David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

“He wasn’t wearing gloves,” I say.

“He knew about-he knew about the fa-the-”

From outside the opened front door, I hear footsteps pounding up the staircase.

“He knew about what, Brandon?” I ask, my face close to his. This doesn’t look fatal, but this may be the last chance I get to talk to him. “Brandon, this is important. He knew about-”

“The father,” he says, as two uniformed police officers burst through the door.

You DON’T BARGE into the offices of Harland Bentley unannounced,” the commander says. ”Not based on your gut, Detective.”

McDermott grips the phone, looking at Stoletti and shaking his head. It was her call-a good one-to get clearance before bursting in on one of the wealthiest men in the world. If something went south, the governor would hear about it, the mayor would hear about, the commander would hear about it, and McDermott would hear about it.

“Sir, this is about his daughter-”

“I understand what this is about. You can interview him, and you can do it fast. But you set it up. You don’t barge in. You tell him it’s urgent, but you show him every courtesy.”

McDermott stays quiet. He’s afraid of what might come out of his mouth.

“Listen, Mike-you tell me he’s a prime suspect, I give you a different answer. You may be onto something with what you’re telling me. But you might be dead wrong. This might be some psychopath who wants to bring back Terry Burgos’s crusade.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Set it up, Detective. Handle it right.”

The line goes dead.

“Shit.” McDermott hangs up the phone. “Christ on a bike, he wants me to stop a serial killer, but only if I mind my manners. Set it up,” he says to Stoletti. “We have to set it up.”

He checks the message on his cell phone. A call from the morgue. Susan Dobbs returning his call.

“Working late, Susan?” he says when she answers the phone.

“I’m eating dinner, Mike. You called my cell phone. Don’t tell me it was an accident.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“I don’t know why I ever gave you that number.”

“Because you’re a dedicated public servant.”

“You were calling about the Ciancio autopsy?”

“Yeah, it says there was an incision between the-hang on.” He grabs the autopsy report. “A postmortem incision at the base of the fourth and fifth tarsal phalange.”

“Right. The fourth and fifth toes. There’s a web of skin between the fourth and fifth toes. He sliced it. After the guy was dead.”

“Why you think he did that?”

“You’re the cop. But it was deliberate, I’ll say that. You’d have to go out of your way to separate the two toes and make the incision. You don’t do that accidentally.”

She’s right about that. Ciancio was wearing socks when he was found, tortured and murdered. The offender went to the trouble of making that incision after everything else he did to Ciancio and then putting the sock back on.

Deliberate, like Susan Dobbs said. This offender isn’t doing anything by accident. He’s doing everything he wants to do. And he’s doing it well.

PART OF THE JOB. It never goes as planned. You improvise. It’s what makes you good.

The adult video store is boarded up, seemingly abandoned, but Leo knows that it’s open. He pushes through the door, walks past two aisles of magazines and videos, and heads directly to the counter.

The man sitting behind the counter is thick through the neck and shoulders, reading a newspaper and mumbling under his breath.

“Menja zovut Leonid,” Leo says, introducing himself.

The man peeks over his paper with disinterested eyes. “Leonid?”

“Da.”

The man speaks through the newspaper, still poised over much of his face. “Kogda?”

“Sejchas,” Leo answers. Now.

The man directs him down the street, but Leo already knows. The warehouse has no sign, just a single unmarked door along the alley. Leo knocks on it. After several locks are opened, another oversized man, with a belly fighting to get out of a dirty white shirt, opens the door, turns his deeply set eyes past Leo, and lets him in.

He smells bad. Like grease and booze. Booze and grease.

Inside, stolen cars are being stripped for parts. The sounds of the equipment at work echo off the high ceiling. Even with the wide-open space, the smells of body odor and tobacco fill the air. Another reminder of Lefortovo. Men smoked continuously to pass the time. Time was meaningless, but it was all they had.

The man takes him into a small room with a round table.

“Skol‘ko?” Leo asks.

“Dvesti.”

Leo nods, turns his back on the man, peels two hundred dollars from his roll, and sets it on the table. The man picks up the money and leads him through the warehouse. Leo doesn’t look at the men working on the cars. He listens to the drumming of his heart. He listens to the blood coursing through his head.

The man opens a large door with a key. Inside, over a dozen women are springing to attention, seated on beat-up couches and chairs. The room is warm. The women-girls, some of them-are scantily dressed, halter tops and hot pants or tiny shorts. Cheap perfume and cigarette smoke fill the air. Some pop music is playing on a small portable stereo.

He surveys them. Some of these girls are teenagers. Most of them have damaged skin, bruises, in one case. Their eyes are dispassionate. Most of them are skinny, though not toned. He finds the one he wants and nods to her.

“Skol‘ko vam let?” Not that he expects her to reveal her true age.

“Dvadcat’ odin,” she says. Twenty-one. That’s a lie, closer to thirty, liar. He asks her for her name, so she can lie again, that’s all they know, lying-

“Dodya,” she answers. He points to her. She’ll be fine.

The room upstairs is small, dim, and dirty. It takes him back yet again. Lefortovo held eight to a cell, and the ceiling was much higher, but the confined feeling is the same.

He thinks of Kat, even pictures her face. He closes his eyes as if that will erase her. When he opens them, this one, “Dodya”-

– He knew a Dodya in Leningrad, a chubby, sad girl, with orange-blond hair, who they teased, made Leo feel sad because he knew what it was like, but he didn’t do anything, let them tease her and make her cry-

Dodya wiggles out of her shorts and removes her top. Her body seems undeveloped; her breasts are flat and her ribs are prominent. She looks at him for direction, but he says nothing, does nothing. She approaches him and reaches for the buckle on his pants.

“Nyet,” he says. Shakes his head slowly.

She steps back. “Ja ne ponimaju.”

But she understands just fine. He uses the back of his hand, to avoid any significant bruising. She falls to the hard floor. Touches her cheek. Looks back up at him for direction.

He unzips his own pants. She watches him, unsure at first if she’s supposed to watch or look away. Soon she understands: She is supposed to watch.

When he’s satisfied, he zips up his pants and draws near to her. He notices that she winces as he approaches her. Also notices that she doesn’t try to move away.

On his way out, he stops at the same room where he first negotiated the deal. The fat guy has his feet up, reading a magazine about automobiles.

“Ja hotel by kupit Dodya,” he says.

The man stares at him a moment, his thick eyebrows meeting in confusion. Then he bursts into laughter. He enjoys the moment, then looks at Leo, a man, he seems to understand, whom he should not regard lightly.

“Skol‘ko?” Leo says. “Odna tysjacha?”