Close it, Behr urged himself, but for the moment he could not. The stark light and cold air from inside the refrigerator spilled out onto him. Upon the shelves were jars and lidded glass containers of all sizes and shape, and inside of them floating in brine or vinegar or some other preservative were indeterminate body parts. On the bottom shelf, in a large glass bowl, suspended in clear liquid, were what appeared to be several vaginas.
Behr’s very being shuddered at the horror of what he’d found, at the fact that he had been correct about Abler, and at the quandary in which he’d put himself. He had at once made a case and doomed it, due to the illegal entry. If he called the police now, everything inside the garage, every shred of evidence against this monster, would be inadmissible. A pang of sorrow shot through him for what he still owed Kerry Gibbons, and her daughter, Kendra, for that matter.
Close it up and get out, he told himself. Fall back and drum up some concrete evidence to justify a search warrant, or find another way to stunt up a reason for the cops to get inside legitimately. Before it was too late and Abler killed again or sniffed out that someone had been inside his place and scrubbed it and vanished into thin air. Of course there was always the chance, supposing Behr managed to get him arrested, that Abler could successfully claim insanity—the pictures and other items in the garage would play convincingly in that vein—and he’d wind up spending his days in a hospital facility. Or perhaps worst of all, he’d somehow end up with a sentence like Prilo’s and be out in a handful of years …
However Behr went about it, it would take time, a day or two at least, to figure out. He had to hurry now. Just as he was about to close the refrigerator, though, he spotted a small amber jar to the rear of the middle shelf, and he reached for and opened it. He smelled the liquid inside, which was formaldehyde, and he gently shook and swirled the jar. A small chunk of flesh rolled and rotated in the fluid. Then he saw the green-colored design inked on the jagged piece of skin. It was Danielle Crawley’s shamrock tattoo. Behr hung his head over the jar for a moment before screwing it shut, putting it back, and closing the refrigerator.
That’s when he felt the slight vibration of the rear padlocked door rattling and realized someone was coming in. He had to hide, and moved blindly for a spot by the far wall, behind the slop sink, where a tool bench would obscure him. The door swung open with a creak and whoever was there left the lights off …