Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
followed with a quick review of where Harry and I had been: anagrams, astrological symbols, mythical symbols, basic letter codes, nothing feeling right except the notion that the killer felt secure and in control of the situation.
“Why don’t you piece together the events leading to the murder as you see them, Detective Ryder,” the chief said.
I nodded and started my timeline, trying to sound as professional and assured as a network news anchor. “The perpetrator arrived for an eight p.m. meeting arranged, I’m sure, by phone. He overpowered Mr. Deschamps and killed him. The mechanism of killing can’t yet be determined. Using an extremely sharp implement, he beheaded Mr. Deschamps—a process Forensics informs me could take less than a minute. Before the decapitation the perpetrator spent ten or so minutes writing on the body, using—”
Squill interrupted. “Ten minutes? You’re sure?” He liked to keep speakers off balance with scattershot questions. Unless, of course, the speaker ranked above Squill, who then hung rapt and mute on every word.
I kept the irritation from my voice. “I figure it was somewhere in that range, Captain.”
“How did you arrive at that number? Forensics?”
“Not exactly, Captain. It’s sort of an independent experiment, a way to—”
Squill nodded triumphantly, as if he’d caught me in a bald-faced lie. I heard another low moan from Harry’s direction. “Detective Ryder, I know we’re blue-skying here, but we assign times to actions only after a qualified judgment from Forensics.”
“I think it’s qualified, sir,” I said. “Empirically at least.” I hadn’t had time to run it by Harry, he’d been at court.
Chief Hyrum frowned. “What are you talking about, Detective Ryder?”
“Like I said, a kind of experiment, sir.”
“Explain, please.”
I stood and dropped my pants.
Harry sounded like he was having an attack of appendicitis.
Mr. Cutter sat in his car in the morgue lot and waited for her. He hadn’t thought of himself as Mr. Cutter originally, but after using the name with Deschamps, he’d come to enjoy it, like a good joke. Deschamps had certainly seemed attached to it, saying Mr. Cutter this and Mr. Cutter that, but everything about Deschamps had been likable; he was so eager to please. He’d even fallen supine; Mr. Cutter did not have to wrestle him over so the blood would pool in his back and not discolor the important parts.
They’d built a firm relationship from that first phone call: “Mr. Deschamps, I’m Alec Cutter, and I’d like to discuss the creation of a logo and other corporate identity materials for my new company. I’m hoping you might work up both some typographic solutions and perhaps some graphic treatments…”
Mr. Cutter chuckled at the memory—it had taken fifteen minutes in the library with an advertising primer to glean enough jargon to avoid suspicion.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Cutter, I’ve had plenty of experience with logos and corporate ID. I’ll show you some samples when you arrive. You said eight? I look forward to it.”
Mr. Cutter knew his man would be alone. After Deschamps became one of the Absolutes several months back, Mr. Cutter dedicated over a hundred hours to the artist’s schedule and habits. His female always left Monday and returned late on Thursday. Though Mr. Cutter worked a day job, his schedule was flexible, allowing him to devote the necessary hours to stalking his quarry.
Nothing in the universe was more important.
Mr. Cutter arrived at the house at 7:50 p.m. and Deschamps suggested meeting in the studio. He turned his broad back and led the way, showing a strong roll of shoulder and shapely cut of bicep beneath the short-sleeve dress shirt. Perfect. And untainted, as Mr. Cutter already knew. Deschamps wasn’t the type for scarifying trends like tattoos and piercings; he was picture perfect from neck to knees.
He’d even sent Mr. Cutter the picture to prove it.
Mr. Cutter conducted his true business, then cleaned the studio like a maid possessed. Removing every mote of evidence wasn’t overly difficult with knowledge and planning. Time wasn’t an issue—Deschamps’s woman never arrived before 22:00 on Thursday. He didn’t want her late, but delays—sometimes long ones—were inevitable in her line of work, and Mr. Cutter dropped the thermostat to its lowest point.
Nelson had been even easier than the artist. Mr. Cutter instantly recognized a man driven by greed. The phone call had been almost delicious.
“You don’t know me, Mr. Nelson, but we have a friend in common.”
“Tony? Rance? Bobby?”
“Now, now, you know not all of your friends want to be, how shall I say, friends in the morning. Just night friends. Nameless night friends. Generous nameless night friends.”
Laughter from Nelson. He loved little games, you could tell.
“I’d enjoy just meeting you, Mr. Nelson, somewhere quiet, out of the way…I’m a man of simple tastes and ample wallet…There’s a little park not far from me…”
It had worked so wonderfully. Nelson, too, was perfect from chin to knee, just like his photographs had predicted.
A pickup truck pulled into the morgue lot. Mr. Cutter bent low and reached to the glovebox as if looking for something, face averted. When the truck passed by, he sat up and returned to his reflections.
Two of his projects had gone well, one had gone to hell.
It was his first attempt. Horrible. He’d been deceived by a man-child and should have beaten the bastard’s face into paste right there in the farm-field dark with the music and watermelons. After seeing the disgusting thing the little scummer had scrawled on his chest, Mr. Cutter head-bashed the bastard with a rock, then slipped away unnoticed, leaving the drugged-up fools to their glowing necklaces, water bottles, and filthy clutchings.
Thirty-seven and a half hours of research and planning turned into vapor. Fortunately, Nelson had sent his particulars a week later. He’d been so easy it almost made up for the time spent on…what was the little bastard’s name? Farrier?
Mr. Cutter glanced at his watch. Almost noon, almost time for her to step out for lunch, clockwork. He pulled the visor down and leaned back. Thinking of her, his heart began racing in his chest, pumping a delicious mix of fear and joy to every cell in his body. He needed to see her walk outside into the hard sunlight. It scrinched up her face in that crazed bitch-anger, one of her moods set to crash over her like a glass wave, hot shards slashing everywhere.
The first time he’d seen her, since she’d come back, she was outside. Outside walking inside. Angry; not sun anger but her wild hidden fury, bitch-hot fury full of lies and promises.
He’d seen it even through her pathetic lying disguise; a kiss is just a sheath over the biting.
He recognized her as Mama.
And knew the universe had granted him a second chance.
“I used what’s called a Rapidograph technical pen,” I said, pointing to my thigh, my pants around my ankles, “and wrote the words found on Deschamps. The lab’s microphotographs indicate the writing was done stroke by stroke to keep the ink from pooling due to skin porosity. I tried three times and the fastest inscription took over ten minutes.”
“I barely see the writing,” Deputy Chief Belvidere said from across the table, squinting. “Almost like he didn’t want it seen.” Chief Hyrum seemed uncomfortable around burgundy briefs. “Very, um, thorough, Detective Ryder,” he said. “I think that’s all we need.”
I