Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

He shrugged. “Am I wrong? And obviously the wounds weren’t self-inflicted.”

The M.E. looked at the skewers that were protruding from the victim’s ears. “It’s theoretically possible that he could have done it himself.”

“But unlikely,” Simmons said. “Given that he doesn’t have any knuckle injuries to suggest he punched himself in the face twice, and we didn’t find any blunt instrument in the van with his blood on it. How about the number of assailants? Could there have been more than one?”

“I’ll remove the skewers shortly so they can be checked for prints and traces,” the doctor said. “One person could have done it. But it would have needed a lot of nerve. I would think the back of the van would have been too confined a place for two killers, especially with the woman in there, as well. Is she all right?”

“She’s been sedated,” Pinker replied. “But before that she told us she hadn’t seen anything. The vic knocked her out before he got his.” He sighed. “So, capital murder it is, by person or persons unknown.”

“I take it there were no witnesses?” Marion Gilbert asked. “Before, during or after the murder?”

“We haven’t found any yet,” Simmons said. “We’re still looking, of course.”

“Of course you are.” The M.E. nodded at him with more warmth than she’d been extending to Pinker. She looked down at the dead man’s chest and the swastika on it. “Time for me to dissect.”

Pinker took a step back.

“Oh, aren’t you staying?” the doctor asked.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Simmons watched his partner go and shook his head. The little man was full of himself until things got ugly in the morgue.

At the door Pinker stopped and looked around. “Oh, Doctor?” he said, a smile on his lips. “I’m betting the tympanic membrane is in a bad way, to say nothing of the malleus, incus and stapes.” He raised both hands and moved his index fingers. “Like I said, in glorious stereo.”

Marion Gilbert shook her head. “He’s got a smart mouth.”

Simmons grinned. “But you can’t fault his memory.”

Later, Clem Simmons found his partner in the homicide squad room. Pinker was on the phone, a soda can in his other hand.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ve got the address. We’ll be around later in the afternoon.”

Simmons sat down at his desk with a grunt. “Anything juicy?”

“Doubt it, Clem. Some kid who was at Hinkey’s earlier in the evening. Says he didn’t see anything suspicious, but we’d better check him out.”

Simmons was looking at his notepad. “Anything from the CSIs?”

“Nothing to get hard about. They’re gonna examine some fibers they found on the blanket from the van.”

“Could be from the band members. Or the Jewish girl.”

Pinker screwed up his eyes. “You reckon one of the band could have killed him?”

“Or more than one of them.” Simmons stifled a yawn. “It’s a possibility. You talked to them, Vers. Did they give you the idea that they could put a skewer in a kebab without stabbing themselves?”

“Not really. They’re all dope heads. So who did it? Some anti-Nazi and anti-satanic-thrash-metal freak?”

“Obviously a line of inquiry we’ll have to follow. I’ll get the computer geeks to see if there were any threats on the relevant Web sites and discussion groups.”

“What about Hickey and his fat-bellied son?”

“They can stew a while longer. You never know what they might suddenly remember.

“There’s something we haven’t talked about, Vers.”

“I know.”

“Want to talk about it now?”

Pinker raised his shoulders. “Sure, Clem.”

“You aren’t too enthusiastic.”

“Not exactly my field of expertise.”

“Meaning it’s mine?” Simmons asked.

“Well, you are into-”

“This has nothing to do with voodoo, man. Where is it, then?”

Pinker handed over a folder. His partner removed a transparent evidence bag that contained a single piece of white, unruled paper. There were small holes in each corner of the page and dried blood on the edges. On it, several squares and rectangles had been drawn by hand.

“What do you reckon, Clem?”

Simmons looked up. “Black felt-tip pen, one of the most common brands, according to the CSIs. Same goes for the paper.” He ran a hand over his thick gray hair. “I reckon we might be making a mistake keeping this from the media.”

“Why?”

“Because by now we’d have had plenty of experts calling us with their ideas.”

Pinker laughed ironically. “Self-appointed experts, you mean. With their completely insane ideas. We’ve got enough to do without chasing leads that go nowhere. Besides, it was Chief Owen’s idea to keep a lid on it.”

“I know. But we didn’t say much to put him off the idea.”

“Standard Op with murders-to avoid copycats, don’t publicize the details.”

Simmons glanced at him. “You think D.C.’s packed with people who’ll start skewering ears? And anyway, we didn’t keep that part confidential.”

“True.” Gerard Pinker stood up and straightened the creases in his navy blue suit trousers.

Simmons looked at his partner. “You gonna leave those pants alone or am I gonna have to call the Vice Squad?”

“Pardon me while I scream with laughter.” Pinker frowned. “Who do you reckon’s behind this murder, Clem? Some kind of anti-Nazi group?”

“Maybe. There’s no shortage of people with justifiable rage about what that gang of assholes did sixty-plus years ago, and just as much rage against fools who idolize them nowadays.”

Pinker tightened his tie. “So you don’t think some kind of righteous anti-satanist type was involved?”

Simmons looked at him suspiciously. “You trying to bring my heritage into this again?”

Pinker smiled mischievously. “Well, maybe one of your voodoo guys stuck the pins in the vic. They do that, don’t they?”

“Voodoo doesn’t have a beef with Satan,” his partner said, shaking his head. “Besides, it’s a bona fide religion that came from Africa-or an occult science, if you prefer.”

“No, I surely don’t,” Pinker said, sitting down. “I don’t know-maybe someone had it in for the vic because of his music.”

“Now you’re talking. That thrash metal is seriously ear-breaking shit. Give me the blues anytime.”

Gerard Pinker took the file back and stared at the bloodstained sheet of paper. “Come on, Clem. Direct that great brain of yours at these squares and rectangles.”

“I told you before-they don’t mean anything to me.” Simmons let out a long sigh. “Jesus, Vers, you really have a way of needling people.”

Pinker said nothing. He knew his partner would come up with something.

Simmons said, with a sigh, “For what it’s worth, I’d say the fact that the murderer took the trouble to attach the page to his victim’s chest shows it has some pretty major significance. But search me what it is. We need an expert’s advice.”

“That’s it?” Pinker said, underwhelmed.

Simmons grinned. “Yeah, Vers. Apart from the fact that satanists and neo-Nazis are notorious for fighting among themselves. Which means we’ll have to check all the members of any group Loki was involved with, as well as their enemies.”

“Oh, great,” Pinker said, seeing the risk of their workload increasing enormously. “Clement, my man, you just made my day.”

I dropped down behind a low bank in front of a line of trees. The dog’s howling was getting nearer and I had to make a decision. Assuming the hound had picked up my scent, I wouldn’t have much chance of losing it unless I crossed running water. I hadn’t seen any of that on the forested slopes so far. But if I waited, I’d have to put the dog and the men with it out of action. I checked the rifle’s ammunition clip. It was full, and there were another seventeen shots in the Glock I’d taken. Enough to do some serious damage, but did I have the stomach for it?