John Lutz - Serial

“What was that all about, Feds?”

“Talking goose.”

Quinn felt like sighing. Did talent for detective work come with a skewed view of the world?

Like the killer’s?

“Lots of artistic blade work this time,” Quinn said, gazing again at the victim.

The silver letter S and its chain were draped across Judith Blaney’s forehead and open eyes instead of looped around her neck and resting on her chest and breasts, as with the previous victims. Part of the reason was that the Skinner had removed both breasts and tucked each neatly in its corresponding armpit. The usual shreds of flesh were there, barely still attached to the rest of the body. This time there were also intricate, curving cuts. Designs. Then the wild stabbing and slashing of the abdomen and pubic area. A waddedpanties gag lay near the victim, presumably removed by Nift, and her mouth was open, clogged with blood that had welled up from her throat instead of a scream.

“No shoe in the mouth this time,” Nift said, “like with the last victim.”

“Same killer, though,” Quinn said. “He’s just trying to throw shit in the game. They do that sometimes.”

“Or he might not have found a shoe he liked,” Fedderman said. “One that would make a good unicorn horn-if that’s what it was supposed to be.”

Nift nudged Judith’s hair aside, and for the first time Quinn noticed something white stuffed in her ear. “What’s that?”

“Cigarette butt,” Nift said. “He extinguished a cigarette in each ear. Looks as if it happened some time before her death.”

“Mother of God!” said one of the techs, who’d overheard.

“Hardly.” Weaver’s voice.

“Anybody make anything out of those carved designs or symbols?” Quinn asked.

“Just that the Skinner’s a head case,” Vitali rasped.

“The letter S seems to turn up several times,” Weaver said, “but that could be because the Skinner just liked to make wavy cuts with his knife.”

“Or because you’re looking for them,” Quinn said.

“They could have some sort of religious significance,” Pearl said. “The necklaces with the letter S, for Satan.” She thought for a moment. “Or for sacrificial goat. Remember the victim with the high heel taped to her head to look like a horn.”

Weaver ignored Pearl’s brainstorming other than to give a disbelieving little “Hmph.” Quinn could see that Pearl didn’t like that. He reminded himself again to keep these two separate as much as possible. Not easy to do, since Weaver was Renz’s liaison officer.

Screw them! Quinn thought. If they couldn’t get over their petty disagreements and do their jobs, they could take a walk.

Of course, he had to live with Pearl.

Wanted to, anyway.

Pearl might have been right about Weaver imagining her own letters on what were random carvings. There seemed nothing significant in the almost elegant cuts other than that the killer was having his grotesque version of fun.

“Did the same knife do the carving that did the rest of the work?” Quinn asked Nift.

The little ME with the Napoleon haircut squatted with his head bowed for a few seconds, pondering. “Yes. I think we can assume the same knife did all the cutting, including the removal of the breasts. And the nipples. Which are, incidentally, beneath the breasts.”

Nift stood up and puffed out his chest. Quinn thought he might have actually slipped his fingers inside his shirt a la the famous Napoleon portrait, but for the bloody gloves. “Odd thing about this one. The hate is there. The passion. But there’s also a kind of wild exuberance in the random, swerving cutting on the body. More as if the killer was entertaining himself instead of grimly exercising vengeance. And those aren’t deep cuts. She was alive and watching and feeling when those were happening. How the Skinner must have enjoyed it!”

Quinn turned away and exchanged glances with Pearl. Nift sounded exuberant himself, and it was sickening.

“When are they gonna-” Pearl began, but Quinn raised a hand to silence her, then led her away.

“I was just wondering when that little prick will finally be fired,” Pearl whispered to Quinn.

“He’s a city employee,” Quinn said, “and he knows the secrets of the dead.” He gave her shoulder a slight squeeze to make sure he had her attention. “He’s our colleague.”

Pearl said something about lying down with dogs and wandered away. Quinn could tell she was seething.

“Girlfriend’s got the jumps,” a voice said beside Quinn. Nancy Weaver, who’d noticed something wrong between Pearl and him and sidled over.

“Let’s all just do our jobs, Nancy,” Quinn said. And moved closer to the corpse.

The Skinner watched the man who’d been in Judith Blaney’s apartment approach him where he sat sipping a chocolate latte at an outside table. Traffic streamed past only a few yards away. The Skinner was unbothered by the low haze of exhaust fumes. There was a tilted green umbrella above the table that kept the sun out of his eyes but allowed for a warm slice of light across his bare forearms.

The man came and stood by the table but didn’t move to sit down. The Skinner didn’t invite him to sit.

The man reached into a pocket and laid a used and canceled theater ticket on the table next to the latte mug.

“Your alibi,” he said. “And there’s no way to prove you weren’t there last night at the time of…” He glanced around. No one was seated near enough to overhear. He smiled. “We don’t need to say it out loud.”

“It was really a crap play,” the Skinner said. He returned the smile but in a way that was creepily joyful. “But the encore performance was terrific.”

“I’m glad you had a good time.” The man turned to walk away, and then hesitated. “You like baseball?”

“The way I like Mom and apple pie. ’Specially Mom. Why?”

“You didn’t enjoy the play. Maybe next time we can make it a ball game.”

The Skinner didn’t like hearing that. Not at all. A “next time” with this potential blackmailer’s involvement wasn’t what he had in mind. He worked alone. A secret between two people wasn’t a secret. People like this, bullies and parasites-he didn’t like them at all. They hadn’t the right to live.

On the other hand, they were usually smart, and cautious with their information. Someone else knew, or there was a letter with a lawyer or in a safe deposit box. Insurance. The unpleasant man knew he didn’t even have to tell the Skinner about such insurance. They both knew he was safe.

The man walked along the street parallel to the curb as he was trying to hail a cab. It brought him close again to the Skinner’s table.

A cab slowed and swerved toward him and he pointed a finger at the Skinner, his thumb raised like the hammer of a revolver. Grinning, he brought the thumb down and said, “Yankees fan! Am I right?”

The Skinner said nothing as the man climbed into the cab and it drove away.

Cocky little bastard.

But he’ll learn.

Quinn was on the sofa in the brownstone, leafing through the autopsy photos of Judith Blaney, studying each one carefully. The workmen were busy on the top floor. Sounds of sawing and hammering could be heard, but barely, muted by the thick floor and walls.

Pearl was standing behind the sofa, leaning over Quinn’s shoulder. Her hand rested lightly on his back, weightless as a small bird that had lit there. The hand was either for balance or to display affection. Quinn couldn’t be sure which.

They were going to make a lunch of the lasagna they hadn’t eaten last night at Ricco’s Restaurant. That the gruesome morgue photographs of Judith Blaney didn’t affect their appetites suggested to Quinn that maybe they’d been in this business too long.