloth. The unit was hot and stuffy, but still he breathed deeply, thrilled to be away from the slaughterhouse. At present, the crime scene was thick with techs and black from fingerprint powder.

An APB had been put out for Steve and Alison.

Sitting on the bed, he dabbed his injured cheek, then wiped his face and towel-dried his hair. He was smearing ointment over his wound when the door opened. Rukmani stepped inside, mopping her sweaty face with a sleeve, oblivious to his presence. When she saw him, she took a step back. "My God! It's a naked detective!"

Poe raised his eyebrows. "Take a shower, babe. Soap'll do you good."

"And you'll still be here when I get out?"

"Are you kidding?"

She smiled, went into the bathroom, and shut the door. A moment later, Poe got up and walked into the steambath. He slipped his arms around her dripping, bony body, his hands traveling up to her firm, small breasts, his fingertips grazing her nipples. Her hair was braided but soaked. He could see her ribs. She looked like a waif. "When was the last time you ate?"

"I'm Indian. I'm used to starvation." She faced him, water pouring off her face. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips, then licked the tufted line of black hair that ran down the middle of his chest. "God, you're beautiful when you're wet. Like burnished leather." She sucked his nipples. "You also taste wonderful."

"Likewise." He brought her lips to his and kissed her hard, their mouths mixing with the fresh, running water. He moved down to her neck and breasts.

He turned off the water.

They made frantic love on the shower floor.

They rinsed off anew. This time they didn't even have the luxury of dry towels. Damp and hot, they began the arduous process of redressing in dirty, sticky clothing.

Slipping on her bloodied surgical pants, Rukmani said, "There's got to be a better way to shoot this."

Poe looked up, his fingertips oily from his face salve. "Pardon?"

"If this were the movies, we'd have clean clothes."

Poe put on his sweat-soaked shirt flecked with bits of serum and tissue. "When we sell the story to Hollywood, we'll put clean clothes in the script."

The doorknob jiggled.

Poe shouted, "A minute."

"S'right." The loo's voice. "Take your time."

"How are they doing over there?" Poe asked.

"Still got ground to cover. You almost done? I want to take a shower. Somebody should supervise."

"I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Did Rukmani go back with the body? I can't find her."

They eyed each other. She giggled like a schoolgirl. Out loud, she said, "I'm here, Lieutenant. I'm going back with the two of you. That doesn't mess anything up, does it?"

"No, no," Weinberg said. "It's fine, it's fine."

Silence.

She whispered, "Stop smirking."

"Like he doesn't know—"

"That's not the point. Being obvious is crass."

Poe put on his dirty pants, turned flat-faced. "Better?"

"Very professional."

He opened the door, smiled dryly. "It's all yours. I'll get Byron to find you some dry towels."

Weinberg looked over their faces. "Thanks."

As soon as they stepped outside, they broke into peals of laughter—an expression of release more than joy. It was late afternoon and the heat had become even more oppressive. It took effort to breathe.

"Shit!" Poe exclaimed. "I left my mask—"

"I've got extras."

He stopped walking, held her shoulders. "I've got to get this out, all right?"

"Uh-oh—"

"No, no, no. It's nothing about us. It's about the case. If this mess is Steve's doing, then I'm not as concerned. But if it's Alison…Ruki, I'm very worried about you."

"Me?"

"It seems to me that Alison is attacking women who she believes have hurt her…have taken away her men. Newel was Steve's fling. Gretchen was Steve's mistress—"

"And now that she's finished with Steve's women," Rukmani interrupted, "she's going to move on to you, or rather your women—meaning me."

Poe nodded. "In the past, when she has brought you up…it wasn't fondly. I'd kill myself if anything happened to you."

"That would be a waste. Who'd avenge my honor?"

Poe licked his lips. "You're not taking me seriously."

She grinned. "Does this mean you care?"

"Yes, I care very much. Are you hearing me at all?"

She turned serious. "I hear you. I'll be careful." They started walking toward the death scene. "I've been doing a little thinking myself."

"And?"

"These killings…they have a ritualistic aspect to them, don't you think?"

"What specifically?"

"For instance, only half of the face was destroyed."

"Could be ritualistic. And it could be for ID purposes. That Alison—or whoever did it—wanted us to know who the victim was."

"Good point."

"Still, I don't disagree," Poe said. "The meticulous raking. Appears as if someone was dressing the body." He stopped walking. "Gretchen was mutilated more severely. Know what that says to me? That the killer was really
pissed
at her. If the killer was Alison, that would make sense. Because Gretchen wasn't a casual fling. She was viewed as a real threat."

"Or perhaps Alison has completely decompensated."

He nodded. "That's possible, too."

Again, they started inching toward the bloodbath.

Rukmani said, "It's not the rakes, Rom. It's the chunks that bother me. It's the big gouges in her legs, particularly the insides of the thighs. From a shrink's perspective, I could interpret it as Steve lashing out at Gretchen sexually. Because the inside of the thigh is very sexual. You know, I always felt that Steve had a weird attitude toward women. Deep down, I think he despises them."

"Really?"

"You don't think so?"

"Honestly, no. I think he just loves pussy." He stopped walking and stared at her. "Has he ever come on to you?"

Rukmani blushed. "Once."

Poe felt a stab of anger. "What?
When?"

"Six, seven months ago. Right after we started dating."

"Why didn't you
tell
me?"

"Why bother? At that time, things weren't serious between us."

Abruptly, she stopped speaking—the unsaid line being: are things really serious now?

She shrugged. "You work with the man, Rom. If I had gotten in the way, I would not only have screwed things up between you and Steve, I would have messed up our relationship. Anyway, he wasn't persistent. He suggested we go out for a drink. I told him I was swamped with work, and he took it as the rebuff it was meant to be."

"Great," Poe muttered. "Now I'm
really
worried about you. Both Steve and Alison have a vendetta—"

"You're overstating my worth."

He brushed her lips. "I don't think so."

"You must be worried," Rukmani said. "You're acting very sweet. Can we talk about the body? Particularly the wounds in the inner thighs."

Poe wiped his forehead. "Go on."

"Rom, I've seen bite victims—"

"So have I."

"Then you know that while they ain't pretty, they don't resemble what was on Gretchen—big, jagged holes in the flesh. I've got to say this. It looks to me like the body was being eaten—"

"I don't want to think about this—"

"Yet the body didn't have the typical signs of cannibalism."

Poe paused. "It wasn't butchered or dressed as edible meat."

"Exactly."

"Maybe he/she/they ran out of time to do it properly."

"So why eat the flesh
raw
?"

"I don't know, Ruki."

She bounced on the hot ground. "There's no shade in this place. How about we take a little ride?"

Poe ran his hand through his now dry hair. "I've got to supervise the techs."

"Okay, I'll try to be brief. Have you ever heard of the psychological disorder called lycanthropy? You may know it better by its common name: werewolfism."

Poe digested her words. "You think Alison's a werewolf?"

"No. I think she thinks she's a werewolf."

"I've got to disagree with you on that one."

"Why?"

"Be…because…" Poe stuttered. "I just don't think that she…how common is this delusion? It is a delusion, isn't it?"

"Yes, lycanthropy is a psychotic delusion. How common? Depends on where you live. In Scandinavia, werewolf tales were very common. If you lived in England, werewolves were unheardof."

"No werewolves in England?"

"No legends, for some reason. I can't figure out why exactly. There are plenty of wolves in English forests. The Brits had a different perspective. I'm sure there were some English people who believed they were animals. But their forays weren't written down as folk legends, rather viewed as an aberrant psychological state akin to insanity."

"Where'd you learn all this?"

"I was a psychiatric resident before I went into pathology. I decided I liked my people dead rather than crazy."

"And I'm supposed to take you seriously?"

"I wrote an impressive, erudite thesis on this very subject—the
Panchatantra
, which is a Sanskrit book of fables. I related its tales to DSM-listed psychological disorders like lycanthropy—wolves—or kuanthropy—dogs—or boanthropy—cows and bulls. All of this is a
very
strange concept to you Americans, but a very common idea to us Indians. The ability to switch corporeal identities is inherent in our religious tenets. Hence many of us are vegetarians. The belief in metempsychosis combined with our mainstay of reincarnation means we don't eat flesh because we don't want to eat Aunt Benazir—"

"You are truly sick." A beat. "What's metempsychosis?"

"Transformation from a human form to an animal, and vice versa. For some unlucky souls, it's an involuntary act. Others can do it at will. We've hundreds of fables about people turning into wolves or wild dogs or bulls or bears. But this is all beside the point.

"Rom, the one common factor all these fables and legends have is the need for fresh kill. It is imperative to the well-being of a wild animal."

"So Alison thinks she's a wild animal."

"Why not? She's got all the signs."

"And in this delusional state, does she actually e…e…eat the person? Or does she just think she's eating the person?"

"Judging from the gouges, I'd say someone was definitely dining. I'll look at the skin under the microscope for distinct teeth marks." Rukmani wiped her face with her surgical smock. "God, it's hot. Even I'm sweating. I'm going into the office. Want a Coke and a bag of Chee-tos."

"You can
eat
Chee-tos now?"

"You said I should eat."

"The idea of Alison…" He covered his face. "Why would she…be susceptible to
that
kind of delusion?"

"Anyone's guess." Rukmani began to walk toward the office. "Could be she had what she perceived as a meaningful experience with an animal: a dog, a cat, or even a coyote. We live in the desert. She has seen coyotes."

Poe thought about the scratches on his cheek—how she had turned into something feral. He said, "What about a snake?"

"Snakes are big in fables," Rukmani answered. "Look at your own religion—Adam and Eve and a giant talking serpent with hands and feet. You have myths just as we do. Only difference is, you defy logic and insist it's the truth. Sure you don't want some Chee-tos?"

"Positive."

"Suit yourself." Rukmani kissed his lips. "Love you."

She walked away before he could respond.

As if he would have responded.

Emotionally stifled guy that he was. But she accepted him anyway. That was the wonderful thing about love. It sanded down the rough spots, turned everything into fine lacquered furniture.

Poe watched her sway as she bounced toward the office. His groin was still fixated on her ass. But his mind was elsewhere—thinking about the claws of a possessed woman, a howling coyote with doleful eyes, and a rattler with a bite as painful as rejection.

THIRTY-SEVEN

A
S THE
sun sank, the techs packed their bags. Even though Bruckner had cordoned off the room as an official crime scene, business was booming at the Dunes Inn. The murder was less than a half day old, and already Byron was leading tour groups of locals, explaining it all in gory and inaccurate detail. Of course, no one could go beyond the ropes, but one could use imagination. The clerk talked about wild orgies and high-pitched screams in the middle of the night. Not that he mentioned any of this to the police. So Poe took it with a grain of salt. The owner of the Dunes Inn—one Roy "Mac" Mac-Donald—was delighted, hauling in a tidy profit in drinks and snacks.