The Undertaker

Prologue

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Anyone could kill. You didn’t need a degree in anatomy to know where to stick a needle.

At precisely one minute past two on a brisk January morning in Los Angeles, the killer known to himself as Randall Fisk had butterflies wheeling in his belly. It was no surprise: he was new to all this. But he was learning, fast.

Down here, beneath the vaulted carapace of the Seventh Street Bridge, it was dungeon-dark: perfect conditions for him to go about his business unobserved. Without a flashlight, he was invisible. Relying on memory alone to find his way. Behind him, the LA River formed an infected vein bleeding from the heart of the city. It might well have been a sewer. The air stank of urine. Thick as bleach. Needling the back of his nose.

A sleepy murmur came from the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Gently, he slid it to the ground and dug out his smokes.

He could do this.

He had to do this.

A therapist had once told him that the road to Hell was paved with good intentions. The trick was knowing how to separate the truly magnificent deeds from the self-serving gestures.

Sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

 One

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This was the part of the job I hated the most:

Seeing dead kids.

No matter how many times I hauled myself through the process it never got any easier.

Some things are like that.

We are told, as children, that fear comes from not knowing. On this particular occasion I knew exactly what to expect: I knew the horror that awaited me – and yet fear was gripping my stomach like a vice. The rationalist within me argued it was my old ulcer in need of lubrication, when really, if I was brutally honest, I was chilled to the core at the thought of what was to come.

Being a father does that, I guess.

 Two

^{___________________________}

It was early dawn on an uncustomary cold January morning in Los Angeles – the kind that sucks the warmth right out of the skin. I should have been in bed, oblivious to all that is terrible. Instead I was attending a murder scene.

‘The Captain reckons it’s your boy.’ The Duty Sergeant had told me over the phone. ‘Same MO. That’s why he called you Centrals in – otherwise it would’ve been ours and you could’ve stayed in bed.’

My Boy.

Funny how two simple, normally unassuming words can cut you clean to the bone, I thought – as though the killer somehow belonged to me.

            Ordinarily, I am unfazed by the process. Shootings, stabbings, all manner of murder will take their toll – normally after the event. Tonight was different. Tonight I was on tenterhooks. Wound up and as jumpy as a kid on his first date. The location, its significance and the fact I was currently working one of the weirdest and bloodiest cases in recent memory were all conspiring to jar my nerves and throw me off balance.

‘It’s bad, Detective,’ the young officer confirmed as I climbed out of my car into air as chilly as a morgue. ‘All the regular ghouls are here.’ She was moon-faced and in her early twenties – a few weeks out of the Academy and shy of street seasoning by twenty years. It showed. Her face said she’d rather be any place else other than here right now. I wondered if mine looked the same.

‘This your first homicide?’ I asked.

She nodded, grimly.

‘It’s alright to be nervous.’ I said. ‘Makes us human.’

Six or seven police units were parked alongside the train tracks, I saw, deep in the shadow of the Seventh Street Bridge. Two or three plain-clothed automobiles standing a little back. No flashing neon this time of the night. I could hear the muffled cackle of police radio in the distance. Smell oil and grease coming up off the shingle underfoot. Diesel clawed at the back of my throat.

Two other vehicles faced the chain-link fence that ran the full length of the Union Pacific rail yard: a big Crime Lab van squatting on fat wheels, and a long black mortuary car with smoked windows. Beyond lay the manmade LA River channel, gaping like an open grave.

A finger of trepidation scratched at my stomach.

The crime scene lay under the dark, ribbed underbelly of the Seventh Street Bridge. Down by the water: where the missing showed up – either drugged or dead and sometimes both.

Jamie Garcia, my fledgling partner of the last three weeks, was waiting in a gap in the fence. She handed me a patrolman’s flashlight. ‘What took you so long?’

‘Don’t ask.’ I checked to see if the flashlight worked. It did. ‘Sure you’re up for this? Child homicides are no walk in the park.’

Jamie gave me one of those sideways glances that women do when they want a man to know they have all their bases covered. ‘I’m not the one who looks like they’ve seen a ghost.’ She said, and set off down the steep concrete slope.

 Three

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The first officers on the scene had rigged up a bright yellow-and-black tape cordon. On the other side of it, a forensics team were scrupulously cataloguing potential bits of evidence in the glare of portable lamps. Nothing like you see in the movies. In real life, death is far from glamorous. No Gucci sunglasses or Jimmy Choos here. These boys and girls from the Crime Scene Unit wore surgeon’s slippers and hair nets. Like FAA inspectors recovering debris from a crashed plane.

‘You okay back there?’ I heard Jamie call as my footing sent loose grit skittering past her.

‘Sure,’ I lied. Despite my tardiness, I’d run a half-dozen stop lights on the way over and I was feeling sick to my stomach, but not wholly because of the ride.

Every nerve in my body was jangling.

It felt like someone was playing a bad Scott Joplin rendition in my stomach.  

‘You think it’s the same killer?’

‘Which one, Jamie?’

‘Le Diable.’

            ‘I doubt it. The other four crime scenes were all in places of worship. This doesn’t fit in with his sense of grandeur.’

Presently, we were chasing two murderers: a bloodthirsty maniac responsible for butchering four priests from varying religious denominations in and around LA, and one who had struck barely twenty-four hours earlier, taking the life of a science professor from the UCLA.

            Several patrolmen nodded sombre greetings as we approached. One was down by the water’s edge, quietly parting with his evening meal. My sympathy went out to him: that had been me, last time I’d visited this dreadful place.

            Captain De La Hoya of our neighbouring Hollenbeck Division acknowledged our arrival, broke off his conversation with one of his detectives and met us at the tape.

‘Gabe,’ he grabbed my hand and squeezed it, hard. ‘Been a while.’ His voice was hushed, respectful. De La Hoya is a bulldog of a man. Like the canine in comparison, he is short and stocky in a sturdy kind of way. The handshake grew into a welcoming hug. It felt good. Miguel and I had been old friends since we were young. 'You feel thinner, mi amigo,’ he said as he patted me out. ‘You stopped taking your meds?’

‘Round about the same time I started looking like shit.’ I confessed.

That won me a cursory smile. But it was soon gone. ‘Can’t be easy being back here.’ He said. ‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can get the ME to send you all the details.’

For a moment I held my friend’s gaze, as if looking anywhere else would suck me into a past I had fought hard to escape. I was aware of Jamie’s questioning expression hanging on my shoulder. Shook it off.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said with a stiff smile. ‘Had to happen sooner or later. Word has it my boy’s been playing up again.’

‘Your boy’s freaked out half my men. Some of the hardest, too. Real weird, this one, Gabe. Kind of ritualistic. He got a fascination with funerals, your boy?’

I looked at Jamie. She was looking at me. Both our faces told the same story. ‘Maybe,’ I said. It sounded like the same guy; our latest killer: the one with the suppressed anger and the guilt issues.

My old friend handed us each a pair of plastic slippers to go over our day shoes. Noisily, we slipped them on in what had become a funereal hush.

 Four

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She was lying face-up on a tartan blanket – like the kind they sell in automobile accessory stores for protecting the velour against pet hair. She was no older than nine, or maybe ten. Fiery-haired. She had on an ankle-length denim skirt with matching jacket. A pair of Barbie-pink baseball boots over stripy socks. Plastic kiddie jewellery – all intact. She might have been sleeping, had it not been for the positioning of her limbs: her legs were dead straight, feet angled up on their heels, with her hands folded tight across her chest in the customary pose of interment. It was an uncomfortable posture for the living to hold. Fake. Added post-mortem. I’d seen it before – in the professor’s place over near the Dodger Stadium. Both there and here, the killer had sprinkled red rose petals around the body. Smeared a rough cross of ash on the brow. No defensive wounds. No obvious signs of trauma. No ligature marks. Everything neat and tidy. No outward sign of an attack of any kind.

Even in death the girl was tragically pretty. But her lips were the colour of her denim.

I forced myself to breathe.

‘Who found her?’

‘Night patrol acting on an anonymous tip-off. Looks like the call came from a disposable cell somewhere near North Hollywood. No traceable number. Probably the killer himself.’

He wanted us to find her, I thought. Sooner rather than later. But why?

I heard Jamie snap on Latex gloves. ‘How long’s she been down here?’

‘The Medical Examiner reckons less than a couple of hours.’

Still warm. Brain cells not yet dead.

‘What about sexual assault?’

            I saw a shiver run through the De La Hoya’s tense expression; he was a father too. Most here were.

            ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll ask the ME later.’

Jamie went down on her haunches, placed a rubberised thumb against the girl’s blue lips. She applied a little pressure, but the child’s mouth remained defiantly closed.

'Glued?'

‘Just like the professor.'

De La Hoya was shaking his head. ‘What kind of a person glues a little girl’s mouth shut?’

‘The same who doesn’t want his victims talking back.’ Jamie said.

I had to hand it to Jamie: her composure was tight-lipped and determined – a far cry from my own. Anyone would think this was my first child homicide, instead of the other way around.

I picked up one of the rose petals. It was a damp slice of black velvet between my fingertips. I rubbed at it, crumbling it up. We’d found the same calling cards at the professor’s place on Carroll Avenue. Everything perfectly arranged. Everything too contrived.

The killer had been in total control.

 Now I could see why half of De La Hoya's men were spooked: it felt like we were intruding on a funeral in clumsy plastic slippers.

 Five

^{___________________________}

Whenever I am faced with a child homicide, my first instinct is to confirm that my own children are safe and well. But fate had other plans for me. I was almost home when a message chimed on my cell phone:

‘Meet me at Winston’s. You’re buying.’

Recently, more out of convenience than conviction, Winston’s had become my regular haunt of late – especially of late. Middle-of-the-night activities tended to suit me best right now. It was also the closest all-night bar to my home on Valencia Street – within walking distance – which had something to do with it. And possibly the fact that my insomnia was a poor bed fellow.

 I squinted at the harsh, washed-out glare of the strip lights lighting up the sidewalk and went inside. A bell tinkled against the glass door. I hadn’t planned on a drink. No harm in sating the ulcer. I said hello to Old Dougie encamped behind the counter and continued on through the aisles of magazines and medicines.

Winston’s is actually a 24-hour drugstore with a bar in back. The bar itself is comprised of a handful of Formica tables, some collapsible chairs, a few rickety stools and an overall dingy look that says time stood still for this place back in the ‘70s. It even smells like the inside jacket of a long-playing record. To me it feels homely. I made my way to the bar running across the far wall and found a stool. Winston’s only other customer tonight was a young bearded guy with dreads. I’d seen him before, many times. Dreads was the silent type. As usual, he was accessing Winston’s free wireless internet from a battered notebook that had a Smiley Face sticker plastered on the lid. He didn’t look up as I passed, but he did give me a nod of acknowledgment. He was a writer. Or that’s what he’d told me. Working on conspiracy theories. Dreads seemed to spend half his life here, but then again so did I.

‘The usual?’

I looked round to find the place’s namesake towering over me. At an inch shy of seven feet tall, Winston Young was once a promising basketball player, before an inoperable cartilage injury had forced him out of the running.

I exchanged the regular pleasantries while Winston brewed me up a cup of coffee, extra black. I ordered a thimble of neat whiskey and a bowl of pistachios. Thirty seconds later, I heard the bell chime against the door as somebody entered the store. The plastic Lakers clock behind the bar said it was precisely four in the morning.

‘Of all the bars in all of the world … isn’t it a little early for coffee?’

Eleanor Zimmerman is the white Grace Jones. She is Scandinavian-set and long-limbed without looking lanky. Her hair is steel grey and box-cut, and she has a penchant for shoulder pads. Whenever my life seems in crisis, Eleanor appears as if by magic. Talk with her for a few moments and she’ll have you thinking she’s my guardian angel.

Eleanor perched herself on the stool next to mine and gave me the once over. ‘My oh my. What ditch have you been sleeping in?’

‘If it actually meant getting some sleep,’ I said, ‘I’m not at odds. Good morning, Eleanor.’

‘Bad morning, Gabe. Remind me to buy you a razor.’ She waved at Winston who was standing at the other end of the bar, polishing glasses.

‘A little bird tells me you’ve been back to the bridge.’ She said.

‘Would that little bird happen to be called Miguel?’

She smiled. In daylight, Eleanor Zimmerman has electric-blue irises. In the bar’s subdued lighting they looked almost colourless. ‘We’re all batting for the same team, Gabe. All looking out for your best interest. Thanks for the drink.’

‘You’re welcome.’ I let out a sigh.

‘That bad, huh?’

‘Eleanor, it’s late and I’m tired.’ I’d spent the best part of the last year avoiding. Now was possibly the worst time to start dealing. ‘It’s been ten months; I don’t need mothering.’

‘Really? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You make Lieutenant Columbo look like a fashion icon.’

‘I’m cultivating a whole new look.’

‘I can see. What’s with those sneakers?’

‘They’re comfortable.’

‘With a suit?’

‘When you get to my age you don’t do style, you do practical.’

Eleanor shook her head.

I drained some coffee.

She took something from her pocket and slipped it between her lips.

‘I thought you quit.’

‘I have. But what do you care? This is one of those extremely of the moment electronic cigarettes that fool the brain into thinking it’s stopped smoking. Do you like it? Want a drag?’

I shook my head. Watched her draw a lungful of vaporised nicotine. She released it slowly from the corner of her mouth like Lauren Bacall in To Have And Have Not. I had always considered the act of a woman smoking as being mesmerising. Maybe even seductive. Don’t ask me why.

‘Is that thing legal?’

Eleanor shouted over to Winston: ‘Hey, Winston. Am I breaking any laws smoking this in here?’

‘Nope.’

She blew enough of the odourless vapour in my direction to make me stop staring. ‘See.’

‘Winston would let you smoke dope in here so long as you kept drinking his whiskey.’

Eleanor made a face. ‘Has it even occurred to you that maybe you might have come back to the job a little early? Nine months isn’t exactly long, sweet heart. You’ve been back just over a month now. You were supposed to ease yourself in slowly. Not go straight to Homicide.’

‘Your point being?’

‘My point being: outwardly, you don’t look ready. Which means inwardly you’re likely to be even more of a mess.’

Now it was my turn to make a face.

‘Is that what this is all about, Eleanor? This impromptu meeting? Is that what all our times here at Winston’s have been about?’

‘Ask me later – when I’ve had a handful of these babies.’

‘I’m serious. I thought you were my friend. I thought you were just feeling lonely. Like me.’

 ‘Ditto to all of the above. I’m also your healer.’ She touched the back of my hand.

I withdrew it.

‘My point is,’ she said, ‘ever since you went back on the job you’ve been avoiding me like the plague. This is the only way I get to see you. Here, in Winston’s, at four o’clock in the damned morning. You certainly won’t keep any appointments.’

‘I’m busy.’

‘Too busy to talk with an old friend?’

‘We’re talking, aren’t we?’

‘Uncomfortably, yes.’ She took another puff of her imaginary cigarette. ‘Besides, you owe me.’

‘Eleanor, I owe everybody. Are you wearing pyjamas underneath your coat?’

‘Gabe, it’s the middle of the night. I live round the corner. Of course I’m wearing pyjamas.’ She took a slug of whiskey and knocked it back. ‘Why? Does it intimidate you?’

I stood up and left a twenty on the counter. ‘See you later, Doc.’

 Six

^{___________________________}

The lights were on but nobody was at home. I dropped my house keys on the telephone table in the hall and speed-dialled my daughter, Grace, in Florida.

Grace is my grounding line to all things good. She happens to be blessed with her mother’s slender Southern looks and endless patience – which comes in useful with a father like hers. But she wasn’t for answering. I remembered the time difference and tried her number at the office. Listened to her line go to automatic voice mail, then hung up.

Next I telephoned my son, George, in New York. Heard an answering machine kick in. It was going to be one of those days.

‘Pick up, George.’ I breathed. ‘It’s your father. Remember me? Pick up if you’re there. I know you don’t want to speak with me right now. And that’s fine. But I need to hear your voice. Just a short hello will do. Just to know you’re okay. George?’

There was a click and the answer-message was replaced by a woman’s voice:

‘Hello? Gabe? Is that you?’

It was Katie – my daughter-in-law. She sounded rushed and rightly so; she was the proud mother of my one-and-only grandchild. I could hear baby Conner in the background. It sounded like he was giving his mom a run for her money. Breakfast and babies are time-absorbing. And I was intruding.

‘Hello, Katie. How are you?’

‘Fine. Busy. But Fine. You?’

‘I’ve been meaning to call all week. How’s the baby?’

‘In charge. Maybe even possessed. If you’re after George he isn’t home.’

            I leaned against the wall and loosened up my tie. ‘Katie, it’s been ages since George and I last spoke.’

‘I tell him to call all the time. He’s busy, you know?’

‘I know. I just wanted to hear his voice, that’s all. Make sure he’s okay. Call me crazy, but I feel like we’re rapidly becoming strangers.’

‘You and me both. He’ll come round. It’s early days yet.’

‘I guess. It doesn’t help we’re all so far apart: you in New York, Gracie in Florida, me in California. It just doesn’t feel right. Families should stick together. Is he still doing those crazy sports of his?’

‘That’s where he is, as we speak. Leaping off El Capitan or whatever it’s called.’

‘In Yosemite? He’s going to get himself killed!’

‘That’s exactly what I keep telling him. Does he listen to me? I’m just his wife. You know George. Boys will be boys. You could always try his cell.’

I sighed a little too loudly and Katie added:

‘Gabe, are you still having sleeping issues?’

‘Katie, the meds were making me forgetful.’

‘But they helped you sleep.’

‘They also made it so I couldn’t remember my own name in the morning. Besides, I’ve become expert at power-napping.’

I heard her smile. ‘Now I know where Conner gets it. Gabe, give me a second while I warm a bottle in the microwave? When I come back I want to know how things are going with Le Diable.’

‘Sure.’

Working under her professional name of Kate Hennessey, my lovely daughter-in-law is a successful television news journalist. She works out of the ABC Studios in New York City, regularly co-hosting the popular World News Tonight program alongside the silver-haired anchorman, Alexander Stokes. Since she and George had become an item and I had become front page news, it had been the norm for Katie to act as my official Media conduit.

She came back to the phone. ‘Sorry about that. Shoot.’

I brought her up to speed, then told her about our latest killer.

‘Sounds like a lot of work.’ She said. ‘Are you sure you’re not taking on too much too soon?’

‘You sound like my therapist.’

‘I’m family.’

‘I know, and thank you. But work keeps the mind from wandering.’

‘You win. Do you have a name for him yet?’

‘Still undecided. He leaves his victims like they’re waiting for a funeral – so maybe something along the lines of The Mortician. I don’t know. Time will tell.’

‘Well, when that time comes around don’t forget to give me a call. My viewers love Celebrity Cop updates.’

Inwardly, I cowered from the title – as I always did.

 Seven

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Somebody had once referred to Central Division’s Station House as The Supermarket and the name had stuck. From the outside on Sixth Street that’s exactly how it looks. An insincere wall of street art tries its hardest to brighten up the dated exterior, but without really getting into the swing. It does, however, help disguise both the entrance and all signs of the building’s more sober purpose behind. Most of the time I reckon it’s more cattle market than supermarket.

            It was Monday morning and Robbery-Homicide was enjoying its start-of-the-week progress meeting. There were about a dozen of us here: all crammed into one corner of the large open-plan office area like buddies gathered for a game. Everybody present and accounted for– all except Captain Ferguson , who was enjoying his own kind of meeting with his dental practitioner, I’d learned.

‘All yours, Gabe.’

‘Thanks, Bob.’

I was last up on the podium. I didn’t mind; limelight just makes me look green, I reckon. I’d even showered for the occasion. Scraped stubborn stubble from my jaw and donned a clean shirt straight out of a packet. It was Monday, after all. It’s funny how some things which are expected of us are the very things we try our best to avoid.

Detective Bales closed up his notes and returned to his chair. Bales had spent the last ten minutes bringing our little group up to speed on a series of murder-robberies where the killer impersonated a utilities worker. So far, the killer labelled Handyman had infiltrated three homes and took the same amount of lives, along with cash and jewellery and the right hand of each victim. Bales and his team were keeping a close watch for anything showing up in local pawn shops and on eBay.

‘The Le Diable Case.’ I said, clearing my throat.

I proceeded to rattle off facts and figures pertaining to the investigation – now entering its fourth week – all the while distracted by the events of the morning. Something was bugging me: I was undecided if the location of the child’s body was coincidence or contrivance. The former was run-of-the-mill, but the latter held a grave implication. I couldn’t get the image of the little girl out of my head. Some things are like that. I remember seeing a photograph taken in Vietnam during the war that haunts me to this day. It was a simple monochrome composition of a naked, scrawny fleck of a child screaming as he she fled advancing US soldiers. Behind her lay her dead father, his brains blown out across the pavement. I guess I was also niggled by the killer’s audacity: the fact that he had gone out of his way to arrange everything perfectly – like on a stage. It was hard to believe that he’d actually taken the time and patience to put everything in its place. Methodically macabre. A calm kind of madness, I thought. It felt unreal. Scary.

My own fifteen minutes of fame dragged its heels.

After the meeting, I pulled Jamie to one side. She looked fresh as a daisy. Smelled like it too. A couple of hours of sleep and her batteries were fully recharged. How I envy the young, for that reason alone. To be able to leap out of bed in the morning and look like the front cover of Cosmopolitan is something we should cherish at the time but never do.

Officially, Jamie Garcia isn’t a detective, but that little fact doesn’t seem to matter. Four weeks of her working in Robbery-Homicide had turned out to be long enough to give some of the other seasoned investigators pause for thought. Including me. We’d all had a taste of the calibre of new blood coming out of the Police Academy, and had all raised our own games because of it. In the short space of time I’d known Jamie Garcia, she’d made quite an impact on me. Not all positive, either. Right from the start, she’d made me feel old, obsolete and prehistoric. To some extent I envied her. Not so much her youth, but her innocence. She was young and headstrong, eager to please, hungry for promotion. All motivation and not much fear. Years pounding goose trails and exploring dead ends were yet to break her down. Right now she thought she was invincible. Right now she truly believed she could make a difference, and maybe she would. She reminded me of somebody I once knew. Somebody like me, but less jaded. Before the relentless waves of crime and injustice had worn away my own mantle of self-belief.

One day it would get her killed.

As it would me.

In the meantime, I was determined to make the most of her inquisitive brain before her two-month apprenticeship expired and she turned into a foot soldier.

‘Jamie, I’m heading over to the UCLA. See what I can dig up about the professor.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Concentrate on the little girl. We need to find out who she is. Check with Missing Persons. Start with the latest reports and work your way backwards. Show some photos around local schools. Check the Internet. This child hasn’t been missing long.’

‘What about Le Diable?’

I had every intention of following up a few leads with the Le Diable killings, but I also had a couple of personal calls to make. Anything to take my mind away from the Seventh Street Bridge and the real possibility I might sink back into the mire.

‘Leave it with me.’ I said.

I drained the last of my cold coffee before throwing on my coat.

 Eight

^{___________________________}

One of the surest ways to sidetrack the mind from unhealthy distraction is to fill it with a puzzle. Some people do crosswords. Some do Sudoku. As a Senior Homicide Detective, I do crime. In this case, the puzzle was a series of murders carried out by a brutal psychopath called Le Diable. So far, Le Diable had left us with four dismembered bodies in four separate crime scenes, and four torn-out pages from something called a grimoire – a magical book used in some cultures to conjure spells. As with every investigation, the puzzle was figuring out how they all fit together to form the big picture.

The Le Diable name had come about principally because of the disturbing nature of the crime scenes, and partly because of the Deep South hocus-pocus associated with the killings. All told, Le Diable had hacked his way through a Catholic priest, a Presbyterian pastor, an Anglican reverend and a Jewish rabbi, with a machete and no apparent motive. Each murder had occurred in a place of worship. Each victim – what remained of them – was left on a blood-soaked altar. And each scene was strewn with all sorts of weird black magic paraphernalia, including satanic symbols drawn in blood, bits of chickens and some animal body parts not immediately identifiable. Three weeks later, we were still missing the heads – of the holy men, that is. We had no DNA evidence to work with and no idea if or when Le Diable would strike again. As a deterrent, extra citywide patrols had been put in place to monitor churches and synagogues, especially after hours and especially from those denominations not already targeted. As a precaution, each ministry had been coached in basic awareness and vigilance techniques, with direct telephone lines linked to the LAPD call centre.

            According to the killer’s own timeline, we were already overdue another killing.

            I’d arranged to meet with Dr Milton Perry at his office on Hope Street in the heart of the city. Dr Perry is the closest thing to a Voodoo specialist available at short notice in downtown Los Angeles. Mostly, he works out of the Humanities Department over at the UCLA, but two days a week he runs a clinic in the city for all matters religious-based, in conjunction with the Mayor’s Office. It was my intention to go over copies of the Le Diable crime scene pictures with him. See if he could magically muster up a motive out of all the madness. I’d heard he’d singlehandedly brokered a peace deal in the wake of the recent religion-based riot, but I was unsure if that was for real or just clever propaganda put out by his press office.

            ‘Good morning, Detective Quinn.’ Perry boomed as I entered his surprisingly conservatively-decorated suite on the eighth floor. ‘A pleasure to meet you at last.’

I had expected the office to be crammed with religious artefacts, walls of dog-eared books and maybe a few certificates of authenticity. But this was clearly rented space and minimalism ruled.

Through the plate-glass window I could see the distinctive mirrored cylindrical towers of the Westin Bonaventure hotel, glinting in the midday sun.

‘Nice view.’ I said.

‘Really? I’ve never noticed.’ Perry gestured me towards a leather chair. ‘Please. Can I interest you in a freshly-brewed bush tea?’

I sat down. ‘No, thank you.’

‘It really is the finest Rooibos available this side of the Atlantic.’

            I held up a hand.

Perry shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Okay.’

At first sight, Milton Perry resembles an overweight James Earl Jones – complete with the infectious smile and thunderous voice. He was sitting in a large wing-backed chair, behind an oversized desk – which seemed to be hewn from a whole redwood tree – smiling to himself as he sipped his tea. In silhouette, he could have passed as an African village chief modelling a Hugo Boss three-piece.

‘I do hope you’re here to tell me you’ve apprehended Le Diable.’ He said, cutting straight to the chase.

I didn’t like Perry’s tone. I’d seen him several times on TV. He was a hard-line taskmaster who got the job done, no matter who got trampled in the process. I knew that tone. It wanted answers. Perry wanted answers. But despite his grand position, Perry was just another bureaucrat who wrongly believed I was answerable to him.

‘I’m here because I need your professional opinion, Doctor.’ I said. I took out a manila wallet from inside my coat.

Perry almost sniggered, but held it at bay. ‘On matters of murder and lawbreaking, my professional opinion differs little from my personal opinion.’ He eyed me over the top of his steaming glass. His gaze was penetrative. I didn’t like it.

‘If you could just –’

‘I have four dead clergymen on my watch, Detective.’ He continued without letting me finish. ‘Have you any idea what knock-on effect that has? Congregations are cowering in their beds.’

I went to speak. He held up a hand.

‘My professional opinion is that I’m surprised it has taken you this long to come have a chinwag.’ He stared at me, as though I was the one thing farthest from godliness that had ever graced his office.

I placed the manila wallet on the desk between us. ‘These are a collection of photographs taken at each one of the Le Diable crime scenes. They contain close-ups of the symbols he used, together with images of the animal parts he left behind. I’d like you to take a look through them. Give me your professional opinion – especially on the grimoire pages.’

‘Grimoire?’

‘We kept it out of the media.’

‘To prevent copycats?’

‘We believe the killings may be ritualistic in nature, or some kind of devil worship.’

I had expected Perry to unleash his snigger at that moment. He didn’t. Instead, he placed his tea on the desk and opened up the wallet. I waited as he flicked through the crime scene photos like a someone picking out décor patterns for their holiday home in the Hamptons.

 ‘I have seen similar symbolism before.’ He said after a while. ‘It is nothing extraordinary. Your typical black magic nonsense. For the most part, meaningless. As for the brutality, only someone detached from their humanity could act so ungodly.’

‘We’re undecided if the murders are sacrificial offerings or just the work of a deranged madman.’

‘The images are clumsy.’ He said with a nod. ‘Some used out of context. And some which contradict others. I’m no psychologist, Detective, but if you want my professional opinion, these murders look like the work a deranged neophyte.’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘A madman who wants you to believe they are sacrificial offerings.’

‘And the grimoire?’

‘Simply there to add fuel to the fire. Throw you off track.’ He closed the wallet and levelled his gaze on mine. ‘What did he do with their heads?’

I ignored the question. ‘Did you know the victims, Doctor?’

Perry handed back the wallet. ‘Yes. We all moved in the same circles. We were all on the same panel.’

‘Panel?’

Perry let out a big breath. ‘It’s an initiative run by the Mayor’s Office. It encourages all faiths to work together under one roof for the good of the community. I am its chair.’

‘Who else is on this panel?’

‘Besides those murdered? Five others. I’ll have my secretary write down their details for you. Anything else?’

‘What about personally?’

Perry’s gaze moved away for a second, but only a second. ‘Personally?’

‘Did you move in any personal circles?’

I saw him think about it. ‘Father Gallo was a good friend of mine. Rabbi Cohen was a research acquaintance. I didn’t know the other two all that well.’

‘Even though you were on the same panel?’

‘It is a new initiative, Detective. So far we have met only once. I am also a member of several other panels. I do not know everybody personally. Is this leading somewhere?’

‘What can you tell me about the Voodoo connection?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

I made a face.

Perry added: ‘There isn’t a Voodoo connection. You’ve been watching too many films, Detective. The Voodoo religion has closer ties with Christianity than the backwoods mumbo-jumbo you have here. Those offerings in your crime scene photographs – the chicken heads, the animal guts – they are nothing to do with Voodoo. They’re Hoodoo.’

‘Hoodoo?’

Perry pulled a book from a stack on the corner of his desk. Slid it towards me. ‘Enlighten yourself. Hoodoo is a form of folk magic brought here from Africa during the slave trade. You will find some of its symbolism matches what you are looking for. Hoodoo is based on nothing more than superstition and fear.’

I picked up the book and looked at its gaudy cover. It showed an African witch doctor holding up what looked like a large intestine dripping with blood. ‘Isn’t every religion based on superstition and fear?’ I said.

For the first time I saw something uncontrolled flash across Perry’s face. ‘It’s the same way you came in.’ He growled.

‘What is?’

‘The way out.’

 Nine

^{___________________________} 

I came away from my meeting with Milton Perry with the feeling I’d stirred up a hornet’s nest with a honey dipper. I make no bones about the fact I have a knack of rubbing people up the wrong way. I have that kind of face. It’s part of my job description. I’d spent the last thirty or so years honing it and the last ten months sharpening it to a point. People are understandably defensive around nosy police. But Perry had been on the offensive from the get-go. I’d hit a raw nerve and wanted to know why.

            But first I had other priorities to think about, besides Perry and Le Diable.

            Professor Jeffrey Samuels was murdered over the weekend, when most of the UCLA’s faculty were off-campus. Today was my first chance to speak with the Dean following Samuels’ death and also learn all that I could about the professor from those that knew him best.

            There are things we disclose to our co-workers that we would never dream of sharing with our families. My goal as an investigator is to peel away a person’s layers – get to know the real victim at the core of their many façades.

            I spent the next couple of hours interviewing Samuels’ colleagues and even some of his more talkative students. The UCLA campus turned out to be a friendly place, with forthcoming staff and not many restrictions where police investigations were concerned. It was a welcome breather from my own thoughts of grimmer places.

Character testimonies are either sugar-coated or laced with cyanide. Adoration or abhorrence. You either like somebody or you don’t. Generally speaking, people don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Those with nothing to hide will usually paint the deceased in a favourable light – whereas those with a grudge will invariably exaggerate all the bad points. What surprised me with Samuels was that not one interviewee had something negative to say about the guy. Even the fact he was a closet homosexual seemed to be taken on the chin by the select few in the know. Everybody else worshipped the ground he walked on, and were naturally devastated to hear of his terrible murder.

            I felt like I was barking up the wrong tree. No enemies here – or at least none with murder in mind.

            I decided to take a break from my questioning and visit my partner in crime, Harry Kelso, instead.

Presently, Harry was tucked up in a hospital bed at the County Medical Centre in Boyle Heights. Six weeks ago, just before my return to duty, he’d jumped in front of a speeding bullet during the shake-down of a suspect’s home. The bullet had gone on to drill a neat hole through his gut and take a nick out of his pelvis. Doctors reckoned he’d spend a month or two in rehabilitation before being allowed back to work – and then limited to desk duty only, until the Police Doctor gave him the green light.

Harry likes his food, and I guess it shows. Existing mostly on takeout and beer, he only has himself to blame for his dirigible size. His excuse is he needs the fat to keep him warm and the grease to oil his joints. One doctor has told him he’s one pound away from a heart attack. Another said his gut has become an organ in its own right and will start producing cancer cells anytime soon. Either way, he’s a walking time bomb. In fact, Harry is the only person I know who can gain weight in hospital.

‘Hey, I’m not running it off, buddy.’ He protested as I pointed it out. ‘Look at me: I’m flat on my back all day. What do you expect?’

            ‘Here.’ I put a pint of ice cream on his swivel table.

            ‘What’s this?’

            ‘Call it a get well gift.’

            His face lit up. ‘Gee, thanks, partner. My favourite flavour.’ I watched him prise open the lid. He was licking his lips like a boy about to taste his first candy bar. Harry kept me grounded. His wisecracking nature and happy-go-lucky attitude to life had saved my bacon on more than one occasion. I saw his expression buckle. ‘Well, look what we have here.’ He said. ‘Visitors normally fetch flowers. Or grapes if they don’t like you much. What do I get? Liquefied cookie dough.’

            I smiled uneasily. ‘Sorry, Harry. It’s been in my car all morning.’

            He replaced the lid and slumped into his pillows. ‘Forget it, buddy. I’ll drink it later. If it kills me, I’m in the best place to get resuscitated.’

            We both laughed.

I pulled up a chair and sat down.

‘So how’s my replacement shaping up?’ Harry asked.

            ‘Jamie? She’s got the makings of a fine detective.’

            ‘How old is she now?’

            ‘Same age as she was the last time you asked, Harry. Twenty-five.’

            ‘Jesus, buddy, you get all the perks. You should bring her.’

            ‘I will.’

            ‘So you keep saying.’

            ‘I thought they put bromide in your juice round here.’

‘They do. But try as they might they can’t keep this old dog down.’

I smiled. No matter how dire the circumstance, Harry had an inimitable way of lightening my load. I missed him. I’d started to feel like Batman without Robin.

‘How was your weekend?’

            Harry let out a long, tremulous sigh. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, then rolled back again. I knew Harry well enough to know he was feeling like a cat on a hot tin roof cooped up in here all day long. Harry had been brought up on the streets. He lived and breathed police work. Getting healthy in here was killing him.

‘My weekend was about as thrilling as daytime TV can get.’ He said. ‘Can’t I come home with you?’

‘It’s not a friendly place right now.’ I said. ‘You’re better off here.’

‘Sure I am. They assigned me a male nurse.’

‘I wonder why.’

He chuckled. ‘So, how was your weekend on the outside, buddy?’

            In not too many words, I told Harry about the latest of spate of murders.

            ‘See what fun I’m missing?’ He complained as he playfully bashed his fists against the bed. ‘You’ve got to get me out of here, buddy. Or at least bring me a laptop and let me do some research. It wouldn’t help me lose weight, but at least I could porn-surf.’

            ‘You’re that dedicated?’

            ‘No. I’m that bored.’

            I smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can do. The doctor reckons you’ll be out of here the next couple of weeks.’

            Harry slapped his paunch, then winced. ‘Good thing for me I have a built-in bulletproof vest. That’s twice its saved me. And you. Justifies every last Twinkie, don’t you think?’

‘I guess.’

‘You got a name for him yet?’

            I shook my head.

            Harry made an unconvinced face.

            Harry knew me well. Sometimes too well. We’d been partners for the last four years. Been through thick and thin together, Harry and I. Some of the toughest cases I’d worked since relocating to California almost a decade ago. Sometimes, I reckon, he knows me better than I do myself.

            ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought something up by now. I’m having none if it. The Mortician or something?’

            ‘I’m working on it. I want to get it right.’

Truth was, I ‘d been playing around with a few titles, but nothing for definite. Snobbish psychologists and FBI Profilers believe that giving a serial killer a pet name will, in some way, validate their actions and elevate them above their normal station in life. I disagree. In my book, removing their Human name kept them where they belonged, with the other monsters.

‘I’ll let you know when I know.’ I said. ‘Now tell me about your problem with this male nurse.’

             When visiting time was over, I left Harry with his ice cream shake and headed home against heavy 5PM traffic. I was feeling better now. Better for spending an hour out of my day to unwind with my best friend. Although I was fond of Jamie, I’d be glad to have Harry working cases with me again. There was something to be said for familiarity.

            The message light on my answering machine was flashing when I got home, but no message recorded. No number left on Caller ID either. Same as always. I deleted the entry and made myself something to eat, straight from the microwave.

My house phone rang.

I picked up. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Daddy.’

‘Gracie!’ I spat out a mouthful of noodles. ‘How are you? I tried calling this morning. I miss you!’

‘I miss you too, Daddy. I’m okay. Busy as heck with work. But otherwise no complaints. What about you?’

I proceeded to tell Grace as little as possible about my own work. I also avoided any mental health questions. No point adding weight to her load. We chatted for a while about easy-going things before she got called away.

‘I’ll phone at the weekend,’ she promised before she went.

‘Love you, Gracie.’ I hung up, feeling energised by my daughter’s call.

I’d barely begun to tuck back into my meal when my cell phone chimed.

‘Yes, Eleanor?’

‘Will you be at Winston’s later?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Are you stalking me?’

‘If that’s what it takes.’

I made a snorting noise. ‘I’m planning on an early night.’

‘Insomniacs cannot plan.’ She knew me so well. ‘If you change your mind, I’ll be there until midnight. Or later, if you let me know.’

‘Bye, Doc.’

I finished my meal and went for a shower. I put a Green Day CD into the player and lifted the volume up loud. My neighbours understand. I’m not a fan of modern Punk Rock; it just stops the quiet from consuming.

The evening came and went. Quietly. No surprises there. Every time I closed my eyes I kept seeing the little girl in my mind’s eye. She wanted to cry out for help but her lips had been glued shut. Why had he done that? I wondered. Why had he been so careful to arrange the scene? Why had he chosen that particular spot as his dump site?

The little girl reminded me so much of the other child I’d found beneath the Seventh Street Bridge. Both lost to the hands of madmen.

My old ulcer started complaining.

I downed a handful of antacids.

The kitchen clock said it was almost midnight. Almost Tuesday.

I hadn’t slept since Saturday – so why didn’t I feel tired?

 Ten

^{___________________________}

Marlene van den Berg considered herself a morning person. Since becoming an octogenarian, she’d found her brain definitely fired on more cylinders in the earlier part of the day. Which was most annoying when her body seemed to function better as the day drew longer. As with everything in life, she supposed, one couldn’t have it both ways. Life was all about make-do and compromise. Losing her beloved husband many long but short years ago had reinforced the lesson.

This particular morning, like every other morning for the last twenty-some years, Marlene van den Berg got washed and dressed in total darkness. She brushed the knots from her long wavy hair and pinned it up before applying light make-up by touch alone. Appearances were important, even in one’s middle eighties. Good breeding may have blessed her with good genes – keeping her hair more blonde than grey and her figure still doing its damndest to defy gravity – but a few minutes of greasing the wheels each day could work wonders. One needed routine. It focused one’s personal compass and helped one get out of bed in the morning.

As always, she took the photograph of her dearly departed Freddie from the nightstand and held it close to her heart. Then she gathered her robe about her and slipped quietly outside into the eerie first light of dawn.

There was an unusual crispness to the air this morning. It had coated the world in a glistening shawl. A shiver ran through her as she pulled back the tarp protecting her outdoor easy chair. The first tentative rays of watery sunlight were already creeping through the upper blossoms, she saw. She took out Freddie’s picture and kissed the glass, hard, then kissed it again.

The vigil had come about because of a connection. In life, Freddie’s clematis were his pride and joy. In death, they had become her only living bond to her deceased husband.

She heard footfalls come softly behind her.

‘Somebody’s up early this morning,’ she remarked without turning. At this time of the day there was only Dickie and she in the household. But even that would change.

‘Come,’ she said, waving a hand over her head. ‘Make yourself useful, Dickie, and massage my shoulders. Then we’ll discuss the reason why I’m going to have to let you go.’

 Eleven

^{___________________________} 

I was woken by the sound of knuckles rapping hard against glass. At first I was disoriented, wondering who had the audacity to climb up to my bedroom window and then actually bang a fist against the pane.

‘Sir? You okay in there? Please lower the window. Sir?’

It took a moment to grasp my bearings. This wasn’t my bedroom. Where was I? In my Volkswagen Beetle, by the looks of things. With a bib full of broken potato chips and drool dangling pendulously from one corner of my mouth. How had I got here? I vaguely remembered being out of milk. The actual drive down to the convenience store was absent.

‘Sir, do you need medical assistance?’

Danielle had served me at the checkout. Most nights, Danielle is on duty at the checkout – or at least during the unsociable hours I seem to frequent the store. Danielle is in her late twenties, but bands of wiry grey stripe her auburn hair. She is as slight as a child, with a chin that slopes backwards, blending into the shallow of her neck. Her clear blue eyes protrude slightly and her skin is as white as snow. Danielle has learning difficulties. But she smiles like an angel.

‘Sir, you’re going to have to open the window or step out of the vehicle.’

It had taken Danielle three attempts to scan a carton of milk and a bag of sour-cream-and-chives potato chips. I’d used the time to chat with her about life and its great unsolved mysteries while she’d bagged me up.

Now I could see Danielle standing in the safety of Ralph’s entranceway, a look of concern darkening her face. She threw me an uncertain wave as she caught me looking.

The person rapping on the glass and demanding attention was an Alhambra PD police officer. Motorbike cop with a gleaming white helmet and mirrored Ray-Bans. He waggled an impatient finger, ‘The window, sir. Now.’

I rolled it down. I could see my reflection in sunglasses. I looked like something not quite alive, and maybe I was.

‘Can I see some identification?’

I handed over my police ID. Brushed crumbs off my shirt. I waved to Danielle while the patrolman checked me out.

‘So, you’re the Celebrity Cop.’ It sounded like an accusation, as most often it did. ‘I saw you on Letterman.’ He leaned on the rim of my open window, close enough to give me a taste of his bad breath. ‘A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t we? You here on a case, Detective? This is my patch. Need any help?’

‘I live just up the road.’ I said. ‘Over on Valencia.’

The patrolman nodded. ‘Valencia, huh? I’m up and down there all the time. Got a place over on Hermosa myself. Didn’t figure we had any celebrities living here in Alhambra. Didn’t think you’d mix it with the ignoble.’

I frowned on two counts: one, because of his misuse of the word ignoble and two, because he even knew it existed.

 ‘For the record,’ he said as he handed back my wallet, ‘you look thinner in the flesh.’

‘Shitter,’ I corrected. ‘Have a good day, officer.’

I was about to make a break for it when my cell phone jangled in my pocket. The time read: a quarter after 8AM. The name on the tiny screen said: John Ferguson, but I also knew my caller as the Captain. Most mornings it is hard to crack a smile out of John Ferguson. Not because he is miserable, but rather because he is softly-spoken and as mild-mannered as a saint. He has one of those voices that rarely makes it above a whisper. Some people mistake this semi-comatose state for a pushover, but soon learn to their cost that underneath his placid exterior beats a fierce heart. In my fifteen years of knowing John Ferguson I have never met anyone else quite like him. This morning it sounded like someone had spiked his oatmeal with Diazepam.

‘Don’t you ever answer your house phone?’ He bemoaned as I took his call.

‘Only when I’m home, John. What’s up?’

‘How long have you got? I was up all night with Hilary. Vomit bug. Second night in a row. I’ll spare you the details. I’ve got something I think you need to take a look at. I think your boy’s just graduated to victim number three.’

I felt my throat go cold.

‘Do you know St Cloud Road at all?’

I thought about it, ‘Sure. It’s one of those swanky drives up in Bel Air. Full of people who don’t mix it with the ignobility.’

Ferguson either missed or ignored my quip. ‘It’s the big place overlooking the County Club. You can’t miss the hubbub. Get here as soon as you can, there’s a good fellow.’

 Twelve

^{___________________________} 

The big fancy estate on St Cloud Road looked like the kind of place where rock stars shared needles with the Hollywood jet-set over caviar and Dynasty reruns. It was the kind of big, sprawling mansion house they use in movies as the lairs of drug barons and corrupt politicians. Steeped in old money. A winding, tree-lined drive. Nicely-tended lawns. Marble fountains. Stately oaks. In other words, it oozed class. I could have sworn I’d seen it in Beverley Hills Cop, but I couldn’t be sure.

            I parked next to a shiny Crime Scene Unit van with the hatch up. Already I was beginning to feel a little uneasy. There were about a dozen other vehicles all parked beneath the shade of the oaks, I saw: mostly black-and-whites and plain-clothed detective cars. One that looked like it was from the Mayor’s Office. Something big had happened here. Big enough, yet again, to cancel out jurisdiction squabbles.

The Captain was waiting for me beneath the impressive pillared entranceway of the main house. With his beak-like nose and his combed-back, snow-white hair, he looked every part the bald eagle guarding its nest.

‘The Mayor gnawed off my ear last night.’ He told me as I climbed the steps towards him. ‘Seems you upset Milton Perry.’

‘Milton Perry chews wasps.’ I said.

‘I’m sure he does. Nevertheless, you don’t want to make an enemy out of him. He has sway with the Mayor, you know.’

‘He also withholds information, John.’

‘And how do you figure that one out?’

I explained about Le Diable’s victims all being on the same oversight committee, with Perry as the head.

‘How did we miss that?’

‘We were bound to come across it sooner or later. The fact is, Perry could have been more forthcoming. He wasn’t.’

Ferguson nodded. ‘Okay. We’ve established that Milton Perry does indeed chew wasps. How many more sit on this panel?’

‘That’s next on my list. I’ve got Jamie pulling things together on the Mortician Murders while I explore our new leads with Le Diable.’

‘Mortician Murders?’

‘It’s a working title.’

 Thirteen

^{___________________________} 

It was cool inside the mansion. Mausoleum marble cool. We entered a spacious atrium decked out with a black-and-white checkerboard floor. Oversized chess pieces carved out of mahogany and maybe alabaster stood to attention on either side. Big old portraits lining white-washed walls. A black wrought iron staircase swirling upwards to loftier landings. In fact, a monochrome theme throughout. All contrasts. It was also deathly silent. You could hear a pin drop. For some morbid reason, I liked it.

Ferguson pointed to the painting of a young blonde-haired woman as we crossed the cold vestibule. It reminded me of Greta Garbo in her heyday. Painted decades ago. ‘Meet the old gal,’ he whispered almost reverently. ‘Otherwise known as Marlene van den Berg. This is her place. She was to celebrate her eighty-sixth birthday next week. But your boy put a stop to that when he killed her this morning.’

We entered a wide white-walled corridor filled with black-and-white photographs. They looked like scenes of Los Angeles at the turn of the twentieth century: housing construction, road-laying, canal-digging, bridge building. Happy, hard-working men leaning on shovels, mopping sweaty brows, earning an honest crust while they built a city from scratch.

‘The van den Bergs used to hold big sway in this town.’ Ferguson explained. ‘They came from old lumber money. Originally from Québec. Supplied sleepers for the railroads up and down the Pacific Coast. Now most of their wealth is tied up in children’s charities.’

We switched through a big reading-room filled with black sofas on deep white carpeting. A shiny black Steinway grand crouched in one corner. Walls crammed with books: music, art, dance. A set of French doors led outside to bright sunshine.

I shielded my eyes as we stepped onto a bleached-white paved area. This was the back of the house. A pleasant suntrap filled with potted plants and flowering vines. It was also crawling with Crime Lab people. I nodded morning greetings to the boys and girls from Forensics. Followed Ferguson along a shingle path towards the focus of all the activity. We climbed a few steps to a slightly elevated sun terrace overlooking a big diamond-shaped swimming pool and came to a stop.

A lean young man in a long black bathrobe was gesticulating wildly at a pair of police officers down near the glistening water. He was barely in his twenties, I reckoned, with shaggy bleached hair and the inklings of a goatee. He had a deep Californian tan and good teeth – the kind of kid who’d look right at home in The Partridge Family. He looked and sounded distraught, angry, and wasn’t the least bit humble about letting everybody know how persecuted he was presently feeling.

‘Who’s the wailer?’

‘Marlene’s live-in butler.’

‘Where was he when she needed him?’

‘Good question. He claims he was hit by a Taser while he slept. He came round about an hour ago. Found himself handcuffed to the bed.’

‘Kinky. Do we believe him?’

Ferguson sighed. ‘Well, he’s got the burn marks to prove it. Wrists are pretty mashed up too.’

I studied the butler for a moment. Watched him flap his arms with frustration. Heard him holler all kinds of insults at the officers down below. No tuxedo, no silver serving tray, no stiff upper lip. Something didn’t feel right. But that something wasn’t for making itself known.

‘What’s his story?’

‘Aside from him being an annoying brat?’

‘I guess.’

 ‘His name’s Richard Schaeffer. He’s both worked and lived here the last two years. He’s a qualified personal trainer. At least that’s what his résumé says. Seems he’s been keeping the old gal limbered up.’

 I saw Ferguson’s leading expression and chose to ignore it.  ‘Not exactly your regular Jeeves. More like a surfer dude from Huntington Beach.’

Ferguson nodded. ‘To each their own. The old gal was gold-plated. She could have her pick of male courtiers. They say we get a hankering for salt as we get older.’

I licked at the dry insides of my mouth and didn’t say a word.

The body of Marlene van den Berg was laid out on the lovely sun terrace in the customary pose of interment. Even before we got close, I could see our killer’s tell-tale trademarks of rose petals and ash. The rose petals formed a familiar ragged ring around her carefully-positioned body, with the cross of ash like a target drawn on her brow.

My throat went cold.

Our boy had struck three times in as many days and escalated his standing from simple killer to serial killer in the process. I was having a hard time trying to connect the dots. What possible connection was there between a university professor, a little girl and a wealthy old lady?

‘Beats me.’ Ferguson breathed as he saw my quizzical expression.

I took a tentative step closer.

Marlene was wearing what looked like a long white wedding gown, complete with lace gloves and silk slippers. Everything looked slightly too big, I thought. Like hand-me-downs. The gown was old, possibly an heirloom. I snapped on blue latex gloves. Checked to see if her mouth was glued shut. It was. We still hadn’t figured out why the killer had chosen to seal his victims’ lips. A psychologist will tell you that it is an act of remorse. Like covering the face with a blanket. But my jury was still out. He’d glued their mouths for a reason.

‘Pity money can’t buy immortality,’ I heard the Captain say as I got back to my feet.

‘That depends how good your agent is.’ I said.

end of excerpt