Time of Death (18 page)

“You don’t have to be sarcastic about it, if this profiling business is too much for you to handle.”

“That wasn’t sarcasm, babe, just a little reality check. Anyway, it seems like you’re coming around to my first idea of it being a homo chop job.”

PJ bristled. “Not at all. I guess it’s no use discussing these things with you.”

“Just like it’s no use discussing marriage with you. You just start spouting all that shrink crap about rebounding. Well, rebound this.” He hung up.

“And don’t call me babe,” she said.

I
T WAS NEAR CLOSING
time at the diner. As soon as Millie saw PJ, she said, “You sit right down, Dearie, and I’ll bring you a piece of pie.”

PJ nodded and took her favorite stool. Schultz’s was empty, which was good because she didn’t want to be around him right now.

The aluminum Christmas tree, alternately red and green as its illumination wheel slowly turned, was growing on her. The familiar scents and sounds started to loosen the tension in her shoulders and smooth out the worry lines in her forehead. By the time Millie placed a plate in front of her with a flourish, PJ felt almost human again.

The slice of apple pie was nearly six inches across at the wide end, warm, and fragrant. The scent of baked apples, cinnamon, and nutmeg was the essence of comfort. Millie had put a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, and into that had stuck one of her toothpick flags. The ice cream was melting, sending streams of delectable cream down the sides of the pie. Melting had caused the scoop to lean to one side, and the flag looked in danger of drowning in cream.

We should all have such problems.

A mug of steaming coffee appeared at PJ’s elbow as she was taking her first hearty bite. “Thanks, Millie.”

“Schultz acting up again?” Millie said.

PJ nodded, her mouth too full to voice an answer.

“You pay him no mind,” Millie said, shaking her finger as if she were lecturing the sugar container. “He’s such a rotten lout. You know I always got to wipe the stool with disinfectant when he leaves.”

“The floor, too,” the two women said simultaneously, grins popping out on their faces, PJ’s reluctantly.

“I’ll just leave you to your pie,” Millie said. “If you want anything else, the kitchen’s open another fifteen minutes.”

“I’ve got everything I need, thanks.”

PJ missed Thomas. When this was over, she was going to have some days off with him and make Christmas cookies and apple pie with ice cream, and watch
It’s a Wonderful Life
and
The Muppet Christmas Carol,
their two holiday favorites.

She hoped this case didn’t drag on until it became a low-priority concern. So far, her CHIP team had a hundred percent solve rate. It was unreasonable to think it would stay that way forever, but deep down she hoped it would, and even deeper down hoped that her contributions would continue to play a major part in that.

She slipped on the data gloves and put on the HMD. The null world sprang up in front of her eyes.

“Barn,” she said.

The interior of Hank’s barn materialized, but the only light came from moonlight easing in through a couple of small windows. Not enough for an operating room atmosphere.

In a moment, a portable work light snapped on. PJ had built it into the scenario. Placed close to the workbench, it cast a stark spray of light across it, and made tall, dancing shadows behind her as she moved toward the center of the barn.

Arlan was already on the workbench, naked, hands and feet tied with ropes that were fastened over hooks on the bench. She thought back to photos of the bench, and it was true that there were hooks on each end, the actual uses for which she couldn’t even speculate. She had scanned in the photos, and her software’s artificial intelligence had selected them as logical ways to restrain Arlan.

At least he’s not being held down by a succubus kneeling on his chest. I think I’ve finally gotten that mythology thing under control in the program.

As she approached the bench, she saw that a cloth was tied around Arlan’s mouth. Cotton fibers had been found caught in his back teeth, so it seemed likely that his mouth was stuffed with a rag, at least at some point, to keep him from making a lot of noise.

Arlan’s eyes shifted wildly and his head attempted to follow her motion as she circled closer to the bench. PJ was carrying a doctor’s medical bag. She put the bag down on some straw and opened it. The halogen work light made the sharp objects inside gleam.

She pulled a scalpel from the bag and waved it in front of Arlan’s face. His eyes, already round as golf balls, got even bigger, and he tugged on the ropes ineffectually with his arms and legs. Squirming around, he offered a moving target. If she tried to sever any body parts, there would be accidental wounds before she succeeded. The autopsy showed none.

Fishing around in the bag, she found a syringe. She jabbed the attached needle into the rubber top of a small glass bottle and filled the chamber. Approaching Arlan, she injected the ketamine into his arm and waited until he was still, which took about three minutes.

The canvas awaited the artist.

Following her memory of the autopsy photos, she lifted his limp penis, and, gritting her teeth, sliced it off. Another couple of slices removed his testicles. She lined them up on the edge of the workbench.

I’m definitely not letting Schultz run this simulation. He’d be afraid to fall asleep next to me.

Blocking out Schultz and his insecurities, she focused on what the killer was experiencing.

How would this make the scalpel wielder feel? A jilted lover could do this, a male or female lover. Maybe Schultz has something with that gay murder idea.

PJ went after the face next, trying for the effect shown in the autopsy photos. She found that she had to get a heavier cutting instrument from her bag, a small, pointed saw with mean-looking teeth.

There was so much blood. She glanced down at the floor, noticing that the dirt and straw were becoming mixed with blood. Her shoes were protected with paper booties wrapped in several layers of plastic bags.
No distinct footprints.

Her first efforts on the face were tentative and the results didn’t match the photos. Using a harder stroke, she dug through the cartilage of the nose and then unleashed a flurry of cuts at the lower face.

I think I’m going to be sick.

She took a few deep breaths, getting her revulsion under control and reminding herself that she was in her familiar office, not under a floodlight in a barn.

Is this how the killer reacted? With revulsion? I don’t think so. I think this was anticipated and enjoyed, memorized and replayed in the killer’s mind.

At the thought, her stomach threatened to reject Millie’s apple pie. She shouldn’t have soothed her feelings at the diner before going through the barn scenario.

The face was finished. It occurred to her that she was feeling more distress than Arlan. Ketamine was a dissociative anesthetic, meaning that Arlan’s mind was separated from what was going on with his body. His mind was in the k-hole, to use the term that recreational drug users did, like Alice going down the rabbit hole. Thoughtfully, she turned Arlan’s damaged face as far as she could to one side, so that blood and saliva would drain, and he wouldn’t choke. She wondered if the killer did the same. Using ketamine might show concern for the victim’s pain, an effort to shield him from a terrible experience. Or it could have been the only thing the killer could lay hands on that would keep Arlan from thrashing around too much.

Arlan’s fingertips yielded easily to an instrument that looked like a scaled-down bolt cutter. It was time to excavate a hole in his chest. PJ used the same saw she’d used on the lower face, and the bolt cutter to deal with the exposed ribs. Bloody hunks of flesh went into a stainless steel basin. In a hurry now to get out of the horrible situation, PJ rushed through the process, hastily scooping flesh. The moment she saw a beating heart, she picked up a knife and stabbed Arlan, putting an end to his life.

Waiting for her own heart rate to slow down, she considered the body parts lined up on the edge of the bench. She knew they were supposed to be nailed to the wood, but couldn’t bring herself to do that. She was too shaken by her experience.

“End,” she said. The gory scene disappeared, replaced by a soothing blue she floated in for a time. Then she took off the HMD, peeled off the gloves, and sat with her elbows on the desk, her hands cradling her head.

When she finally looked up, Schultz was there, sitting across from her.

“You look pale. Been playing psycho killer?” he said.

“Whoever did that was one sick bastard,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled a little.

“Is that your considered psychological opinion?”

“Hell, yes.”

His eyes were filled with concern for her. “You can leave that crap to me if you want,” he said, nodding at the HMD. “I don’t get so emotionally involved in it.”

It’s my job, damn it.

“If you don’t,” she said, “how can you understand what the killer was feeling?”

He shrugged. “I just do. My hunches, I guess.” He came around the desk and put both hands on her shoulders.

PJ flinched. Their last argument came flooding back into her. She wanted to yank his hands away, but the urge faded. He stroked her hair, then ran his hands down her arms, leaving warm paths on her skin that felt like she’d been painted with invisible heat. His large hands cradled her neck, his fingers tracing the outline of her jaw.

“I love you,” he said in a low, intimate voice. “I’m sorry for the shitty way I’ve been acting. I’m taking things too fast. We’re moving at PJ speed from now on.” He kissed her neck.

“I know it’s your job to study wackos like this barn killer. It’s hard on you, but I support you because you’re really good at this stuff. You make a difference.”

PJ’s pent-up breath escaped in a long sigh. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. Hearing Schultz’s affirmations had a powerful effect on her. He understood. She could let him be a refuge for her, a life preserver when the violence she encountered threatened to pull her under. Some inner resistance, a holding back that she’d barely been aware of, gave way. A wave of love swept through her, leaving every part of her body receptive.

“We’re going to make this work, Leo.” By
this,
she meant her emotionally-demanding job and their equally-challenging relationship. “It has to work.”

He swiveled her chair around so that she was facing him. “You need to get this sick shit out of your mind, and I know just the thing.” He tugged gently on her arms.

She was out of the chair and into his embrace. She’d still have to talk to him about the scenario, and the big questions that remained: where was Arlan kept prisoner, how did he get onto that bench, and how did he get to the dump site? But that was for later. She settled into the sensations of now, of feeling his arms surround her, of knowing that he wanted her and she wanted him.

Snuggled against his chest, she said, “This is nice. But my bruises ache and I’m still wearing my rib belt. I don’t think I’m up to what you’re thinking of.”

“As long as you’re not wearing a chastity belt, we’re in business,” he said.

He tilted her chin up and kissed her. She responded, pressing against him, and his kisses became more urgent. Her thoughts skipped away from homicides and body aches like rocks skipping on a lake, and focused on him.

He had a way of kissing that made her feel that she was the only thing that mattered to him then, the only thing that existed in his world. Their world.

She softly nibbled his lip and her hand drifted down, her fingers lightly touching the erection straining against his pants. He moaned, slipped his hand under her blouse, and squeezed her breast.

“You got a lock on that door?” he mumbled, holding her close.

“Yes.” She pulled away with effort, reluctant to leave the heat of his embrace. The thudding of her heart and the
snick
of the bolt were the only sounds in the room. The men’s room across the hall was mercifully quiet. When she turned around, he was sitting in her chair, his pants and boxers around his ankles.

“Ever done any lap dancing?” he said. Desire shone in his eyes and lit a fire in the center of her.

“I’m a quick learner. But we better hope nobody comes through here with a UV light,” she said. “That chair’s going to reveal bodily fluids.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

MY ATTEMPT TO FRAME
May is stalled but not defeated. Imagine that putz Schultz being there when May discovers the body. Since all’s quiet on the May front, I turn my attention elsewhere. I decide that I can’t get the fresh start I so deserve until I take care of old business.

Loretta Blanchette is a fourth grade teacher from Cape Girardeau who earns a few extra bucks working at a summer enrichment camp near there. I go to one camp after another, and the Summer Daze Springboard Camp is one of them. The campers, very few of whom want to be there, are getting a jump on the next grade level in math and science. I don’t need a jump. I’m several grade levels ahead already.

Mrs. Blanchette either doesn’t know of her students’ desire to avoid humiliation at all costs, or enjoys putting them on the spot.

One rainy afternoon, she calls three students up to the board to work math problems.
Class, we’re having a math race. Isn’t that fun?
I’m good at math, and left to myself I always get the right answers. When left to myself. Thunder booms outside and rain lashes at the windows as Mrs. Blanchette dictates problems. The other two students keep up easily, so she starts going faster. I fall behind, barely able to copy a problem without solving it before she moves on to the next.

Looking out of the corners of my eyes, I see the other two students finish and raise their hands almost simultaneously. The race is over. I still have several problems to work. I keep at it, moving the chalk slowly as tears run down my cheeks. And then the worst happens. A hot stream runs down my leg into my shoe, and the twenty-eight eyes in the classroom that are not mine watch as my shoe overflows onto the floor. I won’t go into what happens next, but it involves large quantities of hand towels from the bathroom
a
nd a trash can. I still have five weeks left of camp, so for thirty-five more days, I go to her room, look at the trash can, and feel the stares of others.