The touch of murder, p.3
The Touch of Murder, page 3
It had happened before—it had happened in Steve’s barn when Veronica had been exposed to Maggie Cernak’s supposed suicide.
The cirrhotic glow seeping through the translucent white tarp now was a result of a weak yellow bulb affixed to the brick wall. But as the tarp was pulled back further, this quickly changed and how Veronica experienced the crime scene was very different from both Court Furnelli and Detective Ethan Blake. To this day, after countless hours of psychiatric sessions, of research, of delving deep into her subconscious with Dr. Bernard’s help, Veronica still didn’t know what about a crime scene tripped her synesthesia. All she knew was that the presence of either impending or recent violence caused her vision to explode into red, orange, and yellow splotches. It was as if someone had dropped watercolor paint from a great height and when it struck her eyes, it spread out. The more violent a scene, the more paint, and the more paint, the more opaque these colors were.
And this particular scene was one of the worst. Veronica felt like she was wading through fiery oil.
The victim sat in a weathered chair, his elbows on his knees, his head slumped forward and angled downward, almost chin to chest. He was completely nude, and his arms, wrists, and ankles were strapped with what appeared to be duct tape to the chair.
Dark stains covered his bare chest and thighs. Blood pooled at the victim’s feet, congealed like loose Jell-O. The man was facing them, but with the way he was hunched over, Veronica could see that there was something very wrong with his back. Two large flaps of skin hung down and there was some sort of thick tissue, gray or purple, maybe, seeming to extend outward. The colors were hard to distinguish with her synesthesia firing on all cylinders.
Veronica shook her head, trying to lessen the effects. This didn’t work, so she squeezed her eyes closed and then opened them again. A little better now.
Her gaze drifted upward and fell on a word written in blood on the wall.
All capitals, each letter about eight inches tall.
SINNER.
Veronica performed her double breath again. It wasn’t just the scene, but a memory that gave her pause. The memory of Anthony Wilkes, a man she’d never met, but a man who had endured a tragedy similar to her own. He was dead from an overdose, and the word MEENIE was spray painted above the mattress upon which he’d expired. But while that had been an overdose, most likely accidental, the fate of the victim before Veronica now was anything but.
A strange gulping sound made her turn. Detective Blake was swallowing audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing frenetically as if trying to escape from his throat via any means necessary. He was incredibly pale—his skin nearly the same color as the tarp they’d just walked through.
“Go get some fresh air,” Veronica instructed.
Ethan looked hesitant, and she thought she knew how he felt. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of her, his new partner. The problem was, Veronica cared more about preserving the crime scene than Ethan saving face.
“Outside, now,” she ordered.
The man nodded several times and then ducked beneath the tarp.
Veronica heard him gulping fresh air.
Jesus, he is green.
“Court, what the hell is that on his back?”
Veronica started to walk around the body, intent on getting a better look, but stopped when Officer Court Furnelli answered.
“I’m no doctor, Detective Shade. But I think… I think those are his lungs. Someone ripped his lungs out of the man’s back and just… just laid them on his skin like wings.”
Chapter 6
Bear County Sheriff Steve Burns splashed water on his face. The cold felt good against his warm skin. He pumped the hand soap dispenser, lathered, and then cleaned his cheeks and chin. Next, he ran his damp hands through his hair, which had grown long, making him look unkempt.
Having already washed most of his body in the restroom, and shaved his neck, Steve replaced his personal belongings, including a razor, toothbrush, deodorant, and hairbrush, in his cosmetic case. He donned his hat and ran his thumb and forefinger across the brim. Then he nodded and left.
On the way out, he passed Alvin Gentry, the concierge at the Matheson Arruvidia Inn. Steve thanked him by handing over a ten-dollar bill. Alvin took the money and made it disappear, assuring the sheriff that letting him use the restroom was no problem.
Steve left through the back door and headed directly for the employee parking lot. For an extra ten a week, Alvin overlooked him parking there. Although they’d never spoken about it, Steve was fairly certain that Alvin knew he was sleeping in his car. Evidently, that was free.
Steve opened the back door and pulled his blanket out. He folded it delicately, then fluffed his pillow and popped the trunk. No matter how many times he saw his clothing, meticulously organized by type, and neatly folded, it was still shocking to him. Maybe it was the dichotomy of having his underwear next to a police-issued shotgun that gave him pause. Or maybe it was the fact that it reminded him that he had been living out of his car for the past three months.
Or was it four?
Steve shook his head and pushed his pillow and blanket to the very back and out of sight, then got behind the wheel. His hand trembled so badly that it was difficult for him to put the keys in the ignition. Using his other hand to grasp his wrist and steady it, he eventually managed. Soft music filled the cab.
Steve always parked in the same spot, the furthest corner of the employee lot from the hotel. Even during peak hours, there were only ever a handful of cars, with most cleaning staff electing to take public transport. Now, at the crack of dawn, there was but one: Alvin’s.
Still, Steve knew to be cautious. He also knew where all the security cameras were and made sure to stay away from their inquisitive eyes.
Confident that nobody was around, and he wouldn’t be seen, Sheriff Steve Burns opened the glove compartment. This too was a shocking sight: a baggie with dirty-looking yellow powder, a bright red yoga band, a black spoon, a lighter, and of course, a small case full of hypodermic needles.
How long had it been since he’d transitioned from opioids to heroin? Three months? Four?
Steve removed all the objects and then took out a roll of fresh paper towels. He laid a sheet across the center console, then opened his shirt and teased his left arm out. If you looked closely enough and if you had experience with junkies, especially the kind who liked to keep their dirty little habit a secret, you might be able to notice the miniature holes dotting his flesh.
But that wasn’t something you would look for in the Bear County sheriff.
Steve took one of the alcohol wipes he had borrowed from the local chicken joint and tore it open. He cleaned his skin, making sure to rub hard in all the crevices. Then, he wrapped the red band over his bicep and tied it tight. Boiling the heroin was second nature as was drawing the liquid into a clean syringe. The injecting part? That was more difficult.
For some reason, the human psyche had an innate fear of injections. It was irrational, of course. Consumption was the leading cause of death in the USA. Eating cheeseburger after cheeseburger was more apt to kill you than a needle. So was snorting cocaine or drinking a six-pack every night. But even Steve, who had done this routine on the daily, still hesitated.
The needle rested on his skin, and he inhaled deeply and waited. Two breaths later, he pierced his flesh, aspirated to make sure he was in a vein, then pushed the plunger all the way down.
Knowing he had only two seconds before the heroin kicked in, he removed the needle and placed it back in the case. Then he put everything else in the glove box.
Only then did he release the red band that had been clenched between his front teeth.
It hit him hard and fast.
Steve’s eyes rolled back, and his lids fluttered, and he felt a surge of what could only be described as sheer pleasure. It undulated through his entire body, at first numbing, and then sending wave after wave of bliss to every cell. It was like the moment right before orgasm, that delicious tingly feeling. Only it wasn’t restricted to just his balls.
It was everywhere.
It was everything.
Steve exhaled once, twice, licked his lips, and reveled in the feeling. Fifteen or twenty seconds later, he opened his eyes again. The world was vivid, the colors more vibrant, everything more obvious and meaningful.
Sheriff Steve Burns crumpled the towel and made sure that everything was cleaned up before triple-checking that the glove box was locked. Then he put his car into reverse, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed to work.
Chapter 7
Looking at the victim from behind, Veronica thought Court was right.
The purplish organs that had been yanked through the man’s back were more than likely his lungs.
His skin had been flayed and then it appeared as if his ribs had been broken near the spine and bent backward or pushed out of the way. After his lungs were pulled out, the ribs were replaced beneath them, which made the two purple organs look as if they were almost hovering above his back.
It was gruesome and horrible.
“What does it look like to you?” Veronica asked.
“As I said, I think it’s his lungs. I’ve already called the coroner, and—”
“What about the medical examiner?”
Court nodded and averted his eyes from the body.
“Yeah, I mentioned the… uhh… the condition of the body to Kristin, and she said she was going to reach out to one of the medical examiners.”
“Good.”
Veronica cocked her head and looked at the victim’s back.
“I think they’re his lungs, too. But what does it look like to you?”
Court reluctantly examined the body again.
“Not sure.”
Veronica took a step back and turned her head the other way.
Then she read the writing on the wall, which looked as if it had been written with two fingers, before turning her attention back to the victim.
To her, it looked like a macabre…
“Angel,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?”
Veronica cleared her throat and stood up straight.
“I think they look like angel wings.”
Furnelli made a strange sound.
“No, I’m serious. It looks like angel wings.” Veronica pointed at the bloody writing. “Whoever did this made our vic pay for his sins and then turned him into an angel.”
She was speaking off the cuff, much like she used to do with Freddie. Unlike her ex-partner, though, Court didn’t challenge her. He didn’t do anything—just watched and listened.
Veronica pulled a nitrile glove from her pocket but didn’t slip it on. She just grabbed it and used it to lift the victim’s chin.
Experience had taught her not to judge a book by its cover. However, the man’s appearance—sunken eyes, gaunt cheekbones, pockmarked flesh—painted a fairly vivid portrait and Veronica had a good idea of what sins this man was guilty of. She also knew the cause of death and it had nothing to do with the display on his back. There was a ragged gash that ran from ear to ear, which explained the blood that soaked the man’s chest, stomach, and genitals before pooling at his feet.
Veronica lowered his head and then grabbed the man’s forearm. The tape holding his wrist to the chair was loose enough that she was able to turn his arm over enough to get a good look at the crook of his elbow.
His skin was peppered with purple dots, some fresh, some older, all confirming her suspicions.
Veronica looked around again.
The area was partially covered by the tarp, likely left behind from some long-abandoned renovation project. It was the perfect place for vagrants and junkies to stay warm and seek shelter and maybe even a modicum of privacy.
“Nobody saw anything?” she asked.
“Haven’t asked yet,” Court replied. “Was just waiting for you. Buuuut, you know Needle Point as well as I do. If they saw something, they aren’t going to say anything.”
Veronica sucked her teeth.
“We still have to ask.”
Veronica walked back the way they’d come, slipping beneath the tarp and back onto the sidewalk. Even though the area that housed the body was vast, it was still somehow stifling.
Veronica took a deep breath, enjoying the sensation of fresh air filling her lungs. It was also good to clear the synesthetic hallucinations that marred her vision.
She looked right first, then left.
Detective Blake, whom she’d completely forgotten about, was leaning against the wall, his head down.
“You okay?”
The man swallowed hard.
“Fine.”
No longer inundated by the coppery scent of blood, the only thing that Veronica could smell now was gasoline.
Detective Blake was lying.
He was also sweating.
Veronica blinked, trying to force the blue aura coming off Ethan into the background.
It didn’t work.
So much for being rid of the colors, she thought.
With a sigh, she glanced right again, squinting hard.
“If we’re going to ask, we should probably start with him.”
“With who?” Court said, following her gaze.
“Wait… wait…” Veronica pointed. “Him.”
About a block down a face peered out from an alley.
“Excuse me a second,” she said to Detective Blake. And then she broke into a jog when the person ducked out of sight.
Freddie never ran. Ethan looked like he did five miles every morning, but he was in no shape to go anywhere.
But Court was game. He wasn’t as fast as she was, but it turned out that Veronica didn’t need backup.
The man was trapped; the alley was a dead end. And one look at him, at his body which was shaped like a swollen bowling pin, and it was obvious that, unlike Dylan Hall, this man wasn’t going to be scaling any walls. Not now, likely not ever.
He seemed strangely bewildered by his predicament and was pressing his hands against the brick as if searching for an invisible secret passage.
“Hi,” Veronica said softly, encouraging the man to turn.
“Hey, you, arms where I can see them!” Court bellowed as he reached her side.
Veronica gestured for him to stand down and stay back as she took a handful of steps forward.
“Hi there, we just want to talk.”
“Talk, talk, talk,” the man mumbled, his back still to them.
Veronica continued to move deeper into the alley. The smell of gas was replaced by an astringent body odor.
This man posed no danger—nothing about him had triggered her synesthesia.
At least not yet.
“Yes, we just want to talk,” Veronica repeated.
“Talk, talk, talk.”
He finally turned, revealing wide, slanted, and upturned eyes, a patchy beard, a thick but shortened neck, and just a few wisps of hair on his forehead.
Veronica was no expert, but if she had to guess, this man had Down Syndrome or some similar condition. He wore a giant sweatshirt that Veronica thought might have been from Oregon University, but she couldn’t be sure because it was smeared with some sort of brown grease or maybe blood.
“That’s right, just talk.” Veronica pulled out her badge. “I’m a police officer, and this is my friend Court. He’s also a police officer.” When Officer Furnelli did nothing, Veronica nudged him. “Show your badge,” she said out of the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, I’m a cop too.” Court flashed his shield.
The man’s eyes moved back and forth between the two badges.
“Star, star, star.”
“Right,” Veronica said. “Would it be okay if we asked you a few questions?”
“Questions, questions, questions.” The man nodded with each word.
Veronica was so close to him now that she could smell urine as well as BO.
“Last night, did you see anyone in the tarped area?”
“Tarp, tarp… tarp?”
“Yeah, the white sheets hanging.” Veronica mimed hanging. “Did you see anyone in there last night?”
The man hesitated, then nodded.
“Monster… monster… monster.”
“Okay, you saw a monster. What did he look like?”
“Monster… monster… monster.” He was becoming more agitated.
“Was he white? Black? Hispanic?” Court chimed in.
“Monster!” the man shouted.
Veronica held her hands out trying to calm him.
“Fine, a monster. That’s good. That’s helpful. Thank you. Just a couple more questions, okay?”
A nod, less enthusiastic than before.
“Did you maybe see a car in the area?”
“Car, car, car.”
“Alright. Can you tell me anything about this car? What was its color?”
“Midnight blue, midnight blue, midnight blue.”
“Okay, great. Midnight blue car. Now did it—”
“Star, star, star.”
“Right. We’re police officers. Is there anything else you can tell us about the car?”
The man scratched his left armpit and then smelled his fingers.
“Sleep, sleep, sleep.” His voice dropped a few octaves, and he seemed to draw into himself.
Court’s patience had expired.
“Did you see anybody with blood on them? Someone with a knife?”
“No, no, no!” Every ‘no’ was progressively louder than the previous. “Monster! Monster! Monster!”
The man was pressing himself against the brick wall, trying to put as much space between them as possible.
“What do you want to do?” Court whispered in her ear. “Bring him in for questioning?”
Veronica thought about it before shaking her head.
What would be the point? If they’d tried to cuff him, he might react violently. Even if they got him to the station without incident, Veronica doubted putting him in an interrogation room would get him to open up. On the contrary, he might never speak to them again.
