Robert Walker - Absolute Instinct

“Of course, yes. Cute the way it… rolls off your lips, sweetie.”

He sensed she hated being called Loose or Lucy or anything short of Lucinda, but that she'd tolerate it for the moment. “What matters most in the world to me, Loose, is the gallery showing that will lead to a museum showing and maybe Chicago.”

“Me, too. Me, too.”

“Great, then we're on the same wavelength.” He watched her every movement.

“Giles, honey, if we're to get a showing like we want- and I don't mean some raunchy little neighborhood cafe on Chicago's northside-we'll need more to exhibit.”

“More?”

“I'll need far more to work with. More spinal sculptures. I just know they'll be so outrageously popular. The way you've got them floating there like dragons.”

“You want to exhibit my work badly, don't you?”

“Yes, I want that Giles, so let me help you. The bones must be extremely expensive. I can help with that. It's some sort of black-market thing, isn't it?”

She sounds so sincere, he thought. For a moment he almost believed her. It would be wonderful to share my art with her. But he knew better.

“Yeah, you could call it a black-market thing, and you can help, of course.” He stood rigid, pacing about her now, going from side to side. She realized his zigzag steps had shortened the space between them. The exit looked farther away than before. “After all, anything in the name of art,” she added, forcing as normal a smile as ever she'd faked.

She backed farther from him. “You could have told me the truth from the start, Giles. I got a little sophistication, even though I am just a Milwaukee kinda girl, you know? Gave me a little shock sure… when I learned the truth, that's all, Giles.”

“Sorry I frightened you, Loose.” Her words sounded one bell, but her body language another. “Why do you keep moving away, sweetheart? I want to hold you, touch you, make love again.”

“I… I need to find the bathroom, Giles. You go back to bed, and I'll join you in a few moments.” She continued backpedaling until she slipped on the blood jar, spilling it over the hardwood floor, doing a dance in the blood and paint mixture, pirouetting to stay afoot as he watched and laughed. Her attempt to recover sent her falling and grasping the lip of the wash tub, spilling its contents, sending the spine slithering toward Giles.

Giles swore and attempted to catch the slithering spine but instead, he slipped on the water soft crunch as one or more of the vertebrae snapped to the pain in his now-bleeding back.

Lucinda got up and raced for the door, while he got to his knees and held up the one end of the violated cord. He lunged at Lucinda with it, swinging it like a club, striking her in the back of the head.

Lucinda had managed to unlatch the door, but just as she'd opened it, she felt the body-numbing blow to her head. She slid down the door, her weight shutting it tight. As she fell into unconsciousness, she heard him say, “You wanted to be a part of my success story, Lucky Lucy…. Well now you can be. How's the old proverb fit here, Loose? Success is getting what you want… but happiness, ah, happiness is wanting what you get. I hope you like statuary immortality.”

Millbrook Police Evidence Lockup

Richard Sharpe stood outside the cage in the basement of the one-story Millbrook police station, eye to eye with a bored officer in a two-tone brown uniform who had unhappily searched down evidence in the case of Louisa Childe, box number 1479/RJ6. The noisy, ticking overhead clock read 1:22 A.M. and the lockup guy couldn't hide his annoyance at not being alone, his body language signaling the fact in no uncertain terms. He'd been on the phone with someone as well, and Sharpe had heard the words “Federal Bureau” come up more than once.

Sharpe's tall frame made him uncomfortable in the cramped, damp quarters here. His time at the New Scotland Yard had enamored him to policemen like Sergeant Pyle of the Millbrook Police Department's evidence room. Richard tried to ignore it, but he wanted to tell Officer Pyle that if he so hated his work, then he should put in for any other duty or get out of the uniform altogether.

Instead, Richard quietly took the box to a nearby table, sat down with it and opened the lid, placing it to act as a catchall for anything he might quickly discard. The evidence box was the size of a file box, and it had been stuffed with a pair of bloody overalls and an equally bloodied shirt. Beneath this, he found some shards of broken glass, and nothing more. This confused him.

“What's become of the bag itself?” he muttered. “Officer Pyle, tell me, is it common practice to discard the trash bag the items were found in?”

“A bag's a bag, Agent Sharpe, whether you're from D.C. or Millbrook.”

“Was it a plastic bag, as in a grocery store bag, or was it unique?” he pressed Pyle.

Pyle replied, “That label dates the case back two years. How the hell do I know about some bag?”

“Yes, I see.”

He looked again on the manifest of evidence brought in as a result of Louisa Childe's murder.

It listed four fingertips and a half eaten corned beef on rye. Alongside each of these items a small square marked M.E. 's Office had been checked in faded red. He realized such perishable items could not possibly keep for two years in a box in a warm, humidity-drenched basement. If they were findable at all, it would have to be with the Millbrook M.E.

He spread the denim overalls and the shirt out across the table, and seeing this, Sergeant Pyle said, “Hey, we eat lunch on that table.”

Before Sharpe could answer, someone barreled through the door and replied to Pyle, “Come on, Sergeant, when's the last time you guys washed that table?” He went to Sharpe and introduced himself as Lieutenant Daniel Brannan.

“Yes, Irish are you?” Richard guessed that Pyle had gotten Brannan out of bed.

“American Irish. All Paddy and proud of it. Understand you're with the FBI, former Scotland Yard man. I suppose I should be impressed, a man of your caliber snooping about a two-year-old case in this fucking hole. My case, by the way.”

“I'm quite aware of that much. There've been two similar killings since Louisa Childe, and we're attempting to determine-”

“If they be related, sure. It's that Milwaukee business, isn't it? What's his name? That black guy, Darwin Reynolds? He put you up to this, didn't he?”

“In a round-robin way, yes. I got it through an FBI medical examiner, an associate.”

“Does Reynolds really have anything? I mean, if I thought there was something to it… Well, does he?”

“Quite possibly, yes.” Richard turned back to examine the blood spatters on the overalls. “These blood spatters have a story to tell,” he said to Brannan.

“The M.E. didn't think it helpful since all the blood belonged to the victim.”

“Look here.” Sharpe carefully tucked the shirt into the overalls, recreating how they were worn. He then pointed with a pen to an area about the chest and the overall straps. “From what I know of blood spatter evidence, it appears that a spray of blood on the shirt matches up with blood along the straps, all about the chest area.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“The size of the shirt and pants give us some indication of the killer's size.”

“That much is in both my report and the M.E.'s protocol.” Brannan shrugged to emphasize this point.

“If these spatters had come as a result of the first blow to the victim's head, it means the victim had been facing her killer at the time, and that he stood over her, a taller person by at least a head. How tall was Louisa Childe?”