A white sheet flew into the air, exposing the puzzle that was once Kevin Fields.
“Good Christ,” Tommy whispered.
“See what happens when you don’t eat all your vegetables?” Sam said.
Chief Medical Examiner Ruth Schaffer, standing next to Sam, bit into a Snickers bar. “Looks more like Vitamin B deficiency to me,” Ruth countered with a loud guffaw. Ruth, a petite grandmother in her late sixties, shone with the mischievous smile of a young girl.
“I always hated the smell in here,” Tommy said. “It’s the smell that makes me a little nauseous.”
The smell in the coroner’s cutting room was a mixture of cleaning agents, rotting cheese, and meat, with a whiff of bowel secretions. Tommy tasted it deep within his throat whenever he took a breath.
Ruth finished off her Snickers bar and threw the wrapper in a white wastepaper basket. Everything in the room was white: the walls, the floor, the coroner’s skin, the long coats they wore. The only vibrant color in the place of death was the dark, red hue of human blood.
An assistant coroner was working on another body a few tables away.
“Think of the smell of beautiful, brightly colored roses on a warm spring day,” Ruth said, breathing in the air with a happy grin. “It always helps me deal with the stink. Mind over matter.” Ruth turned to Sam. “Who’s the boy wonder?”
“Tommy Fincher. He’s my partner in the new program.”
“Welcome to the deli case,” Ruth said with a warm, grandmotherly smile. “And don’t be ashamed to throw up in here. Let it go. You’ll feel much better. But if you do, try to aim for the drain in the floor.”
Kevin Fields’ headless corpse lay naked on the steel table. His head, encased in a clear glass container, sat directly between his legs, just inches from his withered penis.
Sam moved in for a closer look at the severed head.
“Clean as a whistle, huh, Ruthie?” Sam asked. He picked up the jar and stared into Kevin’s lifeless eyes. There was no liquid in the container, but it had been sealed tight with an airlock at the top.
Ruth approached Sam. “Whatever did this damage cut through flesh, muscle, bone, and spinal cord instantly.”
Sam set the container back down between Kevin’s thighs. “Was he murdered and then decapitated?”
“Separation of head and body was the direct cause of death.”
Sam moved over to Kevin’s upper body. “The veins were cauterized, right?”
“Exactly. The cauterizing of an open wound isn’t that unusual. I think something heated the blood near to boiling. Those burn marks are fourth degree, before—and that’s the key here, Sam—before the laceration took place. Whatever cut him, cut him fast, and cut him hot,” she said. “What it was? I ain’t got the foggiest.”
“A wild guess?” Sam asked.
Ruth shrugged. “Laser? A laser could do something like that, at this heat level.”
Sam paced around the body and picked up Kevin’s left hand, examining the fingernails. “No signs of struggle?”
Ruth shook her head. “No. He wasn’t defending himself in a fight, but the body is traumatized. He urinated and defecated at the point of death. Now, that within itself might not be unusual, but I found large quantities of adrenaline. The levels were spiked pretty high. He died slow, Sam. This was a torture killing.”
Sam needed more information on the weapon, but he wasn’t going to find it there. He pulled out his tablet from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. NINA, Sam’s digital assistant, was at the ready as Sam called up the files on Bernard Meyers.
NINA repeated the command and in seconds, the information flashed across the tablet.
Sam turned to Ruth. “There was a case out of Indiana ’bout three months ago. Hugh Long’s division. A scumbag named Bernard Meyers?”
Two tables down, the assistant coroner, a thin man with a round face and thick eyeglasses, carefully removed the heart of an Asian female cadaver. At the mention of Bernard Meyers, he dropped the heart onto a scale and asked in a slightly high-pitched voice, “You mention Bernard Meyers?”
Ruth made the introductions. “Sam, Tommy, this is Mark Toller. One of our best and brightest.”
“You know the case?” Sam asked.
“I worked on him before I got transferred here. Pretty freaky.”
“Would you mind taking a look at the lacerations at the neckline, and tell me if you can make out any direct similarities?” Sam asked.
“Of course,” Mark said, and turned to Tommy. “Hey, you mind holding up that container at eye level for me?”
Tommy approached the steel table and reached for Kevin’s head, lifting the glass container toward Mark. It was heavier than he thought it would be.
Mark took a good, long look at the neckline. “Turn it, please,” Mark instructed.
Tommy spun it in his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sam blurted out in his best TV pitchman voice, “you, too, can own this lovely human head, encased in this fine Waterford Crystal, backed by a ten-minute money-back guarantee.”
Ruth and Mark started to laugh. Tommy did his best to retain his concentration.
Sam had his audience. “A perfect way to brighten up any home. The head is more than just a pretty face. It sings lullabies to the little ones. Keeps up a nonstop conversation with those annoying in-laws and boring houseguests. Yes, folks, this head can be yours for a limited time only at the amazing price of just four thousand, nine hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Order today and receive a matching set of genitals—yours free if you buy the head within the next twenty minutes.”
Ruth broke out in applause as Sam took a bow.
Mark turned away from the head, and Tommy, ever so gently, set it back onto the steel table.
Mark moved closer to Kevin’s upper torso. He stared at the wound and announced, “Whoever cut up this poor bastard cut up Bernard Meyers.”
“What do you think could have done it?” Sam asked.
A long pause followed as Mark mulled it over. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Long and the boys back in Gary had nothin’ to go on either. I can’t imagine what could make that type of cut. No mess, no blood . . . no clue.”
This phantom instrument will be what breaks this case wide open, Sam thought. He turned to Ruth. “When’s your report on Fields going to be ready?”
“You’ll have it tomorrow morning.”
“It’s been a pleasure as always, Ruthie,” Sam said with a warm smile. “I haven’t seen your old man in a few months. I miss him.”
“You’re Mr. Busy all the time. Why don’t you come over for dinner next week?”
Sam gave her a peck on the cheek. “It’s a date. Do me a favor and take a look at Meyers’ autopsy report. I’ll call you tonight.” Sam turned to Mark. “Mr. Toller, thanks for being so perceptive, and for coming forward. It was a big help.”
Mark went back to the female cadaver. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
“We’re out of here, Mr. Fincher,” Sam said, strolling briskly toward the exit.
Tommy called out, “Where to, Sam?”
“Gary, Indiana.”
[][][]
A little after 2:00 p.m., Sam and Tommy arrived at Bernard Meyers’ apartment in the heart of Gary, Indiana.
“Smells like chopped liver in here,” Tommy observed as they made their way down the hallway.
“Rancid chopped liver,” Sam added, and turned toward apartment number 105.
They had retrieved the key from the cranky old manager, who slammed in his false teeth and went into a nasty ramble about the bastard, Bernard Meyers.
They entered the empty apartment, which had been recently painted. Sam unfolded his tablet and brought up the crime scene photos. He visualized the layout of the living room and where various pieces of furniture would have been positioned.
Tommy couldn’t imagine the horror that had taken place inside these walls. Fields was bad enough, but Meyers had been torn apart. Chopped into bite-size pieces.
“Why didn’t he scream?” Tommy asked, moving about the small room. “He certainly saw whoever attacked him.”
“Maybe his arm was the first to go,” Sam theorized. “Probably sent him into shock. He tries to run and wham, the leg drops. Now he’s helpless, lying on the floor, and bam, off with his head.”
“What about the theory of being cut up somewhere else and brought back?”
“I don’t buy it. These guys were murdered in their apartments.”
“And I say you’re both wrong,” Hugh Long declared from the doorway.
“Boy, am I glad you could join us, Hugh,” Sam said sarcastically.
“The great Sam Knight, here in person in our beloved city. Just like old times. How I don’t miss ’em,” Long replied in a lilting tone.
These two had danced this dance before; tension made the small room seem even smaller.
“Tommy, this is Detective Hugh Long, aka Inspector Clouseau. Hugh, meet Thomas Fincher, who I’m certain has no clue who Inspector Clouseau is, so my clever reference was just wasted.”
“Here we go. O-kay. You come all the way down here to make fun of me, Sam?” Long snapped. “Bustin’ my balls? Callin’ me names? I would assume you’re lookin’ for a little cooperation so you can personally blow this case wide open and take all the credit, as per usual.” He turned to Tommy. “You know, that’s his gift. Smells out a case that’s about to crack, times it perfectly, rolls in the conquering hero, and claims the victory for himself.”
Sam smiled. “Looks like he’s on to me, Tommy.”
This could have gone on all day, and while Sam enjoyed hassling Long, he didn’t have time to play with the diminutive, delusionary detective.
Sam called up an autopsy photo of Kevin Fields and handed his tablet to Long, who aggressively snatched it out of his hand.
“A coroner who worked on both bodies identified the wounds as a match this morning,” Sam said.
Long stared at the photo. “Looks like he’s takin’ a shit,” he said with a giggle.
Sam sighed and continued, “Kevin Fields was an ex-con with multiple rape and assault convictions, and little time served. Same as your boy.”
“Coincidence.”
“I don’t think so. He’s gonna strike again.”
“We should be so lucky,” Long said. “Maybe this guy has the balls to do to these scumbags what the rest of us only dream about. Why the rush to stop him?”
Sam knew this was going to be the constant reaction if the case shaped up this way. A vigilante could easily be touted as a hero, a savior—even by the police.
“What do you want out of me anyway?” Long continued. “I’m cold as a witch’s tit on this one. No prints. No leads. No motive. No nothin’.”
Long tossed Sam’s tablet back to him and turned to Tommy. “And who the fuck are you? Wait, let me guess. Mr. Kiss-Ass, right?”
Tommy calmly said, “No, sir, just a lowly officer and Homicide One recruit assisting the great Sam Knight.”
“I thought it was just your nose up his ass, but I can see now . . . it’s your whole damn head.”
“Do you drink, detective?” Tommy asked.
“Never touch the stuff,” Long responded proudly.
“You should,” Tommy replied, and walked out of the living room.
[][][]
Sam stood in the kitchen. Using his tablet, he projected full-color, holographic crime scene photos taken the day Meyers’ body was found. He positioned the dismembered body into the now-clean scene.
“Meyers was eating at the time of the murder, right, Hugh?” Sam asked, knowing it would be best to involve Long as much as possible.
“Yeah,” Long said. “Poor bastard looked like a real-life Humpty Dumpty.”
Sam walked around the strewn holographic images of Meyers’ body parts and stood where a two-seat kitchen table would have been located.
“Let’s say the killer prefers to surprise his victims. Lies in wait,” Sam conjectured and continued. “Assuming they were both murdered in their apartments, the odds are, the killer looks to sneak up from behind.”
Long shook his head. “Meyers knew him, Sam. That’s how he gained entry without a peep.”
“Okay, I’ll go with that, but once he’s inside and the victim has his guard down, I still say he comes from behind.”
“Why, Sam?” Tommy asked.
“Because Fields was clean. No struggle. No problems. In and out. I don’t think Kevin Fields saw anything coming, but Meyers did. There was a struggle. Meyers was fighting for his life, and the killer was trying to contain him.”
Sam glanced down at the white linoleum tile. “Hugh, tell me you had the lab take samples of shoe prints.”
“There were twenty people walkin’ around here before I even arrived,” Long growled, knowing he had fucked up.
Some things never change, Sam thought. “You could have taped off the kitchen and taken a series of infrareds. Maybe we could have traced a shoe or boot print.”
“You said yourself you had another crime scene. Why didn’t you do it there?”
“They did, but it’s a bitch to pull prints off shag carpet,” Sam said pointedly. He turned to Tommy. “Get somebody from Kenny’s office down here and do a sweep of the floor. There’ll be a ton of prints, but maybe we can isolate one.”
Tommy nodded.
Long leaned up against the refrigerator and rolled his eyes, his foot tapping impatiently on the tile.
“Did you at least interview Meyers’ victims?” Sam asked.
“What do you think?”
“Don’t make me answer that question.”
“I spoke with everyone this creep fucked with. The victims, victims’ families, friends, husbands, boyfriends, fathers, mothers. You name it, I interviewed ’em. They were thrilled the piece of shit was dead, but every alibi checked out.”
Sam knew he had to crosscheck everything on Fields and Meyers: inmates, associates, business partners. Maybe they had gone to the same elementary school.
“While I’m here, I want to speak to the neighbor on this side of the kitchen,” Sam commanded, pointing to the south wall.
“I already interviewed him.”
Sam turned to Tommy, ignoring Long. “Go see if the neighbor’s home.”
As Tommy started to walk out, Long turned to Sam. “The neighbor don’t know shit! He’s an old fart who barely knows his fuckin’ name! If you took the time to read the file instead of coming down here to play the big swingin’ dick, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation!”
Sam stepped towards Long, looming over him. “Your files are incomplete. The autopsy samples are incomplete. There aren’t even skin samples taken from the burns on the neck, or his arm, or his fucking leg!”
Tommy had never seen Sam this intense before, his haunting blue eyes blazing into the soul of poor Hugh Long.
Sam continued, “I got two dead men on my hands with nothing to go on, and you’re burning up bodies without saving basic forensic evidence!”
Long took a step back. “I held his body for two weeks. There were no takers, nobody claimed it, and I burned it! So, I apologize if I haven’t lived up to your high expectations, but I told you this case is cold.” Long shook his head. “You know, I don’t get you. For a guy whose wife was struck down in the prime of her life by a pair of fucking thugs, it just blows my mind you actually give a rat’s ass about a couple of degenerate rapists.”
“I’m a cop!” Sam yelled back. “Get the fuck out of here, Hugh.”
Tommy moved out of the way as Long stormed past him. They heard the front door swing open, then slam shut.
Sam continued staring into the space Long had occupied.
“He shouldn’t have brought up your wife,” Tommy said.
“God only knows what I would do if Jenny’s killers were ever released from prison,” Sam said, and glanced over to Tommy. “Go get that neighbor in here.”
Tommy quickly exited the kitchen.
Sam lifted his tablet and stared at the horrified expression forever frozen on Bernard Meyers’ face. A murder is a murder, Sam thought, and slammed the tablet closed.
[][][]
Dennis Carver looked out of place in such a rough area. An old man with a raspy voice who smelled of cigarette and cigar smoke. He looked frail and shaky as he stood in the dead man’s living room.
“Come to think of it, I did hear something strange,” he said. “It sounded like an electric screwdriver; you know, when it tightens a screw as far as it can go. Only this was much louder.”
Sam stood next to Mr. Carver; his tablet recorded their conversation.
Tommy watched from a few feet away.
“How many times did you hear the noise, Mr. Carver?” Sam asked.
Mr. Carver glanced up to the ceiling and counted to himself. “Three,” he blurted out.
Sam looked to Tommy and said, “An arm, a leg, and a head.” Then he readdressed the old man. “Why didn’t you tell the detectives when they first interviewed you?”
“They didn’t ask,” Mr. Carver said dryly. “I don’t want any trouble, Mr. Knight. I don’t want to waste my time in court over this thing. Trust me, Bernard Meyers won’t be missed by anyone. We’re all a lot better off without him. Now, I’m tired, and I think I got a touch of the flu, so if you’re finished with me, I’d like to go.”
Sam had a feeling there would be more reluctant witnesses to follow, but he didn’t want to push the old man.
Sam extended his hand. “Thank you for the time, Mr. Carver. I’ll be in touch.”
Mr. Carver smiled a near-toothless grin. “Don’t work too hard on this one.”
Tommy helped him out the front door.
Sam lifted his tablet and ended the recording function. He now had confirmation Meyers and probably Fields were murdered inside their apartments with something that could cleanly slice off a human head in a matter of seconds and sounded like an electric screwdriver as it performed its grisly task.
“Nice old man,” Tommy said, walking back into the living room. “Well, what do you think so far? Pretty freaky, huh, Sam?”
Sam nodded. “Electric screwdriver, only louder.”
“What could it be?”
“That, my friend, is the million-dollar question.” Sam said, and exited Bernard Meyers’ apartment.