Faye Kellerman - Sacred and Profane

Miraculously, the movie was left intact and kept on rolling.

Decker saw Lindsey’s face and was stunned into immobility. She was still alive, but barely, having been sliced in the chest, stomach, and genitals. A red-robed man in white face accented with black lines for whiskers, eyebrows, and mouth was drinking her blood. The Countess, also in a red robe, was smearing it over her face. The painted man took a.38 and shot the girl in the breastbone and forehead. She jerked at each bullet, released her bowels and died. Decker saw the Countess pour clear liquid over her from a metal canister and light a match. Lindsey began to melt, the skin crackling and charring against the sound of a deep, resonant chant.

“Jesus Christ!” someone groaned.

“Someone turn that shit off!” the female cop barked. “Jesus!”

“Holy Mother of God,” another cop whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.

The film stopped. Decker threw up.

He finished the paperwork at 5 A.M. and went home to catch up on sleep. At first there were no dreams, just blackness. But they came later-the images, smells, sounds. He tossed, ripped the sheets, soaked them in sweat. By ten he knew sleep was impossible. Resolution was the best revenge.

He showered, shaved, dressed, and davened hurriedly. Today the prayers held little meaning-words without content. And for the first time in over three months, he ate breakfast at a nonkosher restaurant. Nothing definable as traif-no ham or bacon-but he didn’t give a flying fuck if the eggs were fried in lard or the bread was baked with animal shortening. He wolfed down three over easy, four pieces of toast, double hash browns, a large orange juice, and three cups of coffee. Afterwards, stomach full, he felt much better and was surprised that his conscience didn’t bother him.

Off to the station.

At his desk, he cleaned up the last bits of paperwork, checked his watch, and headed for the viewing room.

The captain shut off the projector and flicked on the lights. Neither he nor Decker spoke. It hadn’t been any easier for Decker the second time around. If anything, it had been harder to witness Lindsey’s destruction. The scene would be fixed in his memory forever. A curse. But he had to concentrate now on what needed to be done.

The end of the film was the giveaway that Clementine had been right. Something had gone awry. The last few seconds showed a look of horror on the Countess’s face and the widening eyes of the painted man. A moment later the Countess clutched her breast and the film ended. Although Decker saw no firearm, no blast of gunfire, and no blood, he knew what had happened. She had been shot. The terror in her eyes was no act.

“Who’s the man in the film?” Morrison asked Decker.

“I don’t know. I think it’s the Countess’s accomplice. He goes by the street name Blade, but no one I’ve talked to knows a thing about him. Only this pimp Clementine.”

“Then find Clementine and squeeze him,” Morrison said. “Although I doubt if we could make a positive ID based on that film. The guy was painted like an Indian.”

“Captain?”

“What?”

“I think the guy’s dead.”

Morrison sighed heavily.

“It goes like this,” said Decker. “The Countess was whacked at the end of the movie. A last-minute thing, not part of the script. The guy looked just as surprised as she did. Both of them were probably ripped off and burnt just like the Bates girl, then dumped in the mountains.”

“So there should be another bag of bones up there.”

“I think so,” Decker said.

Morrison digested that.

“Was Pode the film maker?”

“He distributed. He kidnapped Lindsey. But I doubt if he was the brains. Probably a minnow and we’re missing the big catch. Goddam nuisance, Pode dying last night.” Decker paused. “When’s the burial for Officer Lessing?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Kids?”

“Two.”

“I’ll try to make it over,” Decker said, looking at his watch.

The room was silent.

“Who’s the man we brought in last night?” Decker asked. “He had no ID on him.”

“They’ve IDed him. Armand Arlington. As in Arlington Steel.”

“Son of a bitch!” Decker exclaimed. “Has he been booked yet?”

Morrison threw his cigarette across the room and swore. “He was charged with possession of marijuana.”

“What!”

“Sucker’s got connections with the right people,” Morrison spat out.

“We found at least half a pound of crack,” Decker said. “Not to mention all the illegal ammo.”

“I wasn’t in on the plea bargaining,” Morrison said. “But I will say this: Pacific questioned him about the films. Apparently they had nothing to connect him to the murder of Lindsey Bates.”

“That’s a load of crap!” Decker said. “Cecil Pode said the film was custom-ordered by him.”

“Did he mention Arlington by name?”

“Dammit, no.”

“So we’re nowhere, Pete. Pode’s dead, and as far as the books go, it isn’t against the law to like revolting films.”

“It’s against the law to withhold evidence crucial to a murder conviction. We need to know his contact.”

“Pacific Division was told that further investigations are now being conducted by a special pornography task force-”

“Give me a fucking break!” Decker said. “Pornography task force? A judge from the old boy’s network beating his meat to dirty pictures.”

“You’re right,” agreed the captain. “It’s a whitewash. It’s shit. But the fact still remains that Arlington ’s ass is covered by legal eagles. No one can get close to him.”

“There are ways,” Decker said.

Morrison frowned. “Don’t fuck with legal channels, Sergeant. You’ll do more harm than good.”

“Marijuana,” Decker muttered. “Was it a felony possession, at least?”

“Misdemeanor,” Morrison said.

“Shit!” Decker lit a cigarette. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone to bed this morning.”

“There wouldn’t have been anything you could have done,” Morrison said. “Let Arlington rest and concentrate on finding Clementine.”

“Did they ID the other sleaze buckets who were blown away?” asked Decker. “Paper didn’t mention their names.”

“Hard to ID hamburger, but we finally got a fix on them. The projectionist was a part-time grip named Sylvester Tork. His yellow sheet was longer than the Nile. The other guy was a roofer named Alvin Peppers. Alvin was released from San Quentin three months ago after serving time for assault and plea-bargained involuntary manslaughter.”

“Who hired them?”

“We don’t know.”

“If someone would lean on Arlington -”

“Don’t you think we fucking tried?” Morrison exploded. “Jesus, Pete, you’re not the only one who feels like shit about the whole thing. I saw the fucking film! I’m a parent! Get down off your high horse before you fall off and get your ass broken.”

Decker felt his anger grow. “Well, maybe I, as an individual citizen, can do some things that you, as a police captain, can’t.”

“You’re on your own if you do, Pete. I won’t back you up.”

“Consider me duly warned.”

Morrison gave him a hard stare. “Speaking of warning, you tailed Dustin Pode yesterday. I told you not to do it.”

“Who told you?”

“No one,” Morrison answered. “Everybody was so busy covering your ass I figured you must be out playing hot dog. I made an educated guess.”

The detective said nothing.

“We’ll let it pass this time,” said Morrison, “but don’t fuck around with my orders again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now what did you find out about Dustin Pode?”