Richard Laymon: Flesh

It seemed pointless, but Jake didn’t give up.

He had gone to every door of every apartment building on this side of the block except the one at the corner. Unlikely, he thought, that anyone so far from the scene noticed anything. But he might as well check, anyway, before crossing the road and trying the other side.

At the first two apartments on the ground floor, nobody came to the doors. At the third, he heard music inside. He rang the bell.

A woman in her late twenties opened the door. She was as tall as Jake, with a terry cloth headband around her black hair, thick eyebrows that almost met in the middle, prominent cheekbones, full lips, a jutting jaw, and broad shoulders. Her breasts strained the fabric of a top that looked like two red bandannas knotted together. Her belly was tanned and flat, striped with a few runnels of sweat. Her hips had the breadth of her shoulders. Instead of pants, she wore something that reminded Jake of a pirate’s eye patch—a black strap that slanted down from her hips, a black satin triangle not quite large enough to cover her hairless pubic area.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Jake said. “It’s police business.” He held his wallet open.

She glanced at the badge, ignored the ID card, and licked some sweat from the corner of her mouth. “Come on in out of the cold,” she said.

He stepped into the apartment. In spite of the fan and open windows, the heat seemed worse than outside. The woman turned away, and Jake watched her walk to the stereo. A slim black strip clung to the center of her buttocks, leaving the flawless cheeks bare. They flexed as she walked.

She seemed as casual about her attire as if she were wearing a three-piece suit. Jake wished she would put on something to cover herself.

The woman turned the stereo down, and turned around. “Want some iced tea?”

“No thanks.”

“I’m Sam. Samantha Summers. Maybe you already know that.”

He shook his head. “Jake Corey,” he told her. “I’m making inquiries around the neighborhood about a situation last night.”

“So you’re not here to bust me, huh?”

“For what?”

Her heavy lips curled into a smile. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. Corrupting the staid mentality of minors?”

“You’ve been doing a lot of that?”

“Some might say so. I’m an associate professor of philosophy at the university.”

Jake thought, You’re joking. Then he thought, Why didn’t I ever have a prof like this?

“Maybe I’ll sign up,” he said.

“Do that. I’ll help open you mind to the imponderables.”

“I could do without imponderables.”

Sam sat on the carpet in front of him. She lay back, folded her hands behind her head, and began doing sit-ups. Her legs were spread. She touched an elbow to the opposite knee, lowered her back to the floor, curled upward and touched the other elbow to the other knee. “How can I help you?” she asked without pausing.

You could help by stopping that, Jake thought. “Did you see this student last night?” he asked, and held the photo of Roland above her knees while she sat up three times. He tried to keep his eyes on the back of the picture.

“Dracula,” she said.

“He thought he was, maybe. He’s dead.”

Sam stopped. She took the photo from Jake and crossed her legs. “Dead?”

“He killed at least two people that we know about. Maybe more. When I found him last night, he was dead.”

“Well, I saw him. It was sometime after one o’clock. Maybe as late as two.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s not a person I’m likely to forget. He used to get on my nerves following me around campus. His name’s something like Rupert or—”

“Roland. Where did you see him?”

“I was out running. I run five miles every night.”

“At one o’clock?”

“I like the night.”

“Where was he?”

“Just up the block. A young man was helping him into his car.”

The words hit Jake like a blow to the stomach.

“He seemed pretty out of it. I assumed he was drunk. I see a lot of that around here. Students don’t appear very adept at holding their liquor.”

“And somebody was with him? Do you know who it was?”

Her thick eyebrows lowered. “I don’t know his name. I do know that he’s a graduate student in the English department with a teaching assistantship.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

Sam shook her head. She handed the photo back to Jake.

“I have to find him right away. It’s urgent.”

“Was he in on the killings?”

“I doubt it. But Roland was…carrying a disease. I need to get to this guy before he infects someone.”

“If I had a school yearbook…”

“You don’t have one?”

“Afraid not.”

“Will you be here for a while?”

“I’ll stick around.”

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

Professor Teal didn’t come to the door, so Jake hurried around the side of the house and climbed the stairs. He broke the Crime Scene ribbon, used his lock picks, and let himself inside.

Any of the three girls, he thought, might have school yearbooks. But he remembered, from his quick inspection of the house last night, that an entire wall of the attic room was lined with bookshelves. It must be Alison’s room, he thought; she had mentioned running downstairs to warn Helen.

At the top of the attic stairs, Jake stared at the mussed bed. This is where it happened, where she woke up and struggled with Roland, where her mauled body would’ve been found if…oh, she nailed the bastard good. Hard to imagine that the same girl he found curled at the foot of his bed this morning could be savage enough to inflict such damage on someone.

Her purse was on the floor beside Jake’s feet. I should get it for her, he thought. And maybe some clothes.

There were clothes scattered on the carpet near the purse: white running shoes half covered by knee socks, a rumpled blue blouse, a bra with wispy transparent cups, white shorts with panties still inside them as if she had pulled both down at the same time.

Jake picked up the purse and stood there, staring at the clothes. Less than ten minutes ago, he’d been with Sam. Astonishing Sam in her bandannas and patch. But she hadn’t affected Jake a fraction as much as the sight of Alison’s discarded clothing on the floor.

For godsake, he told himself, this is no time to get turned on.

Reluctantly, he looked away. He went to the bed, set the purse down, and searched the shelves. In seconds, he found three yearbooks—slim volumes that stood inches taller than most of the other books. He pulled them down. The cover of each was embossed with the title, Summit, and the year. The most recent had last year’s date. Jake scowled. He wanted the current edition. Then he realized that the Summit covering this year probably hadn’t been issued yet.

The guy better have been enrolled last year, he thought.

He tossed the books onto the bed.

On his knees, he reached under the bed. He found a suitcase and pulled it out.

You shouldn’t do this, he told himself. You should get the books over to Sam.

It’ll just take a minute. If I don’t, I’ll have to make a special trip.

You just want to go through her things, whispered a small voice he didn’t like very much.

He carried the suitcase to Alison’s dresser, set it on the floor, and opened it.

In the top drawer of the dresser were nightgowns, panties and bras. He grabbed a handful of panties, trying not to think about them, and put them quickly into the suitcase. He was tempted not to get any bras for her, felt guilty about that, and took out two. In the next drawer, he found socks, pantyhose, slips. He took only socks. There were sweatshirts, T-shirts, gym shorts, and a jumpsuit in the next drawer. He took a T-shirt, a pair of red shorts, and the jumpsuit. The bottom drawer held sweaters. He didn’t bother with them.