Wolfman - Art Bourgeau (5 page)

"Let’s get it over with," he muttered,
and pulled the doorhandle. The door did not budge. Locked. He felt a
sense of relief, and anger. Someone did leave it parked here. Stupid
ass.

But to be sure he moved around the rear of the car to
check the passenger side. Which was when he saw the door ajar. It
wasn’t open much, maybe six or eight inches. He shone the light on
the ground. Near the door were more stains. He moved the light back
to his left and reached for his gun. Presenting as little target as
possible he reached out and shoved the door open wider with his foot.
The inside light did not go on. He hesitated, then moved.

The smell registered almost before the sight. The air
was thick with it. The metallic smell of blood. And fainter the smell
of burned gunpowder. And fainter still the rose-ash smell of charred
flesh.

His light illuminated the front seat. Behind the
steering wheel was a man of about forty with a neatly trimmed
mustache and no beard. His head was back against the headrest like he
was sleeping, but his eyes were open, staring up at the roof.

Mercanto quickly shone the light into the backseat.
Empty.

He flashed it again on the man. His hair was wet.
Clearly visible in his right temple was a small black hole, and from
it a line of blood had dripped down his cheek and neck, losing itself
in his collar. Mercanto directed the light beyond the man's head and
onto the window beside it. The window was clean. No blood or brains
on it. Which meant no exit wound, making the gun most likely a small
caliber pistol, probably a .22 since they were so common. Short and
sweet. No muss, no fuss. Then he remembered the smell . . .

He started to move the beam down the man's body. He
was wearing a raincoat and under that a blazer, navy-colored, and a
gray-and — black-striped shirt, European in cut, and a dark, narrow
tie.

It was then he saw the cause of the smell

The man's right hand was resting palm-up on the seat.
Only there was no palm. The skin and the flesh had been torn away.
Through the pool of congealing blood where the palm had been Mercanto
could see the whites of the bones leading to the fingers.

Blood was spattered on the leg of the man's gray
trousers. Mercanto let the light follow the splatters. The leg of the
trousers appeared to be ripped near the inside mid-thigh, and more
blood leading to a dark pool between his legs, staining both trouser
legs.

Mercanto did not like his back to the dark. Pulling
away from the car he played the light over the front seat and the
floor mats below. There was no sign of the weapons. Neither the gun,
nor whatever else had been used.

He felt shaky as he looked around at the darkness. In
his decade of police work he had seen many dead bodies, but the shock
of the mutilation had broken through his professional distance,
making it personal.

The rain seemed colder. His beam showed the water was
already breaking up the stains on the gravel. He still had his gun in
his hand, and he kept it there as he started back to the
blue-and-white.

The radio snapped and squeaked, its reception and
transmission made worse by the weather, as he called in, but the
warmth of the car felt good, a shelter from what he had just seen.
While he waited he tried to make some sense of this. He did not go
back to the BMW, he might disturb some piece of evidence if he did.
His first duty here was to secure the crime scene. Well, he had done
that.

Most crimes, he knew, were simple. They showed a
certain pattern, even orderliness, but this one . . . He thought of
the body. Death was almost certainly caused by the gunshot wound. He
stopped himself. Why did he think that? The mutilation of the hand
and thigh would have involved arterial bleeding that could have
caused death. He remembered the victim’s face. It was strangely
peaceful. No sign of the agony that would have shown itself if the
mutilation had taken place before death. In fact, as Mercanto thought
about it, there wasn't even a look of surprise. Damned odd.

So what was the sequence of events, as the manual
liked to call it? The wound was in the right temple. The mutilation
was on the right side. Which would indicate the killer was sitting in
the passenger seat when it happened. No surprise on the victim’s
face might mean that he knew his killer, that he even drove his
killer here. He shook his head. What about the kind of rage that
caused the killer to mutilate the body so violently. It must have
shown itself before the act. But the face of the dead man didn't lie.
It was peaceful, no surprise, no agony.

He drummed his fingers on the rim of the steering
wheel. All right, look at it from a different angle. The killer
finished up, then what did he do? If he came with the victim how did
he get away? A second car, an accomplice? Or did the killer meet him
here? A romantic encounter, maybe? One that went off the rails? Sex
crimes often involved mutilation. The anger there was so great.

Looking back at the BMW as a focus point, he began
his ki breathing exercises again, but this time the relaxation did
not come. As his mind cleared, instead of the usual sense of peace he
felt a building sense of anxiety, of urgency. He turned in the seat
to stare out the back window. Alarm bells seemed to be going off in
his head. He opened the door quietly and got out.

He did not turn on the flashlight but tried to stare
into the darkness. No sign of anyone. Of anything. But he still felt
something. The rain blowing in his face. Don’t be funny. All right,
then, think, think back.

And turning back to the car he saw it. The door —
he had left the door ajar on the blue-and-white. Not much, only a few
inches, but just like the killer had done.

Had the killer felt this urgency? Was that what he
was feeling? Not on his part but on the killer’s. So . . . ? For a
moment nothing came, his mind was a blank. He turned slowly away from
the blue-and-white and stared toward the BMW. The killer had come out
of the car on the run, leaving the door open behind him. Why? He was
afraid, but why? What scared someone mean enough, vicious enough, to
do this kind of crime? Scared him enough to make him bolt and run.
Discovery. Headlights. Car sounds, that’s what probably did it.

But where did he go? How did he get away? His car
maybe? No, he didn't think so, but for a moment he didn't know why.
Then he remembered . . .

"
The stains on the gravel, of course. The killer
was covered in blood," he said out loud.

He hurried back to where he had first seen the stains
between the garbage can and the car. They were almost gone now from
the rain. There were two more still visible but fading in the
direction of the garbage can. As he neared the can he remembered the
sound of the beer bottle that had startled him earlier. After that,
the sounds in the woods. What if it wasn’t a dog, what if it was
the killer?

At the can he shone the light all around on the
ground, half-hoping he was right, half-hoping he was wrong. Nothing
caught his eye. He moved a few steps down the hill. Still nothing. A
few more steps brought him to the woods between the parking lot and
the Wissahickon Creek, Nothing A waste of time. Maybe it was the
killer. Maybe not. All he could do was to put it in his report.

As he turned to start back up the hill he saw another
stain. He bent and touched it to be sure. It was sticky. He shone the
light on his fingertips, they were a dark red brown. He sniffed them.
There was no oil smell. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly
and softly as he reached for his gun. The woods were not Mercanto's
element. The advantage was with whomever was in there. He switched
off the light and tried to be quiet, but the cracking, rustling
sounds he made as he walked through the trees and underbrush sounded
like cannons going off. Under his breath he said, "Sucker, you
aren't any better at this than I am. I heard you all the way up the
hill."

He paused every few feet and listened. He knew the
killer had a gun. To use his flashlight would be to make himself a
sitting duck. He was nervous, but he kept his mind on his "one
point," the spiritual center of the body and the origin point of
his ki strength. It let his other senses work without mental
interference from him. Gradually he began to feel what was happening
around him. The woods were not quiet. There was the rain, the wind
and all sorts of rustling and bumping from it. Natural noises, noises
that belonged there. Behind them, much fainter now, much further
away, he heard noises that did not belong there. Those shuffling,
scuffling noises. The same he had heard when he arrived.

He turned his head in the direction he thought they
were coming from but he wasn’t sure. Without sight, direction was
tough to determine. Was the killer still on this side of the creek or
had he crossed over? No . . . the killer still had to be on this side
of the creek. The only place it was shallow enough to cross along
this stretch was on the rocks at the falls near Devil's Pond further
down. That was probably where he was hiding.

Up above he heard the sound of cars arriving and
voices calling out to him. He called in reply to keep himself from
being shot by accident and started up the hill, but before he did he
looked in the direction of Devil's Pool and said quietly,

"
It's you and me, you and me . . ."

At the top of the hill he saw squad cars and the
first unmarked car. The unmarked car would be Homicide, and he walked
toward it now to make his report.

When he saw the balding detective who was giving
orders, he stopped. He knew the man. His name was George Sloan, he
was the head of Seven Squad, the man who had suspended him.

Sloan turned and saw Mercanto almost at the same
time. In the shadows it was difficult to see the expression on his
face, but his voice left little doubt.

"They said it was you," he said. "Make
your report and get out of here."

Mercanto knew Sloan still hadn't forgiven him for
causing the department trouble, bringing an investigation down on
their heads. But this was carrying it pretty damn far. . .

"You don't have to worry, Lieutenant. "I
only found this one. The killing happened before I got there."
 
 

CHAPTER 3

DR. MARGARET PRIEST walked her patient to the door.
She was sorry to cut their session short, but Estelle's phone call
earlier had ruined her concentration and it wouldn't be fair to the
young woman to continue today. They stopped at the door. "Traci,
thank you for understanding," she said. "Next session I’ll
give you some extra time, I promise." She paused. "Even
though it seems painful, I think we’re making excellent progress."

She saw the young woman
relax some, "I'm glad you think so . . . and I hope you get
whatever it is straightened out."

* * *

Alone, Margaret began to pace. The office, normally
comfortable to her with its soft grays and blues, now seemed cramped,
confining.

Where did Estelle get off, calling her and saying
those things. Didn’t friendship mean anything to her? This was not
a goddamn sofa she was talking about . . .

Margaret noticed her cigarette half-smoked in the ash
tray. She picked it up. It was all so casual, the way Estelle had
said it. So ladylike. "Adam is having an affair," she'd
said. Friend to friend. lust thought you'd want to know. How come she
left out "a word to the wise"? The bitch.

Margaret stubbed out her cigarette and tried to make
some sense of her own feelings. She was angry . . . no, angry was too
sterile a word for what she was feeling. Pissed off was more like it.
Pissed off at Estelle. Ten years of marriage to Adam had shown he
wasn’t like that . . . mercurial, emotional, that was part of being
married to a poet. But he was not unfaithful. Trust counted. People
couldn’t be together twenty-four hours a day. She opened the
vertical blinds behind her desk and stood looking out across Walnut
and Chestnut to the Market Street skyscrapers extending the Penn
Center complex almost to 30th Street Station. Plus, if he was going
to have an affair, there was no way he would do it with a student. He
had too much pride for that. How many times had she heard him deride
other professors for just that sort of behavior, their lack of
integrity . . .

There had to be a better explanation for it. She
turned and looked at the phone on her desk. No, she wouldn't call
him.  He was having trouble with his work and she wouldn't
bother him. No reason.

She turned back to the window. Her thoughts made her
feel small, even petty. Not her way . . . but what was the way? She
folded her arms. Okay, what would she tell a patient in a situation
like this? Suffer in silence? No. To suppress feelings, not to rock
the boat? That, she pontificated to herself, would be a classic
neurotic conflict between feelings and social acceptability. Neuroses
. . . Freud said they reflected failure in the sex life. She allowed
herself a half-smile. Well, that was one area of their marriage that
had never been a problem. They’d always freely given to one
another, no fear or restraint there. So why now?

"Why, indeed?" she said aloud as she made a
decision. Reassurance. Every marriage needs it. She picked up the
phone to dial his office in the English department at Taft
University.