Evil Dark (23 page)

  "Lots of people do, from what I hear," Karl said evenly. He wasn't letting himself be provoked, either. "How'd you establish that as a common factor?"

  "Different things that we found," Greer said. I guess he felt he was supposed to contribute something. "Books, DVDs, magazines, posters – stuff like that."

  Karl nodded. "Makes sense to me. I assume you also checked the contents of their furniture – bureaus, and like that."

  "Of course." Thorwald sounded mildly offended.

  "Did all three of these guys, by any chance, have… a sock drawer?"

  Thorwald gave McGuire a "See? Told you we should've kicked him out" look and said, "Is there some point that you're attempting to make, Detective?"

  Karl shrugged. "Since they all have socks in common, I was just wondering if maybe we were dealing with a bunch of foot fetishists."

  I tried to keep the smile from growing on my face, I really did. Greer appeared puzzled, and McGuire apparently felt the need to cough.

  It's a pity that nobody took a photo of Thorwald's face right then. It would have been a perfect illustration in some dictionary, next to the definition of "Rage (barely suppressed)".

  Before Thorwald could grab a pencil from the nearby desk and try to drive it through Karl's heart, McGuire said, a little louder than necessary, "Is there anything else we have to talk about here?"

  "Well, there's one thing," I said. McGuire shot me a look that said, "This better not be something smart-ass." I went on, "I think I have an ID on the female victim in the latest snuff video."

  Thorwald had her notebook out again before I'd even finished speaking. Fast hands. I hoped I'd never have to outdraw her – or try to.

  "I think her first name's Mary Beth. If it is, then her maiden name was Brennan, although she might've gotten married along the way and changed it. She lives – lived – somewhere in Exeter, which is a little town–"

  "I
know
where Exeter is, Sergeant," Thorwald said. "What I'm uncertain about is exactly what
you
know. I'm hearing 'think', 'might've', and 'somewhere'. None of that exactly inspires confidence in your information. Do you have an ID on the victim, or don't you?"

  Karl had her pegged, all right.
Hunt
– or something like that.

  I took a deep breath and let it out, in an effort to calm myself down a bit. Then I said, "I used all those qualifiers because I wanted to be precise about what I know at this point, and what I don't. I think it's highly probable that the female vic started life – and maybe ended it – as Mary Beth Brennan. I'll probably have more solid information in a day or so, including an ID based on a screen cap of the woman's face, if you'll loan me that DVD again, or let me burn a copy."

  "Why 'a day or so', Markowski?" Greer said. "You holding out on us?"

  "I'm not holding out anything," I said. "It's just that the situation's complicated. Here's why."

  I told them about my initial mistaken ID of the victim, then about my phone conversation with Lacey the next day. I left out the part where she threatened to deny me access to her beautiful ass forever if I didn't spill the beans – it would've given them the wrong impression, both about Lacey and about me.

  When I was done, both Thorwald and Greer were looking at me with the kind of expression you see on a Statie when he pulls you over for doing fifty in a school zone.

  "I cannot believe," Thorwald said, "that you would be so unprofessional as to reveal the very existence of these videos, let alone the contents of one, without clearing it with us first."

  "I would have," I said, "but you two haven't been around the last two nights. And I understand that you refused to give your contact information to our PA."

  McGuire looked at me, then at Thorwald. "You haven't given us any way to contact you?"

  "That information is released on a 'need to know' basis," Thorwald said.

  "And you don't think that these officers," McGuire said, "who are working on the case that
you
brought to us, might have a need to know how to get in
touch
with you?"

  "Messages left at the local FBI field office will be forwarded to us," Thorwald said primly. "And right now I don't wish to be distracted from the issue of Sergeant Markowski's carelessness in revealing what is essentially confidential information."

  "I didn't give it to the
New York Times
," I said, "or even to the
Times-Tribune
. I told a veteran detective who knows how to keep her mouth shut."

  "A veteran detective who's now got an emotional involvement in the case," Greer said.

  "Some people are funny that way," I said. "When you tell them that one of their close relatives has been tortured to death, they get all upset."

  "I still say you shouldn't have told her," Thorwald said. "She could have been shown one of those screen caps you were talking about earlier, and asked to make an identification of the woman in the photo."

  "Yeah, that would work," I said. "You show Lacey Brennan a photo of a woman's face and ask, 'Is this your sister?' And when she wants to know why you're asking, you say 'Sorry, that's classified information.' I'm ninety-nine percent certain she'd tell you to–" I turned to Karl. "What's that expression she uses?"

  "You mean 'Go fuck yourself'?"

  "That's the one." I turned back to the Feebies. "She'd tell you to go fuck yourself. And you know what – she'd be right."

  The two FBI agents looked at each other for a couple of seconds, then Thorwald gave a long-suffering sigh. "Well, since the cat's out of the bag, we may as well make use of it. I'll need contact information for this Detective Brennan."

  I gave her a tight smile. "Sorry. That's classified."

  She glared at me, then turned to McGuire. "Lieutenant, would you
please
tell your officer to–"

  "All right," I said. "All right. What I meant was, it would be a bad idea to try to talk to Lacey about this today."

  Instead of asking the question, Thorwald just gave me raised eyebrows.

  "Because she's still in the initial hours of grieving," I said, "and because right now she is either
a)
drunk, or
b)
viciously hung over. You shouldn't try to talk to her in either condition."

  "Unless you enjoy being told to go fuck yourself," Karl said. "And if that's your kink, we can save you the ride to Wilkes-Barre and do it for you right here."

  "Let me talk to her," I told Thorwald. I tried for a reasonable tone of voice. "Tomorrow. If you'll give me a screen cap of the victim's face, I'll show it to her. If she IDs it as her sister, then I'll get all the information I can from Lacey about her."

  "I thought you said the two women weren't close," Thorwald said, but she sounded like she was trying for reasonable, too.

  "I did, but Lacey also told me that they exchange Christmas cards, so she'll have the address, at least. I'll get that, along with the sister's current last name and anything else that Lacey knows. Just give me twenty-four hours, fortyeight at the most. What do you say?"

  "
I
say you ought to–" Greer began, but Thorwald made a sharp gesture and cut him off like a guillotine. "Very well, Sergeant," she said calmly. "If you'll give me your email address, I'll have some screen caps made, showing only the victim's face, and send them to you. When you have some information about said victim, I'd like to know about it. Fair enough?"

  I gave her a nod. "Fair enough."

  Her voice was mild, but the message in her eyes was the same one you'd get from a high school bully whose torments have been interrupted by a teacher:   "We'll finish this later."

 

As I got behind the wheel I said to Karl, "Still think Thorwald likes me?"

  Karl fastened his seatbelt and pretended to ponder it. "Well, maybe the same way that Cain liked Abel, something like that."

  "Yeah, I was thinking along those lines myself."

  "Where we going?" he asked.

  "Let's pay another call on the rug merchant," I said. "I wanna ask Castle how it is that a few hours after we're talking to him about Helter Skelter, I've got a bunch of goblins in my garage, wanting a close-up look at my liver."

  "You think Castle's on the same side as people who are killing supes and making snuff films? Those guys oughta be Castle's worst enemy, man."

  "Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you? But if we're working off the assumption that the gobs were sent after me because we're on the trail of those Charlie Manson wannabes, how many people know that? Castle sure did."

  "That's true," Karl said. "Plus whoever Castle told about it. Maybe he put the word out to the local supe community – 'Anybody heard anything about Helter Skelter? A couple of cops think someone's trying to make it happen here in Scranton'."

  "If he did that, wouldn't
you
have heard something?"

  "Not necessarily," Karl said. I caught his grin out of the corner of my eye. "I haven't been going to the meetings."

  "We'll see if we can get Castle to tell us who he's been talking to."

  "You know who else could've put out the word that we're looking into Helter Skelter?" Karl asked.

  "Who?"

  "Pettigrew. Our favorite human supremacist."

  "Why would he do that?" I said. "He doesn't want Helter Skelter to start – he isn't sure his side would win."

  "Maybe he didn't do it deliberately," Karl said. "Could be he told somebody he trusted, who told somebody else, who told the bad guys – whoever they are."

  "Yeah, that's not exactly impossible, is it? Guess we better add Pettigrew to our list of people to see."

  "We? You mean I get to go along this time?" To his credit, there wasn't a lot of sarcasm in Karl's voice. A little, maybe – but not a lot.

  "Sure," I said. "Maybe your fangs'll scare him."

  "They didn't work real well with Thorwald."

  "Shit, Pettigrew's not
nearly
as tough as Thorwald."

  Karl snorted laughter. "You know, it occurs to me, Pettigrew's little Nazi playpen is closer than the rug shop from here. Save us from doubling back if we go there first."

  "Sounds like a plan, man," I said, and turned right at the next corner.

  About five minutes later, we pulled into the parking area of Born to Be Wilding. The only other vehicle there was a customized Harley that I was pretty sure belonged to Pettigrew. Good – he was still here. I would've figured that anyway, since all the lights in the place were on.

  As I turned the engine off, I said to Karl, "Look, I don't expect you to put up with any shit from Pettigrew, but try not to start something, OK?"

  Karl unlatched his seatbelt. "I seek peace, and pursue it," he said, the way you do when quoting somebody.

  I looked at him. "Where's that from?"

  "Psalm 34."

  "You've been reading something besides James Bond," I said.

  "No Bibles for me anymore. I just remember it from school."

  We were walking toward the open service bay when Karl suddenly stopped. "Uh-oh."

  "What?"

  "Blood, close by," he said. "Fresh, and lots of it."

  "Human?"

  "I think so."

  As we started forward again, I drew my weapon and saw Karl do the same. That turned out to be unnecessary – the only one in there was Pettigrew, and he wasn't going to be dangerous to anybody ever again.

  The human supremacist lay on his back near one of the big workbenches, splayed out like an abandoned rag doll – except you never find Raggedy Andy in a pool of his own blood. Pettigrew's lips were drawn back in a snarl, as if he were defying what had recently killed him. Most of his throat seemed to be missing.

  After a quick look around to be sure that nobody was lurking, we walked toward Pettigrew, stopping at the edge of the blood pool.

  "Pardon the stupid question," I said to Karl, "but is he dead?" If by some fluke Pettigrew was still alive, I'd be legally and morally obligated to try CPR and call an ambulance. Otherwise, I planned to stay out of the blood and not mess up the crime scene.

  "No heartbeat at all," Karl said. "He's gone."

  "Can you tell how long?"

  "Uh-uh. But it's a fresh kill."

  Karl's voice sounded a little shaky. It couldn't be because he was grieving for Pettigrew – if anything, he'd probably have a drink of plasma to celebrate. That's when it hit me. My vampire partner was in the presence of an awful lot of the stuff that constituted his diet. His training as a detective was probably warring with a strong impulse to start drinking the evidence.

  "Listen, Karl, you wanna wait in the car? It's cool."

  "No, I'm all right." His voice didn't completely support his words.

  "Are you sure? Because I–"

  "OK, then. OK."

  I knelt down and touched a finger to the blood on the floor. It was only slightly tacky, which supported Karl's conclusion that the attack had been fairly recent – probably within the last couple of hours.

  We were supposed to call this in, but I figured there was no hurry. And I wanted to have a look around before every cop and forensics tech in town started traipsing through the place.

  As I stood up, I said to Karl, "You're the one with the super-acute vision. See anything that I'm missing?"

  He didn't answer for a couple of seconds, and I wondered if he had zoned out on me. But then he said, "There are some hairs in the blood. See there?" He pointed, and I could just make out three or four hairs, a couple of inches long. "There's more over there," Karl said, and pointed again. "And some more, over near the body."