Maps of Hell (5 page)

A
fter twenty years in Washington D.C.’s Metropolitan Police, twelve on the homicide team, Detective Gerard Pinker had gotten used to corpses. That didn’t mean he found attending autopsies easy. His partner Clement Simmons never complained. In fact, Pinker reckoned Clem even breathed through his nostrils during the procedures—too dedicated for his own good.

“I suppose you’ll be looking forward to this,” Pinker said in the elevator on the way down to the morgue. He straightened his tie and shot his cuffs. “What with being into voodoo and all that shit.”

The tall, heavily built black man beside him shook his head slowly. “I’m not into voodoo.” He ran an eye over his partner’s diminutive figure. “At least not in the way you’re into rich men’s suits, Versace.”

Pinker grinned and slotted a piece of gum between his thin lips. “Right, Clem. So I was just imagining the goat’s head and the little dolls you got in your den.”

“Not the doll with your name on it,” Simmons said as the doors opened. “Shit, man, you know my grandmother was from Haiti. I’m interested in my family’s culture, that’s all.”

Pinker stepped into the morgue and was immediately swamped by the smell of chemicals cut with flesh and blood. “Well, I’m glad my family hasn’t got that kind of culture.”

The big man followed him down the corridor. “Your family hasn’t got any culture, man. You’re nothing but West Virginia white trash.”

Pinker met the grin with a raised middle finger. They went through the swing doors and found the medical examiner looking at a clipboard. She was above medium height and he liked the way she was built—slim, but stacked in the right places.

“Gentlemen,” she said, raising her eyes briefly.

The detectives’ demeanor was suddenly much more formal.

“Dr. Gilbert,” Simmons said, shooting Pinker a warning glance. His partner had come on like too much of a pussy hound the last time they’d encountered the striking red-haired woman. Not that she couldn’t look after herself, as she’d proved by dropping a scalpel less than an inch from Versace’s new oxblood wing tips.

“Morning, Doctor,” Pinker said. “I’m betting you never had one done through the ears before.”

The medical examiner finished what she was doing and looked at him, her blue eyes icier than a mountain lake. “You lose, Detective. I had a drug dealer three months ago, shot with a .45 bullet through the external acoustic meatus, destroying the tympanic membrane, as well as the malleus, incus and stapes.” She smiled briefly. “The brain was pretty messed up, too.” She inclined her head toward the autopsy room. “Shall we?” She stepped away, her head held high.

“What, dance?” Pinker said under his breath. “Yeah, baby, yeah.”

As the detectives approached the table, a technician moved back and they got a full view of the body. The man’s naked form—overweight and heavily tattooed—was striking, as were the skewers protruding from his ears. His waist-length hair was hanging over the end of the table like a black flag. His long beard had been parted to allow access to the chest.

“No problem identifying this one, I imagine,” Dr. Gilbert said, taking in the tattoos. “There can’t be many Nazis in Washington.”

“You reckon?” Pinker said, with a laugh.

“I mean,
real
Nazis, Detective,” the doctor said, coolly.

Pinker wasn’t retreating. “We don’t have much idea how
real
he was. Far as we know, he was a thrash-metal singer. Those assholes play at being tough guys—Nazis, satanists, Charlie Manson fans, whatever. Doesn’t mean they actually believe in that crap.”

“Is that so?” The M.E. didn’t sound overly convinced. “We’ve already photographed, measured, weighed, x-rayed and fingerprinted the body. I’ve also searched for trace evidence and done the external examination.” She glanced at them. “You were late. I have four more autopsies scheduled today.”

“That’s all right, Doc,” Simmons said. He knew how tedious those procedures could be. “What did you find?”

“Without too many long words,” Pinker added. He remembered floundering in a tidal wave of technical verbiage the last time.

Marion Gilbert raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow and glanced at the report handed to her by a technician. “Male Caucasian, aged around forty to forty-five, height six feet four inches, weight 267 pounds. Hair black, dyed. Eyes brown.” She indicated the dead man’s chest and arms. “Obviously the main identifying features are the tattoos.”

Pinker took them in. “Swastika, Iron Cross,
Mein Kampf
and an arrow pointing to his crotch. Nice.”

“You should see his back,” the M.E. said, shaking her head. “It says ‘I Am the Final Solution.’” She glanced at Pinker. “That makes him a real Nazi in my book.”

The detective shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. You gotta keep an open mind in our business.”

Marion Gilbert rolled her eyes. “Moving on. His clothing has been sent for further analysis. I found hairs on his T-shirt that weren’t his. They’re black, but not so long—probably from the woman he assaulted. Or from—”

“The assholes in the band,” Pinker said. “They’re all as hairy as—”

“You’ve located them?” the doctor asked.

Simmons nodded. “They were the ones who called the MPDC.”

“They’re all crying like little kids,” Pinker added.

The doctor gave him a frozen look. “There were skin and fiber traces under his nails. Analysis is being undertaken. The victim had knee surgery in the not too distant past. There’s also an appendix scar, from prelaparoscopy days.”

“I’m presuming the time of death squares with the parameters we’ve got,” Simmons said. “The band members said he got into the van around eight-fifteen and they found him around eight-fifty.”

“The gig was due to start at nine and the first patrolmen were on the scene at nine-oh-two,” Pinker said.

“The M.E. noted the body and ambient temperatures, plus the fact that rigor mortis hadn’t begun, suggest that death occurred no earlier than eight o’clock anyway.”

“Any sign that the body had been moved?” Simmons asked.

“No abrasions or bruising to suggest that. I take it you’re investigating the band members.”

“Oh, yes,” Pinker said. “As well as the bar owner, his son and a scumbag dope dealer who lives upstairs. Also some fans who were waiting in the bar.”

“Speaking of drugs,” Dr. Gilbert said, “there were traces of cocaine on the victim’s nostrils. Though the condition of his nose made examination difficult.”

Simmons looked down at Loki’s flattened and bloodied nose. “The way I see it, the killer hit him in the face—”

“Twice,” the M.E. said, pointing at the broken and swollen skin on the left cheek. “There are two contusions on the back of the head that I would say came from impact with a hard surface.”

Simmons nodded. “And then he stuck the skewers into his ears.”

“Correct.”

“Do you think the vic was conscious when that happened?” Pinker asked.

“He might have been,” the doctor replied.

“Real nice,” Pinker said.

Simmons gave him an irritated glance. “So cause of death was…”

“Penetrating trauma to the brain.”

“In stereo,” Pinker added.

The other two stared at him.

He shrugged. “Am I wrong? And obviously the wounds weren’t self-inflicted.”

The M.E. looked at the skewers that were protruding from the victim’s ears. “It’s theoretically possible that he could have done it himself.”

“But unlikely,” Simmons said. “Given that he doesn’t have any knuckle injuries to suggest he punched himself in the face twice, and we didn’t find any blunt instrument in the van with his blood on it. How about the number of assailants? Could there have been more than one?”

“I’ll remove the skewers shortly so they can be checked for prints and traces,” the doctor said. “One person could have done it. But it would have needed a lot of nerve. I would think the back of the van would have been too confined a place for two killers, especially with the woman in there, as well. Is she all right?”

“She’s been sedated,” Pinker replied. “But before that she told us she hadn’t seen anything. The vic knocked her out before he got his.” He sighed. “So, capital murder it is, by person or persons unknown.”

“I take it there were no witnesses?” Marion Gilbert asked. “Before, during or after the murder?”

“We haven’t found any yet,” Simmons said. “We’re still looking, of course.”

“Of course you are.” The M.E. nodded at him with more warmth than she’d been extending to Pinker. She looked down at the dead man’s chest and the swastika on it. “Time for me to dissect.”

Pinker took a step back.

“Oh, aren’t you staying?” the doctor asked.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Simmons watched his partner go and shook his head. The little man was full of himself until things got ugly in the morgue.

At the door Pinker stopped and looked around. “Oh, Doctor?” he said, a smile on his lips. “I’m betting the tympanic membrane is in a bad way, to say nothing of the malleus, incus and stapes.” He raised both hands and moved his index fingers. “Like I said, in glorious stereo.”

Marion Gilbert shook her head. “He’s got a smart mouth.”

Simmons grinned. “But you can’t fault his memory.”

Later, Clem Simmons found his partner in the homicide squad room. Pinker was on the phone, a soda can in his other hand.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ve got the address. We’ll be around later in the afternoon.”

Simmons sat down at his desk with a grunt. “Anything juicy?”

“Doubt it, Clem. Some kid who was at Hinkey’s earlier in the evening. Says he didn’t see anything suspicious, but we’d better check him out.”

Simmons was looking at his notepad. “Anything from the CSIs?”

“Nothing to get hard about. They’re gonna examine some fibers they found on the blanket from the van.”

“Could be from the band members. Or the Jewish girl.”

Pinker screwed up his eyes. “You reckon one of the band could have killed him?”

“Or more than one of them.” Simmons stifled a yawn. “It’s a possibility. You talked to them, Vers. Did they give you the idea that they could put a skewer in a kebab without stabbing themselves?”

“Not really. They’re all dope heads. So who did it? Some anti-Nazi and anti-satanic-thrash-metal freak?”

“Obviously a line of inquiry we’ll have to follow. I’ll get the computer geeks to see if there were any threats on the relevant Web sites and discussion groups.”

“What about Hickey and his fat-bellied son?”

“They can stew a while longer. You never know what they might suddenly remember.

“There’s something we haven’t talked about, Vers.”

“I know.”

“Want to talk about it now?”

Pinker raised his shoulders. “Sure, Clem.”

“You aren’t too enthusiastic.”

“Not exactly my field of expertise.”

“Meaning it’s mine?” Simmons asked.

“Well, you are into—”

“This has nothing to do with voodoo, man. Where is it, then?”

Pinker handed over a folder. His partner removed a transparent evidence bag that contained a single piece of white, unruled paper. There were small holes in each corner of the page and dried blood on the edges. On it, several squares and rectangles had been drawn by hand.

“What do you reckon, Clem?”

Simmons looked up. “Black felt-tip pen, one of the most common brands, according to the CSIs. Same goes for the paper.” He ran a hand over his thick gray hair. “I reckon we might be making a mistake keeping this from the media.”

“Why?”

“Because by now we’d have had plenty of experts calling us with their ideas.”

Pinker laughed ironically. “Self-appointed experts, you mean. With their completely insane ideas. We’ve got enough to do without chasing leads that go nowhere. Besides, it was Chief Owen’s idea to keep a lid on it.”

“I know. But we didn’t say much to put him off the idea.”

“Standard Op with murders—to avoid copycats, don’t publicize the details.”

Simmons glanced at him. “You think D.C.’s packed with people who’ll start skewering ears? And anyway, we didn’t keep that part confidential.”

“True.” Gerard Pinker stood up and straightened the creases in his navy blue suit trousers.

Simmons looked at his partner. “You gonna leave those pants alone or am I gonna have to call the Vice Squad?”

“Pardon me while I scream with laughter.” Pinker frowned. “Who do you reckon’s behind this murder, Clem? Some kind of anti-Nazi group?”

“Maybe. There’s no shortage of people with justifiable rage about what that gang of assholes did sixty-plus years ago, and just as much rage against fools who idolize them nowadays.”

Pinker tightened his tie. “So you don’t think some kind of righteous anti-satanist type was involved?”

Simmons looked at him suspiciously. “You trying to bring my heritage into this again?”

Pinker smiled mischievously. “Well, maybe one of your voodoo guys stuck the pins in the vic. They do that, don’t they?”

“Voodoo doesn’t have a beef with Satan,” his partner said, shaking his head. “Besides, it’s a bona fide religion that came from Africa—or an occult science, if you prefer.”

“No, I surely don’t,” Pinker said, sitting down. “I don’t know—maybe someone had it in for the vic because of his music.”

“Now you’re talking. That thrash metal is seriously ear-breaking shit. Give me the blues anytime.”

Gerard Pinker took the file back and stared at the bloodstained sheet of paper. “Come on, Clem. Direct that great brain of yours at these squares and rectangles.”

“I told you before—they don’t mean anything to me.” Simmons let out a long sigh. “Jesus, Vers, you really have a way of needling people.”

Pinker said nothing. He knew his partner would come up with something.

Simmons said, with a sigh, “For what it’s worth, I’d say the fact that the murderer took the trouble to attach the page to his victim’s chest shows it has some pretty major significance. But search me what it is. We need an expert’s advice.”

“That’s it?” Pinker said, underwhelmed.

Simmons grinned. “Yeah, Vers. Apart from the fact that satanists and neo-Nazis are notorious for fighting among themselves. Which means we’ll have to check all the members of any group Loki was involved with, as well as their enemies.”

“Oh, great,” Pinker said, seeing the risk of their workload increasing enormously. “Clement, my man, you just made my day.”