Unhinged (3 page)

“Jo-Jo's will be later tonight. I hope Jennifer doesn't mind you lookin' at fake titties.” Ron resumed the enjoyment of his sandwich, while all I could do was watch, having finished mine.

“You know,” I started, “we have to consider whether June was in the plan at all. Maybe she saw something.”

Ron threw his garbage away and brought his attention back to the task at hand, spreading the pictures across his desk. “No, I can't buy into the wrong place, wrong time theory. What this maniac did was planned.”

“Yeah, but maybe he was through for the night after the first kill. Maybe June walked up at the wrong time.”

Ron wiped his mouth. “Possibly. Although it's likely he knew exactly when she was coming home. After he killed his first victim, he stood by the window, maybe with brass balls from the absinthe and with his bloody hands on the curtains, still charged, waiting for his second kill. This could be somebody who really needs to see his crimes in the paper. That could make him a very dangerous asshole.”

At that moment, Captain Bert Greenwood stepped up to the side of my desk. His left eye bulged and was about a second behind the movement of its partner. “Pathologist called. He's ready for you two. You'll need a profile, so I called Will. He'll meet you back here.”

Ron shot me a look of contempt meant for Greenwood. “Yes, sir.”

“Guys, this is a big one. It's already hit the news, and we're getting tons of calls. I've got the mayor on my back already, for Christ's sake. Let's get this one solved. We don't want it going bad.”

“Understood.” Ron groaned.

Greenwood leaned forward a bit onto the balls of his feet and then rocked back. He looked at me as if I were sitting in his chair, then left.

“Fuckin' Popeye,” Ron murmured under his breath. “Spineless bastard.”

“You okay?” I asked as we prepared to leave the station. Ron's face was still twisted with hatred. I knew he never liked Greenwood much, but now I was curious why. The obvious answer was Greenwood was unpleasant and unimpressive to look at. I imagined that odd eye of his dropping out of its socket at any moment, but there had to be something else.

“Yeah, I'm fine. He just gets under my skin. He'll stab you in the back as soon as you turn around. Don't ever trust him, Deck. He's by the book and will rip you a new hole if given the chance. He's only looking out for himself.”

“Don't worry. I don't like him much, either, so Popeye and me aren't going to get chummy.”

The New Orleans coroner's office in the court building on Tulane Avenue had been wiped out in Katrina, and it had been decided that the temporary replacement would be a converted funeral home on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. There was a nail salon and a bail bonds agency next to it, and across the way was the Guste Housing Development. It was not in the best of neighborhoods, and what they said was temporary had been operating for over five years.

We entered the lobby. Ron went to the reception desk to find out where the bodies were, and the lady at the desk directed us to room A-3. I was feeling much better now that I had something solid in my stomach, but I still dreaded having to see June again. The smell of antiseptic, or perhaps strong mouthwash, violated my nose and lungs. However, it was better than the smell of rotting flesh.

We came to the double swinging doors, Ron entering first, catching the attention of the three people present.

A woman in her late twenties, wearing a smart, feminine business suit, walked up to me, holding out her hand. “I'm Assistant District Attorney, Josie Caldwell.” She gave me the once-over. “You're the new detective on this case with Ron, correct?” Not waiting for a reply, she turned to my partner. “Hi, Ron.”

Ron introduced me, while I made a quick study of the room. It was cold and rather dark, except for the main light directly over the two bodies. Chrome cabinets lined the room with several empty stretchers under them. Behind the doctor were two stainless carts displaying various medical instruments. The coroner placed the swab into a test tube, plugged it, and moved over to June's remains. A young guy with Dumbo ears, apparently the coroner's assistant, glanced at us, then resumed cutting the male body. Ron and I were still a safe distance away with Miss Caldwell, who looked satisfied to be watching from where we stood.

“What do you think, Detective?” she asked.

Ron gave her a brief smile. “Nothin' yet.” He looked over at the doctor who was dabbing inside the dead man's mouth with a swab. “Gordo, this is Detective Decland Dupree. He's working with me on the case. Deck, this is Dr. Randolf Gordon. He likes to be called Gordo.”

The doctor nodded in my direction. He was an older man, around Ron's age, overweight but had the precise movements of a surgeon. I could tell that he had a bad complexion from the acne scars on his temples.

“Hi, Gordo.” I was trying to conserve the air in my lungs. The smell of sterile death caused them to ache. I put my hand on Miss Caldwell's shoulder blade. “Let's see what they've found out; then we can talk shop.”

She nodded. I noticed a glazed area directly under her nostrils, which was probably a scented gel.

“Come on over, guys. I just had these two pulled out of the truck a few hours ago.”

“Truck?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. We don't have refrigeration facilities here. We have to keep them cold in those three trucks out back. They're running 24-7. State of the art, huh? I have ten thousand square feet and two autopsy stations, but I need at least sixty thousand square feet and maybe six stations.”

“Where're your funds?”

“They're still fighting over the money for a new facility. In the meantime, criminals go free because we can't get results back from the lab in Metairie or LSU in time.”

Ron said, “I suppose we should be lucky Forensics got the building at the University of New Orleans.”

“For physical evidence, but that doesn't help get our DNA results. You know that we've been operating on a third of my normal staff, so normally you wouldn't be getting this quick service, but the mayor himself requested someone be available to do a postmortem posthaste. They're going to put pressure on the Metairie lab, too. Looks like you're in another big one, Ron.”

“I know. What a way to cap off a career.”

“Are you retiring soon? You've still got ten good years.” Gordo made even quicker markings on his clipboard. Even though he obviously despised his facility, he was totally at ease in the environment, while I felt like a sweating ice cube.

“Are you kidding me?” Ron chuckled. “What the hell would I do if I didn't work? Stay home with the wife? This job's the reason we're still together. Hell, once I retire, I'm going to have to find a bar I can hang out in all day.”

“My wife keeps me at a safe distance, the way I come home smelling sometimes. It just doesn't come off.” Gordo raised his hands as if in meditation as he looked over the body before him.

“So, what can you tell us?” Ron ended the small talk and moved closer to June's body.

I remained glued to my spot. With my luck, I'd slip on a liver and break my arm.

“Well, as you know,” Gordo said sarcastically, “we don't have a lab on the premises. When the results come back, you'll be the first to know.” He pointed at June's abdomen and handed his clipboard to Ron.

I moved closer to glance at the clipboard Ron held. The top sheet had the simple outline of a woman's body, with lines and notes up and down near her abdomen. Gordo was the stereotypical doctor, writing long medical terms in bad penmanship.

“Time of death for both bodies is between 4 and 6 a.m. on Saturday. As you can see from the chart, I've mapped out the seven fatal stab wounds. I'd say a steak knife did the trick, and the attacker stabbed the woman while she was on her back. Most likely he was between her legs.”

“While he was raping her?” I didn't realize my thoughts had slipped from my lips. I jotted it down with a question mark.

Gordo nodded. “She has multiple contusions about the face and neck. Her hair was shaved off cleanly and neatly. He took his time doing it. No nicks, no scratches. No sperm was found inside her vagina, but it does appear she had recent sexual activity.”

No sperm? That was odd. Did the guy have a problem finishing, or was he smart enough to use a condom?

Thinking about her bald head, I was reminded of the one year in my late teens when I had kept my head shaved. I let it grow back after I realized some fashions weren't meant for certain people, and if the girls didn't get into my Kojak, then it wasn't for me.

I cleared my throat, then swallowed hard. I knew Gordo still had to talk about the nipples, which completely sickened me. Maybe it was because of my love affair with the female breasts that this single act, above all the rest, made my skin crawl. If anything was going to make me lose it, this would be it.

“The areola, the darker, circular area around the nipples,” Gordo said, “were apparently bitten off. The skin is pretty shredded, but I'm going to try to get a set of dental prints. I won't know how that'll work out until I apply the mold. The nipples haven't been found, correct?”

“No, they weren't at the crime scene,” Ron said. “What you see is what you get.”

“Not all the time.” Gordo smiled, seemingly amused by the information he was about to offer. I think he'd watched too many episodes of
CSI.
“Mr. Gant here came to me without his penis and scrotum. Like the areolas, I assumed they had been removed and were also missing until I examined Mr. Gant's mouth and found the genitalia stuffed nearly into his throat.”

“Good God.” Ron revealed uncharacteristic shock.

“Tell me about it,” Gordo agreed. “I've read about such things, but I never thought I'd come across it. Only in New Orleans, huh? I'm giving you my opinion, but you can bank on the fact that the accelerant used to burn his head was the absinthe, and I can tell you he wasn't drinking it.”

“So, the killer must've been drinking it,” Ron stated.

I had stopped writing long ago, fearing I'd lose my balance.

Gordo's assistant tilted the pan containing the penis and scrotum toward us, and sure enough, there was a cooked penis lying there as if it were a charbroiled cocktail weenie. The scrotal sack had shriveled into a crispy nugget.

That was enough for me. Miss Caldwell stared at the floor, and I found the room had gotten smaller.

“I gotta make a call,” I said, grabbing Ron's elbow and handing him my pen and paper. I charged out of the room, down the hall, and to the restroom, where I discovered what partially digested shrimp looked like.

Certain things tended to go through your mind when you tossed your cookies. This time, I thought back to simpler times in high school and college when I used to get drunk, throw up, and it was funny to everyone else. The next morning, I'd awake with a massive hangover that would make an entertaining story in class on Monday.

Afterward, there were no dry heaves or stomach churning, just a feeling of stupidity. Now I had to face Ron again and expect a nickname involving puke from my fellow officers. But I was not going to quit or allow this case to break me.

I
sat outside the coroner's office on a bench facing the housing development, shaded from the afternoon sun by a magnolia tree. A squad car drove by and eyed me, making sure I wasn't up to no good. My throat felt gritty, and my head pulsed with pain. I was hungry again.

My partner probably didn't want anything to do with me. He was most likely telling Dr. Gordo what a huge pussy I was. He was probably right, too. For this line of work, I might be a lightweight.

Ron came out, carrying a coffee he had acquired during my absence and a manila folder. If he was upset with me, I couldn't tell. I braced myself for a maybe-this-isn't-for-you speech and was ready to absorb all criticism. But Ron's face was relaxed. If this had happened three months ago, when he wasn't talking to me much, I doubt he'd have been this calm.