John Lutz Bundle (58 page)

Pearl flashed her shield for the uniform guarding the open door and found the victim’s apartment crawling with crime scene unit techs.

As soon as she stepped inside, the familiar butcher shop stench made her stomach protest. She swallowed bile and continued past the techs busily gathering evidence in the modestly furnished living room, then continued through the kitchen and along a narrow hall to the bathroom.

She looked inside and found Quinn and Fedderman blocking her view. Pearl could see by the shape of the hips and the small black shoes that the Medical Examiner’s office had sent a woman this time, who was bending over the bathtub to sort through what was left of the victim.

Quinn and Feds both glanced over at Pearl and nodded. There was no room for Pearl to enter the small bathroom, so Fedderman edged over so she could see.

Another jolt to her stomach. Even though she knew what to expect now, it was a shock.

That one human being could do this to another…

The detached head resting atop pale and severed arms had damp dark hair.

“Not a blonde,” Pearl said.

The ME shot a look over her shoulder. She was about fifty, with puffy cheeks and carrot-red hair worn so short it was almost a buzz cut. Though Pearl was sure they’d never seen each other before, the glance seemed to satisfy the ME that Pearl belonged, because she simply returned to her work.

Quinn eased his way out of the crowded bathroom and led Pearl down the hall to the kitchen, where as yet there was no CSU activity.

“Same bullshit?” Pearl asked.

“So far,” Quinn said. “When it comes to method, our guy’s the model of consistency.”

The ME came into the kitchen. She was wearing a man’s pinstriped gray suit and tie and carrying a scuffed black leather medical bag. Perspiration beaded her puffy face and she looked tired and bored. Pearl thought that no matter how the woman felt, she probably always looked bored.

“Julius filled me in on the others,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound bored. It was crisp and efficient.

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Julius?”

“Dr. Nift,” she said. “This fits the pattern all the way down the line. Virtually all bodily fluids drained before dissection began. Most of the cutting done with sharp blades and a cleaver. The larger, more difficult cuts done with what appears to have been a power saw.”

She might as well have been talking about carving a turkey. But then that was what the Butcher did, dehumanized his victims by making them mere meat.

Pearl must have appeared ill. The ME gave her a look without pity. “Sorry not to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Jane Tumulty.”

Pearl nodded. “Pearl Kasner. Where’s Nift today?”

“Dr. Nift had family business.”

It was difficult for Pearl to think of Nift—Julius Nift—with a human family, but she supposed it was possible.

Tumulty turned her attention back to Quinn. “When the cutting was finished, the body parts were stacked and washed clean. Not scrubbed or rubbed in any way, though. I think the cleansing agents from the empty containers were used, along with spray from the shower, then bleach was employed. Everything liquid went down the drain with the shower water.” She looked at both Quinn and Pearl. “I’ve never dealt with such a clean cadaver, whole or in part.”

“He’s a butcher who works clean,” Quinn said.

Tumulty gave a swollen smile. “I don’t think this was done by a butcher, and certainly not by a doctor, but whoever did it had experience with dismemberment. Maybe a short-term medical student with limited time with cadavers.”

“Or on-the-job training,” Quinn said.

“Possibly. Cause of death was probably drowning. I’ll have more for you after the postmortem. Dr. Nift or I will be in contact.” She hefted her black bag with both hands. It was obviously heavy. “She’s all yours and the paramedics’. I’m finished here.”

Quinn thanked her.

As she was leaving, Tumulty shook her head. “One sick bastard, this killer. I’d rather not do another of these prelims.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Quinn said.

When the ME was gone, Pearl said, “What do we know about the victim, other than that she’s in pieces?”

“She didn’t show for work,” Quinn said, “so they called. They got no answer, so they asked the super to look in on her. When there was no reply to his knock, he noticed the smell, then let himself in and found her. The uniform at the door and his partner took the call. The super’s down in his basement apartment, trying to get used to what he saw.”

“I guess he is,” Pearl said.

“Victim worked at Courtney Publishing. The super and neighbors aren’t sure what her job was. We need to talk to the people at Courtney.”

“What was her name?” Pearl asked, picturing again the severed head with its dark wet hair and closed eyes. She wondered if Jane Tumulty had closed the dead eyes. Nift wouldn’t have bothered.

“Anna Bragg,” Quinn said.

Pearl turned the name over in her mind. Quinn was watching her, smiling slightly and sadly.

Pearl struggled to connect Anna’s name to the killer’s note. “Bragg…Braggadocio…The victim worked for a publisher. None of it fits.”

“He’s more subtle than that,” Quinn said. “But you’re on the right track with the book connection.”

It took a few seconds to dawn on her. “‘Fools rush in,’” Pearl said. “The note didn’t have anything to do with gold hair or the Gold Rush.”

“Rushin,” Quinn said.

“
Anna Karenina,
” Pearl said. “Russian. A Russian novel. It’s a stretch, but that’s gotta be it.”

“Not such a stretch,” Quinn said. “We both came up with it. My guess is she’s the most famous fictional woman in Russian literature. Probably the most famous Anna in any novel.”

Pearl was pretty sure they’d figured out who the Russian was in the killer’s note. They didn’t have to guess the identity of the fools.

“So we agree,” Quinn said. His voice softened. “It can happen.”

Pearl didn’t like the moony way he was looking at her. “What about Feds?”

“He’s not in any novel I ever heard of.”

“Stop it, Quinn.”

“Sorry. He might not agree with us. But I don’t think Feds reads Russian novels, even famous ones.”

“He’s probably the better for it,” Pearl said. She remembered reading
Anna Karenina
in high school. Maybe she should read it again. The killer probably had. “Do you think we’re in for more victims based on female characters in literature?”

“With this killer, who knows?”

Quinn wanted a glass of water but knew he couldn’t touch the faucet handles, or anything else in the kitchen, until the crime scene techs were finished.

“I’ll give the paramedics the word to remove the body,” he said. “Then you and Feds can talk to the super and neighbors again while I drive over and see what Anna’s employers have to say about her.”

Pearl watched him leave the kitchen but stayed there to wait for Fedderman.

The sad, grueling work of restructuring the last few days in the life that had ended last night was about to begin.

Nighttime. Pearl had been here before. Because of death she wanted love. Being close to the former and yearning for the latter was nothing new and she understood it. Love and sex were life and the opposite of death. Love was, anyway. Sex and orgasm…well, Pearl wasn’t so sure.

Her blood still pounded through her veins. Jeb Jones lay next to her in his madly mussed bed at the Waverton, still breathing hard. Traffic on the crowded avenue below was the only other sound.

“You’re something,” he sighed.

“I needed something.”

“Did you get it?”

She reached over and patted his bare, sweating hip. “It was a start.”

He laughed in a way she liked.

The small room was too warm and still smelled of sex. There was a ceiling fan but it didn’t work, and the windows weren’t the kind that opened. Pearl didn’t mind. Lust was supposed to be a sweaty business.

She was lying nude on her back, feeling the damp pillow beneath her neck. The slightest cool stirring of breeze from the inadequate air-conditioning played across her midsection. Jeb’s breathing was evening out, as if he might be falling asleep.

Pearl didn’t move but turned her mind loose. She knew she might have made a mistake. But wasn’t that how you won something, by risking a mistake? After what she’d seen in Anna Bragg’s apartment, what happened in this room fell under the category of life-affirming, and that was what Pearl needed—her life to be affirmed.

What would Quinn think of her tryst with Jones—she had to smile slightly—other than wanting to kill Jeb? Though Quinn would disapprove because of how Pearl knew he felt about her, she didn’t think he’d disapprove on a professional basis. Jeb was simply a guy who’d had a few dates with the luckless Marilyn Nelson, not a suspect. Not even a person of interest. If there was a difference. And though he’d dated Marilyn a few times, they’d always met someplace. According to Jeb, the only time he’d been in her apartment was when he showed up after she was murdered.

On the other hand, Pearl didn’t even know if Jeb had a solid alibi for the night of Marilyn’s death. Or for the time of Anna Bragg’s.

She figured it might behoove her to ask.

She let her head fall to the side to gaze over the near white horizon of her pillow, and the cop in her took over.

There were her clothes folded neatly on the desk chair. She knew Jeb’s were in a pile on the floor. On the desk were a Toshiba notebook computer, a portable printer, and a small spiral notebook with a blue cover. There was an opened package of printer paper on top of the nearby radiator cover. On a small table near the desk was a stack of books, all nonfiction on economics or politics. The largest one, on the bottom, was titled
America and Canada—Friends and Traders.
Pearl didn’t think it was a threat to outsell Stephen King. Topping the uneven stack of books were a pad of yellow Post-its, a cheap ballpoint pen, and a couple of stubby yellow pencils. Though the pencils were worn down, their erasers looked fresh and unused.

A freelance journalist’s room. At least as Pearl imagined one.

Pearl looked back at the ceiling and thought about Jeb. He’d proved himself a gentle but decisive lover, sometimes letting her take the dominant position, then reasserting himself. He was quite experienced, she was sure. He knew how to turn her in on herself, string her out, tease her, make her wait, and then surprise her.

Why do the erasers look unused? Does he never make a mistake?

“You had supper?” he asked, jolting her out of her thoughts.

“Forgot all about it,” Pearl said, realizing she was hungry. “Been kinda busy.”

“Wanna go out or do room service?”

Pearl didn’t like the idea of a bellhop coming into the room. “Coffee shop downstairs any good when it comes to dinner?”

“Good enough that I eat there almost every night,” Jeb said. “Not to mention cheap enough.”

He swiveled his body and sat up on his side of the bed, his bare feet on the floor. Pearl studied the lean musculature of his back. He had to be a journalist who worked out regularly.

“Let’s take a shower,” he said.

“Together?”

“Has to be that way. There’s only one cake of soap.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Pearl said, and stretched her arms and legs before getting up out of the warm, perspiration damp bed. The air was cool on her bare buttocks and legs.

Jeb sauntered into the bathroom ahead of her and turned on the shower.

Pearl wasn’t surprised that he’d gotten the temperature just right.

Half an hour later they sat in a booth in the Waverton coffee shop, showered, dressed, reasonably unrumpled, and not so obviously lovers.

Pearl had followed Jeb’s recommendation and ordered chicken pot pie. They were both having draft Budweisers in frosted glasses. Pearl enjoyed her cold beer while looking across the table at Jeb and waiting hungrily for her food. She thought life was pretty good. Rare for her.

A broad-hipped waitress with a name badge that said she was Maize arrived with their food on a large round tray and began placing plates on the table. “You must like the pot pie,” she said to Jeb.

“Or maybe it’s you,” he said with a grin.

Maize shook her head and looked at Pearl. “He ordered the same thing for supper last night.”

“You were working then, too,” Jeb said, still flirting but in no way meaningful.

Maize grinned with crooked teeth. “Yet I don’t think we have anything going together except as tipper and tipee.”

Jeb aimed his grin at Pearl. “Maize serves humor with the food.”

Maize kept a straight face. “But only if its yesterday’s special. It’s a distraction.” She placed the last dish on the table. “Getcha anything else?”

“We’ve got it all,” Jeb said, smiling at Pearl.

Knowing when to be silent, Maize returned to behind the counter.

“You had this same dish here last night?” Pearl asked.