P. Parrish - The Little Death

“I guess the next thing we need to do is positively identify the body found in Lee County,” Louis said.

“Get me his prints,” Swann said. “I can match them to the ID card.”

“Lee County screwed up and didn’t take any,” Louis said. “The only chance we have at an ID is digging him up and hoping there is enough of him left to compare.”

“Then let’s do it,” Swann said.

“You don’t know the asshole sheriff over there,” Louis said. “He doesn’t care about someone like Labastide, and he plays golf with the district attorney. If we want to dig Labastide up, we have to pay for it ourselves.”

“It’s a long shot, but I know a few people in the prosecutor’s office over there,” Mel said. “Let me give it a try.”

“I have a question,” Swann said.

“Shoot.”

“Actually, I have a lot of questions.” Swann lowered his voice. “You probably can guess I’ve never worked a homicide before.”

Louis felt a twinge of pity for Swann. “You’re working one now, Andrew.”

Swann gave a small smile. “Okay, why would anyone in Palm Beach drive their victim all the way out past Clewiston to kill him? Why not just dump him in a canal in West Palm?”

Louis glanced at Mel. They had wondered the same thing, but without a suspect or a clear motive, there was no urgency to find the answer. But now, because they had two victims, it was time to give it some thought.

“We might be dealing with a serial killer,” Mel said. “And they have unique ways of doing things-signatures, rituals, call it what you want. It’s weird little details that only they understand that complete the act of murder for them.”

“And being at that cattle pen could be some sort of sick staging?” Swann asked.

“Yeah.”

“And the whip?”

“It may be important, but there was no indication in his autopsy report that the John Doe was whipped or tortured.”

Swann looked confused. “Then why are we tying these two murders together?”

“Because there might be a relationship link,” Louis said.

“Between who?”

Louis sighed. “I wish we knew.”

“We’re thinking this might be homosexual homicides,” Mel said.

“Because of Kent?” Swann asked.

Mel shook his head. “No, because of certain patterns we’re seeing. Both victims were similar in age and physical appearance. Also, both murders were extremely violent, what we call overkill. Both victims had their throats slashed. The throat is a sort of pseudo sex organ among gays.”

“Ah, isn’t that true of straight people?” Swann asked.

Mel glanced at Louis. “Touché.”

Swann shook his head. “I still say, this just doesn’t sound like Reggie Kent.”

Mel was nodding. “I agree. When I was on the Miami force, I had some experience with this. I was one of the few cops who bothered to take the time to learn the psychology behind it.”

Now Louis was listening intently.

“Reggie told us that he and Mark didn’t really have a sexual relationship, that Mark was really straight,” Mel said. “But Mark Durand was a hustler with the record to prove it. In my experience, these guys are often heterosexuals who agree to gay sex as long as certain rules are obeyed.”

“And if someone breaks the rules?” Swann asked.

“Someone pays,” Mel said.

“But Durand was living with Kent. He didn’t need to hustle for money,” Swann said.

Mel looked at Louis and shrugged. “I didn’t say we had all the answers.”

Swann was quiet, deep in thought. “So, was Labastide gay?”

“We don’t know,” Louis said.

Swann’s eyes went from Louis to Mel. “Well, what the hell do you know?”

“Knowing that you don’t know what you should know is the first step to knowing, grasshopper,” Mel said.

Louis laughed.

Swann just stared at them, but then he smiled.

Louis flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “Let’s figure out our next steps,” he said.

“Somebody has to go back to Rosa Díaz and ask her point-blank about her brother,” Mel said.

“I’ll do it,” Swann said.

Louis finished writing in his notebook. He looked up and held out his hand to Mel. “Give me the receipt.”

“For what?” Mel asked.

“The doughnuts and coffee. I’m keeping track of our expenses.”

“I threw it away.”

“Well, how much was it?”

“I don’t know. Put down four bucks.”

“You got a whole bag of doughnuts. It has to be more than that.”

Mel rolled his eyes. “You’re trying my patience here, Rocky.”

“Good grief. It’s my treat,” Swann said. He tossed a twenty across the table to Mel. “And I’ve been meaning to ask you, why do you call him Rocky?”

“Rocky King was a TV detective back in the fifties,” Mel said. “It’s my term of affection for my friend here. I thought it sounded better than fuck-face.”

Mel glanced at Louis. “You know, I think it’s time to give our friend here a nickname.”

“Mel-”

Mel gave Swann a smile. “Welcome to the team, Batzarro.”

Swann frowned. “Bat what?”

But before Mel could answer, Swann’s beeper went off. He checked the number and quickly got up. He flashed his badge to the clerk and picked up the phone behind the cash register.

Swann came back and slid into the booth.

“We’ve got a damsel in distress,” he said. He looked at Louis. “And she wants you to save her.”

Margery was waiting for him in the lobby of the Palm Beach County jail. She was wearing a suit the color of eggplant and a matching wide-brimmed hat. A necklace of purple ice-cube-sized stones caught the light from the fluorescents as she spun to him. In the echoing tile cavern of the lobby-with its wanted posters, metal detectors, and rows of forlorn people sitting on metal benches-she looked like an exotic butterfly trapped in a dog cage.

“Louis! Thank God!” She exhaled a cloud of gin as she floated over to him. “What took you so long?”

“I got here as soon as I could,” Louis said. “What’s wrong?”

“They won’t let me see Reggie,” she said. She waved toward a man behind the Plexiglas. “And that horrible old bull won’t take my check!”

“Check? What check?”

Margery popped open her big purse and pulled out a pink leather checkbook. “I am trying to pay Reggie’s bail so I can take him home,” she said, waving the checkbook toward the information booth. “And he won’t listen to me.”

The officer behind the Plexiglas wasn’t smiling. Louis knew that the guys who pulled desk detail were usually low on the food chain. Margery had been here at least a half hour giving him shit, and he was probably one more insult away from arresting her for disturbing the peace.

“Margery, you can’t bail Reggie out,” Louis said.

“Of course I can. I don’t care how much-”

“Number one, he hasn’t even been arraigned yet, and number two, people who are charged with murder don’t get bail.”

Margery stared at him like he was lying-or just stupid-he couldn’t tell. Then, to his shock, she burst into tears. Everyone was staring. He took Margery’s elbow and steered her to a bench in the corner.

She dug in her purse for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. A few long, shuddering breaths later, she was back under control. “I’ve really balled things up,” she said. “I mean, first, I wasn’t even home when Reggie called me. I was lunching with Dixie at the Colony, and it was past three by the time I got home, so I didn’t know he had been arrested! Reggie, my poor, dear Reggie, had been trying to call me all day-Franklin must not have heard the phone-but thank God, I finally picked it up, and I came here, and they have been utterly beastly to me!”