Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

Slidell went down and lay still, cuffed arms crooked heavenward as if he were a supplicant in prayer.

Then, Gunther moved fast. So fast I couldn’t react.

Shoving me to the staircase, he mashed me facedown, produced a key, and freed Slidell’s left hand. Looping the chain through the banister uprights, he clamped the free cuff onto my right wrist. I heard movement and felt pressure on my arms. In seconds, the ropes fell from my hands.

Adrenaline surged through me as comprehension dawned. I was handcuffed to Slidell. Gunther planned to kill us both.

Stall, Brennan.

Pushing to my knees, I half turned to face my aggressor.

“You already burned a kid, a cop, and one of your ex-clients, right? Why more murders?”

“Kiss my ass.” Gunther’s eyes were jumping all over the room.

“He’s right, you know.” I swallowed back nausea. “They’ll hunt you down and run you to ground. There’s nowhere you can hide.”

“The cops don’t know I exist. Your pal here cracked under pressure. Murdered Evans, then you, then committed suicide.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Despondent over the death of his partner. Over getting poor Asa Finney shot. Over killing you.”

“No one will believe that. It’s preposterous.”

“He blamed you for making him arrest the wrong man. For goading Lingo into stirring up trouble.”

Slidell groaned. I looked at him. In the murky light I could see an angry welt on his temple.

“I know what you’re thinking. But I watch television.”

My eyes snapped back to Gunther.

“That bruise will look wrong when they do the autopsy. I’ve thought of that.” Gunther shot a hand through his hair. “I’ve thought of everything. That’s where the nice bullet will blow through his head.”

He’s delusional. Keep him talking.

“You fed Rinaldi false information,” I said. “You must have done a lousy job if you had to kill him.”

“The man was a moron.”

“He was smart enough to figure out you killed Klapec.”

“Jimmy made a big mistake. He cut into my trade. I had to straighten up his thinking. Things got out of hand.” Gunther licked his lips. “I didn’t mean to waste Jimmy. It just happened.”

“And Rinaldi?”

“Skank made the mistake of tying Klapec to me.”

“So you eliminated the competition, then threw suspicion on your disloyal customer.”

I saw Gunther’s finger twitch against the trigger. “Brilliant, eh?”

“Why behead Klapec?”

Gunther snorted a laugh. “To fit him into an old crone’s cheap-ass freezer.”

A chill traveled my spine. The man felt absolutely no remorse.

Buy time.

“Why carve him up?”

“When that cauldron story broke, I said to myself, ‘Vince my man, the devil’s looking out for you. You got a frozen headless body you need to offload and ole Lucifer’s offering the perfect cover.’”

Again, it was as though a switch had been thrown. Abruptly, Gunther sounded calm, confident, almost amused.

“You put Klapec’s head in Evans’s freezer tonight to tighten the noose.”

Gunther clicked his teeth and cocked his head.

“Don’t forget the saw. That was a nice touch.”

“You made one mistake. You shot Evans with your own gun.”

“Please. Don’t be dumb. Every cop carries backup. After Slidell used his thirty-eight on Evans he came here and shot you. The bullets will match. Then, being old school, Slidell ate his own piece.”

“No one will believe a scenario as absurd as that. The homicide detectives know you are in town and that you have access to a white Durango. They’ll be on you within hours.”

Gunther’s face tensed and his eyes went hard and began to dance. “I know what you’re trying to do, lady. You think you can delay me. You think you’re smart. But it won’t work with me.”

Gunther shifted the thirty-eight to his left hand and yanked Slidell’s Glock from his waistband. The chink-chink of the slide sounded deafening in the closeness of the hall.

Ignoring the pain in my wrist, I hurled myself past the newel post and stretched out over Slidell as far as my manacled hand would allow.

I heard angry footsteps, then a hand grasped my hair and jerked my head up. Vertebrae crunched in my neck.

Still clutching my hair, Gunther knocked me sideways with an elbow to the face. My head ricocheted off the banister.

The room pressed in, drew back. I felt warmth trickle from my nose.

With one boot, Gunther levered me from Slidell and rolled me to the left.

“No!” I screamed, struggling to rise up on all fours.

Through a tangle of hair I saw Gunther bend over Slidell.

I stretched out a hand, tears streaming my cheeks.

Reaching down, Gunther pressed the Glock to Slidell’s temple.

The moment froze into a deadly snapshot.

Unable to bear the sight of Slidell’s death, I squeezed my eyes shut.

Then the world exploded.

AFTER PULLING THE TRIGGER, RYAN LAID HIS GUN ON THE MANTEL, unlocked the cuffs, checked Slidell for a pulse, and dialed 911. Units came screaming from all over Charlotte. So did two ambulances, later the ME van.

Vince Gunther was pronounced dead at 10:47 P.M.

Slidell and I were transported to Carolinas Medical Center, both protesting loudly. My concussion was minor. Slidell’s was severe and his scalp required stitches. We gave statements from our hospital beds.

Ryan remained at the Annex to answer questions. I learned details late the next morning.

Returning to the Annex, Ryan had seen the porch light shining. He edged up to the house and spotted my purse in the grass where Gunther had tossed it after removing my keys. Sensing trouble, he’d used his own key, crept into the house, come upon the scene in the hallway, and taken Gunther out with a single round to the head. Providentially, Ryan’s bullet had knocked Gunther sideways, and Gunther’s death throes had not resulted in a squeezing of the trigger.

At the ME office, Gunther’s true identity began to emerge. Prints showed he was a twenty-seven-year-old con man with several aliases. Under his real name, Vern Ziegler, he rented an apartment off Harris Boulevard and attended UNCC. Male prostitution provided but one of many illicit income streams.

Charlie Hunt came to see me early the next morning. Held my hand. Looked genuinely concerned.

Katy called. She was still tagging documents in Buncombe County, but would return to Charlotte for the weekend. She was finding the project, big surprise, boring. The upside was she was talking about graduate studies, maybe law.

Pete also called. He was relieved to learn that I’d suffer no lasting consequences, pleased to hear of Katy’s mention of law school. As we talked, Summer was out perusing china patterns.

I was discharged by 10 A.M. To his dismay, Slidell had to stay longer. Before leaving the hospital, Ryan and I stopped by his room. He’d already talked to members of the Rinaldi task force. Ryan was somber, quiet. Between us, we pieced together the story.

My wild guess had been intuitive and right on the mark. Evans was a closet gay who cruised NoDa wearing a ball cap pulled low to disguise his identity. Usually he picked up Gunther. One night he spotted Klapec and got a taste for fresh talent. Pleased with performance, he switched service providers. Gunther was furious and confronted Klapec, his sometime friend. Klapec argued free trade, things got physical, and Gunther killed him.

I remembered Gunther’s words in my hallway.

“For a guy who prided himself on covering all angles, he sure hadn’t worked out an exit strategy. He didn’t want the body found, but he had no idea what to do with it.”