J. Konrath: Bloody Mary

The pain-relieving properties of murder were discovered by him at a young age, when he was in his third foster home. Ironically, he’d been removed from his previous home for being neglected – the couple who had taken him in had also taken in eight other children, for the monthly check from the government. They would blow it all on drugs and let the children go without food. Well-meaning Social Services had whisked him away from the neglect, and handed him over to a psychotic alcoholic instead.

After a particularly nasty beating with a car antenna, he and his younger foster brother were locked in a closet.

He’d really been hurting. But along with the pain was a sense of helplessness, of frustration.

He took that frustration out on his foster brother, in the dark, muffled confines of the closet. The more he hurt the smaller boy, the more his own pain went away.

His new foster father went to jail for the murder.

When the headaches began, he knew just how to deal with them.

After four clicks of the mouse, his monitor fills with eligibles.

He finds a girl, one who lives just a few blocks away. Address seems to be current. He calls, using his cell.

A woman answers, her voice deep and throaty.

Perfect.

The doorman at Davi McCormick’s apartment building wore a heavy wool blazer, dark red, complete with gold epaulets and matching buttons. In this heat he looked positively miserable.

“Last time I saw Ms. McCormick was Sunday evening, right before Murry took over. Murry works the six P.M. to two A.M. shift, and she left the building about fifteen minutes before that.”

“Do you remember what she wore?”

“A black cocktail dress, heels, diamond-stud earrings. Her hair was up. As I held open the door I told her she looked beautiful and asked where she was going.”

“What did she answer?”

“She said, Big date. Real big . And then laughed. Is she okay?”

Herb gave him the news, then got the phone numbers for Murry and the morning doorman. He called them during the elevator ride. Neither had seen Davi since Sunday.

Pulitzer’s key got us inside. I could have fit three of my apartments inside of Davi’s, with room left over to park my car.

“I’ll take the bedroom,” I told Herb.

Then we heard the scream.

I tugged my.38 from the holster strapped to my left armpit, senses heightened.

Movement, to the right. Both Herb and I swung our guns over.

A cat, wearing a large disposable diaper, bounded out from under the dining room table and into the hallway, screaming like a train whistle.

Herb exhaled. “I just had about four heart attacks.”

“That must be Mr. Friskers.”

“Either that or a small, furry toddler. Did you check out the diaper?”

“Yeah. Talk about pampering your pets.”

I tucked my gun back under my blazer and fished a pair of latex gloves from my pocket.

“We’ve got an hour,” I told Herb, indicating when the CSU would arrive.

Davi’s bedroom was the bedroom of a typical young woman, albeit one with money. Her unmade bed had a stuffed animal infestation, over a dozen of them swarming on top of the pink comforter. A framed Nagel print hung on the far wall. The near wall was obscured by a collage of pictures, most of them Davi, snipped from magazines.

A large pile of clothing rested near the closet, and a makeup mirror – the kind movie stars have with bare lightbulbs surrounding the frame – hung above the dresser. Cosmetics rested on every flat surface in the room.

On the nightstand, next to the bed, a phone/answering machine combo blinked, indicating twelve messages. I scrolled through the caller ID numbers. Four of them read “blocked call,” the last from 4:33 P.M. Sunday night.

I played the messages. All were from Pulitzer but one: a long-distance call from Davi’s mother. The blocked calls didn’t seem to correspond to any messages.

Davi’s walk-in closet was so crammed full of clothing I could barely walk in. Some of it occupied hangers, but most of it rested in large heaps on the floor. Rummaging through the piles yielded nothing but an empty cat carrier.

A quick search of her drawers found more clothes, makeup, and a nickel bag of cocaine. I placed it in one of the evidence bags I always keep in my pocket. Then I pulled every drawer completely out and checked to see if anything was hidden behind them or taped under them. I’d been doing that ever since seeing a Hill Street Blues episode where a cop found a clue that way. Maybe someone somewhere saw the same episode.

No such luck today.

Under the bed I discovered two stray stuffed animals, a cat toy, and several years’ worth of dust. Nothing hidden between the mattress and box spring. Nothing behind the Nagel print.

I returned to the phone and hit Redial, copying down the last number called and disconnecting before it went through. Then I copied down all of the numbers on the caller ID.

“Jack!”

I’ve been partners with Herb for over a decade, but had never heard such raw panic in his voice before. I rushed out of the bedroom, gun drawn.

Herb stood in the living room, stock-still. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Perched on Herb’s head was Mr. Friskers, claws dug in tight.

“He leaped off the curtains. His claws are like fishhooks.”

I took a step closer. Mr. Friskers hissed and arched his back.

Herb screamed.

“Get it off before he scalps me, Jack!”

“You can’t pull him off?”

“His claws are stuck in my skull bone.”

Only years of training and consummate professionalism prevented me from breaking down in hysterical laughter.

“You want me to call Animal Control?” I tried to say it straight, but a giggle escaped.

“No. I want you to shoot him.”

“Herb…”

“Shoot the cat, Jack. Please. I’m begging you. It’s not just the pain. There’s gotta be several days’ worth of cat mess in that diaper. The smell is making my eyes water.”

I’d never owned a cat and had zero experience with the species. But I did recall an old TV commercial where the cat came running when it got fed. Couldn’t hurt to try.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t leave me, Jack.”

“I’m just going to get my camera.”

“That’s not even close to being funny.”

I located the canned cat food in a cabinet. When I opened one of the tins, Herb screamed again. Mr. Friskers appeared in the kitchen a heartbeat later.

“You were just hungry, weren’t you, kitty?”

The cat yowled at me. I set the can on the floor and watched him inhale the food.

Herb came through the doorway. His gun was out, pointing at Mr. Friskers.

“Herb, put that away.”

“It’s evil, Jack. It has to die.”

Mr. Friskers looked at Herb, hissed, then bolted out of the room. Herb holstered his weapon.

“Am I bleeding?”

“A little.” I handed him some paper towels. “Find anything?”

“Bank and credit card statements, phone bills, a few personal letters. You?”

“A few grams of cocaine.”

“Give it to the cat. Maybe it will calm him down.”

I gave Herb a fake smile. “Funny, for someone bleeding to death. Want to stop by the ER on the way back for your rabies shot?”

Herb narrowed his eyes, then looked past me, through the kitchen.

“The crime scene unit will be here soon.”

“So?”

A yowl pierced the room, and Mr. Friskers shot past us and pounced his diaper-clad ass onto the counter. He sat there, hissing. His tail, which poked out through the center of the diaper, swished back and forth like a cobra.

“I’ll try Animal Control.” I took out my cell.

The news wasn’t good.