William Bernhardt - Strip search

In an apparent act of resignation, Coutant changed the subject. "How's Darcy?"

"Doing great. He's made enormous progress these past months. I've done a lot of reading on autism and worked with him and given him useful things to do and I think it's making a real difference. He was invaluable to me on an investigation yesterday."

"How long have you two been seeing each other now?"

I stared at him through furrowed eyebrows. "I assume that was an unintentionally suggestive phraseology. I took care of him for five weeks. While his father was recovering from a gunshot wound."

"And even thereafter dropped by to visit almost every day."

"His father was weak and barely ambulatory. And besides, we like each other. What are you getting at?"

"Nothing. Why are you so defensive?"

"I don't like what you seem to be implying. Darcy is a kid."

"He's nine years younger than you."

"He looks more."

Coutant held up his hands. "Look, I'm not trying to suggest that you initiate a physical relationship, especially given his neurological difficulties. But I am wondering if you're using him as…well, as a sort of shield."

I pursed my lips. "You know, Doc, I guess that M.D. did make you smarter than me, because I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

"Then let me be blunt. Your husband died over a year ago. Right or wrong, many people blamed you for his death. You used alcohol to defend yourself. The first time you attempted another relationship with a man, that FBI agent-well, we both know how that turned out. But now that's ancient history, too. You should be seeing someone. It would be healthy for you. And if it isn't going to be Darcy-"

"It can't be Darcy."

"Then you need to stop spending all your time with him and find someone else."

"You think it's that easy?"

"Las Vegas is a big city."

"Which makes it harder, not easier. Where am I going to find someone decent to go out with? And I warn you, if you say, 'An AA meeting,' I'll slug you."

Coutant smiled. "In my personal opinion, it's all a matter of attitude. If you're scared of trying again, then you'll hide behind your work or your friends or whatever else is available. But if you really want to find someone-you will."

"Where'd you get that pearl of wisdom? Dr. Phil?"

"What does it matter? Whether you care to admit it or not, pushing everyone away is just another example of self-destructive behavior." He leaned forward. "Susan, you're a smart, healthy adult female. You need a smart, healthy adult male."

"And get trapped in a relationship? With the mess I am right now? Sounds pretty risky to me."

"It is a risk. Of course it's a risk. So what?" Coutant checked his watch, then laid down his pen and paper. Apparently the fifty-minute hour had come to an end. "Susan, how is it you've managed to live in Vegas your entire life but you've never learned how to gamble?"

Despite his years of experience and training, despite the steady succession of suicides and homicides that had inevitably hardened his stomach, if not his heart, despite his almost obsessive concern with self-image and making a good impression on his superiors and inferiors, the moment Lt. Barry Granger stepped behind the counter at the fast-food restaurant to which he had been summoned and took a look at what lay beyond, he fell to his knees and began uncontrolled retching.

It didn't make him forget what he had seen. A deep fat fryer with blood splattered all around it. Severed flesh simmering in the oil.

"Still think we don't need to bring her in on this one?" Chief Robert O'Bannon asked, hovering over his convulsive chief homicide detective. He was using a cane to keep himself on his feet.

Granger took long slow controlled breaths. "What…happened?"

O'Bannon paused reflectively before answering. "I'm not sure there's a word for what happened here." He glanced over his shoulder and shouted at one of the crime scene techs working the site. "Hey, Crenshaw! Is there a word for dissolving someone's face in an industrial-strength deep fat fryer?"

The tech looked up, grimaced, then returned to his work.

"There's just no precedent for…death by melting. Unless you count The Wizard of Oz." Steadying himself with the cane, O'Bannon reached down and slowly pulled his detective to his feet.

"I'm-I'm sorry, sir," Granger said feebly, wiping his mouth. He had sandy hair and, normally, a sun-baked ruddy complexion. At the moment, his face was ashen white. "I don't know what came over me."

"Don't feel bad, Barry. I've been a cop for over thirty years, and I've never seen anything like this. You should've seen the poor chump teenager who came in this morning to open-and found this mess of blood and melted flesh where the french fries are supposed to be."

"Where's…the rest of the body?"

"We don't know. Apparently, melting off the guy's face wasn't good enough for this killer. He wanted to take the body home with him as a souvenir."

"That's bizarre."

"Agreed. Which is why we need to bring in Susan."

Despite the aching in his stomach, Granger managed to mount a protest. "We don't need her. Give me and my boys a few days-"

"Granger, we have a bona fide psychopath on our hands."

"Brutality alone doesn't prove craziness, Chief, not in this day and age. It's still possible there was some rational explanation."

"You're in denial, Granger. It's a psycho. We need a profile. We need Susan."

"You know I have issues about working with her."

"I thought you'd grown out of them."

Granger pressed his lips together. At the same time he was talking to the chief, he was also watching the CSIs crisscrossing the wax paper laid on the floor, the med techs from the coroner's office, the uniforms posted at all the entrances, wondering how many of them had seen him break down and spew like a newbie. He knew he wasn't popular. A lot of people thought he didn't deserve his promotion, that he had taken advantage of Susan's breakdown to seize something he hadn't earned. Didn't matter how many perps he'd caught in the last few months. Didn't matter that he hit the gym four times a week, keeping himself in prime physical condition. Once the gossip mill started, nothing could stop it, and this humiliating display wasn't going to help.

"It's not that easy, Chief. I was David's partner."

"Yeah, and she was David's wife. You think that gives you one up on her?"

Granger wiped his hand across his brow, trying to make this make sense, even though deep down he knew he wasn't really thinking rationally. He just knew what the chatter would be, back in the locker room. Granger couldn't solve a murder if he'd committed it himself. Granger can't wipe his ass without Pulaski's help.

"I think you should give your homicide squad a crack at the case before bringing in outside consultants."

O'Bannon frowned. "I'll admit, I hate to dump something like this on her. I've kept her busy since the Edgar mess, but far away from anything that might be too…traumatic. Tried to give the girl a chance to heal, for God's sake. Get off the booze, pull her life back together. She always gets so wrapped up in these psychos, trying to think like they think, trying to make some sense out of the craziness. If I pull her into something as ugly as this-"

"She'll be back in the drunk tank in twenty-four hours. You and I both know it."

O'Bannon's nostrils flared, making the purple veins on the tip of his nose darken. "She's kept herself clean for months."

"And we want it to stay that way, right? So, I say-keep her out of it."

"Unfortunately, it isn't your decision to make."

"Hey, Chief! Have you seen this?"

It was Tony Crenshaw, one of O'Bannon's best forensic experts, waving at him from the other side of the kitchen.