Orchard Press Online
Mystery Magazine
February 2002
Teeth of
the Hydra
a
short story
by Ed Lynskey
Copyright © 2002 Ed Lynskey. All rights reserved.
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Ed Lynskey's mystery short fiction has been or will be presented in online venues as Plots With Guns, Blue Murder Magazine, Rex Stout Journal, Judaz Ezine, The Murder Hole, Stirring, Moonwort Review, The Writers Hood, and 3 AM Magazine. He lives and works outside Washington, D.C. with his wife and two cats. |
That morning Captain MacSorley telephoned, murder was the last thing on Sharon Knowles’ mind. She was in the thick of having carpenters line her closets with cedar. From the gruff tone of her former boss’ voice, however, she knew it was serious. They had remained friends despite Sharon’s decision to resign from the Bay City Police Department seven years ago to hang out her P.I. shingle. Sharon, one of MacSorley’s brainiest detectives to sail through the Academy in years, had acquired a reputation for solving tough homicide cases.
“A dead body lies in my morgue . . . Cripes, hang on a second.” MacSorley turned down the radio in his office playing Dave Brubek. “Still there? Female, Caucasian, early twenties or maybe 19. No I.D. Multiple stab wounds,” he continued, before the zinger. “Throat slit ear to ear. A la Nicole Brown Simpson.”
Over the hammers pounding on the opposite side of the wall, Sharon, already experiencing resistance to his words, wanted to yell: “I’m on vacation Captain!” She instead waited for more details.
“What’s happening there? The Tet Offensive again?” MacSorley paused, his breath snatched in curt spasms. “Some numb nuts here leaked it. The Trib’s editor rang the Chief for comment. Suffice it to say he’s now spitting nails at me.”
“I bet he is,” Sharon replied. Downstairs, an electric saw whined, and, as if on cue, the hammering resumed.
“Dawes has assembled the mess in his cave,” MacSorley shouted over the din. “Can you get down there?”
Sharon needed a murder case like a second navel. After weeks of pavement stomping, she was tackling interior home projects and if that was selfish, then she could live with it. Sensing her apparent reluctance, MacSorley wasn’t above a bit of groveling.
“Shar, can you lend me hand?” he pleaded. “As a personal favor, huh?”
Rolling her eyes heavenward when a belt-sander harmonized with the electric drill, Sharon caved in. “Yeah, okay. Same consultant contract, my daily expenses included, too.”
Daring to leave the carpenters unattended, Sharon drove through an unseasonably warm Good Friday. While her older model Honda Civic beat all the traffic lights along Fitzwater Drive, she caught herself drifting away once more. This respite had granted too much slack time. She kept chewing on why, at thirty-six and unmarried, she persisted in investigating blood crimes. Her mother, a librarian, wondered the much same thing. MacSorley claimed she got an adrenaline blitz from matching grits and wits with a devious killer’s cunning. He would. Sharon never refuted him, although the killers did appear younger, wilier, and nastier each season to her. Apprehend one, and seven more sprang up.
Signaling, Sharon jerked broadside, executing a harder turn than she intended. The day squad’s wrappers were idling in queue to start their patrols. The familiar old thrill stirred. Her scalp tingled. Her knuckles clinched the gearshift knob. The smiling officers returned her sharp salute with snappy ease. Sharon hurried up the concrete steps. She followed the worn path to the M. E.’s Office in the basement where she wanded in her security badge to gain admittance.
From a racket at the autopsy tables, Sharon encountered Dawes hosing blood and entrails from the waist-high white porcelain tray sloped for drainage. A black assistant clad in faded green scrubs and gloves mopped the tiles. From an unseen radio, The Four Tops crooned about love. A Stryker saw, blades clotted, lingered by alcohol bottles for sanitizing. The stench outdid raw mutton. Even now, it repulsed her. Dawes jiggled water from his hands, plucked a brown paper towel, and took her by the elbow to steer into his cluttered office.
“Imagine yanking you in this week. MacSorley can be a pill,” Dawes said, transferring manila folders from a folding chair for Sharon to sit. For years, both had shared a feigned disdain for the gentle giant upstairs who fussed over his department.
“He’s up to his gonads in scorpions on this.” Sharon smoothed down her hair tousled by the oscillating fan. “Same old song. Go ahead, buzz him.”
A few minutes later, a buttoned-lipped MacSorley marched into the morgue, nodded once at Sharon. His scowling displeasure intensified as they trooped down a gloomy corridor.
“Things are in flux,” Dawes apologized for the cramped aisles. Thumbs hooking brass handles, he extended the storage drawer on its rollers, flicked aside the death shroud. After extracting a bone chisel nestled inside his smock, Dawes pointed to each stab wound and matter-of-factly identified its bodily damage.
“Same pig-sticker inflict all the needlework?” MacSorley pressed a monogrammed silk handkerchief over his mouth.
“Yep. A long sharp one.” Dawes’ hands grafted to his hips as his gaze attracted MacSorley’s. “A bayonet, I’d say. I patched up enough G.I.s in the Delta to tell.”
“What’s your slant on the cut throat?” Sharon averted her eyes. A queasy tightness seized her ribcage.
Dawes recovered the cadaver before replying. “It was delivered last, a coup-de-grace. The last thing the victim viewed on this earth was her tormenter’s leer. That was by premeditated design, I believe. One sick, cold-blooded bastard.”
Eruptions of bile corroded Sharon’s esophagus. Swallowing, she briskly stalked to the marked exit. MacSorley came right behind her, then danced by. Lagging inside the doorway, she queried, “Anything else?”
Dawes refastened the padlock. “The victim displays several stencils of daggers dripping blood. Not tattoos. It’s a lacquer paint.”
“Murderer’s signature?” Sharon drew a wry face.
“Care to see them?” asked Dawes.
“No. Take photos. Keep that between us. I don’t want the media off and running with a damn serial killer idea,” ordered MacSorley stepping further away.
“I’ll delay filing my report until week’s end,” Dawes agreed.
“Jot down the crime scene address,” said Sharon, anxious to depart. She burrowed her hands into the pockets of her black jeans, jumped when the elevator doors clanged shut. After thanking Dawes, Sharon followed MacSorley’s retreat upstairs to be briefed. She was officially investigating a homicide, an especially abhorrent one that wrapped around her heart.
* * *
Sharon eased herself into the garden apartment, courtesy of MacSorley’s key. Tugging on white latex gloves, she searched the premises, vigilant not to muss any anything too badly.
There wasn’t much to paw through. The slain victim had lived frugally. Sharon glanced at a wizened fica plant; a portable television; a corduroy couch brightened by souvenir pillows; and a coffee table that did double duty as a writing desk. Sniffing the glass votive cups with scented candles that been lit once or twice, she identified sandalwood.
Rummaging through the magazine rack, Sharon muttered, “That’s weird. Someone clipped the address labels from the covers.”
A ceramic crucifix had toppled to the floor and broken into pieces. The struggle had been brief. Poking under a couch cushion, Sharon uprooted a Bible and spotted the name Reverend Archibald Niles scribbled across the back of an envelope folded up inside. A telephone number was also included with a valentine sketched around both. Flipping to the other side, she noted the addressee: Sally Cheatwood. She wedged the envelope into her purse, entered the kitchen.
Bloodstains by the sink marred the beige floor tiles. Sharon did not envy the landlord. In addition to having discovered the corpse there, he also had to scrub clean the mess once the Bay City police released the apartment. Detectives only soiled their hands with typewriter ink and cordite and coffee.
Peeking behind cabinet doors, Sharon viewed a few chipped dishes and a near empty box of instant rice. There was one pot and one pan. An S.O.S. wool pad rusted by the faucet. On the surface, Sally’s life had been simple and uncomplicated. Sharon waved her flashlight under the sink cabinet -- a mousetrap required discarding. Arising, she doubted if Forensics had lifted any alien prints. For one thing, the killer had been too clever to trip up that stupidly.
Something piqued Sharon’s curiosity. Once done, where had the smug killer stashed the bayonet? The possible hiding places were few. When the refrigerator cut on, acting on a hunch, Sharon knelt, probed fingers underneath to nudge something. Stretching to grip, she extracted the bayonet and swaddled it in a dishtowel.
With a cloud gathering over her expression, Sharon locked the door behind her, vowing to contain whatever evil lurked within.
Sally Cheatwood’s landlord, Chet Taliaferro, resided on a quiet residential street several blocks over from the garden apartments he owned. Sharon remembered him vaguely from high school. Her brother and Chet had played varsity football together until a freshman cheerleader accused Chet of raping her and the head coach kicked him off the team. The team sided with Chet and lost every home game that season. She and her brother had contested the issue, but Chet was every guy’s pal so she couldn’t win.
Sharon parked behind a BMW sunning itself like an iguana. Smiling, Chet leaned with one arm raised in the doorway watching her businesslike approach. With arched eyebrows, he nodded as if to demonstrate his approval.
“Mr. Taliaferro,” Sharon began. “A few questions about your tenant, Sally Cheatwood.”
“No, please call me Chet,” he protested. “I do insist. And you are Sharon, the one I let get away.”
“No, it’s Special Investigator Knowles to you,” she corrected him. “Did your tenant miss any rent payments?”
Eager to get his eyes full, Chet took his time in responding. “Nope, she always paid me my due.” A wolfish leer almost had Chet licking his chops.
“Any hassles with her neighbors? Noise complaints?”
Chet smiled. “My only complaint is, Ms. Knowles, is that she’s dead. Nice piece like that doesn’t come along often.”
Sharon smiled back, sweet as nightshade. “I’m leading her murder investigation, Mr. Taliaferro. Your apartment will remain quarantined. Six months, possibly more. Till then, it sits empty collecting only dust.”
In a split second, Chet’s face crumbled into a menacing frown. As she pulled away, Sharon suspected Chet, so stuck on himself, was capable of murder as a means to any personal end.
The minute Sharon arrived back at her house, she dialed Captain MacSorley.
“We tagged an I.D. with the deceased.” MacSorley said. “Her name was Sally Cheatwood.”
“Good, that corroborates my findings. Any idea if she had any enemies?” Sharon cracked a second egg and grated a chunk of cheese.
“She’d been trapped in an abusive marriage. Making frantic calls to 911. Smashing into doorknobs. Ducking thrown knives.”
“A regular sweetheart,” Sharon sardonically said. Using a fork, she mixed the omelet.
“The ex is a prime suspect,” MacSorley agreed. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Scrounging up lunch. You should, too.”
“I am hungry enough to gnaw the bark off a tree,” admitted MacSorley. “Listen to this. The ex’s rap sheet includes grand arson and felonious assault. I think he’s worth leaning on.”
“You might put the screws to her sleazy landlord,” Sharon mentioned.
“Chet Taliaferro? Oh, he is one of my favorite scumbags,” said MacSorley. “Don’t worry. We’ve had him under surveillance for some time now. He doesn’t sneeze or wipe his ass without my knowing about it.”
“I’m checking a lead with Sally Cheatwood’s preacher, Archibald Niles,” said Sharon. “He’s the new pastor at the Church of Golden Prophecy.”
“So, maybe Brother Archie was more than a good shepherd to his lambs,” MacSorley said. “I’ll feed his name into the computer, see what it spits out on him.”
* * *
Reverend Archie Niles’ parsonage was a brick rambler hemmed by boxwood hedges. A Pontiac Bonneville sat parked out front. Some prankster had scrawled on the mud-grimed windows: WASH ME. On the porch, a pair of sawhorses supported a sheet of marine plywood.
Humming a hymn, Archie Niles swung the door wide just as Sharon jabbed the door chimes. He was a portly man of medium height and early middle age dressed in Bermuda shorts, a polo shirt, and Teva sandals. Reading glasses crested his oval head.
“Hi, I’m Sharon Knowles, Special Investigator for the Bay City Police.” She tipped the five-starred tin shield.
“What? Yes, all right. Please come right in,” Reverend Niles invited, his smile slim.
Sharon perched on the edge of the couch. “Reverend, how well are you acquainted with Sally Cheatwood?”
Reverend Niles said, “She serves on my church executive board. I also counseled her through an ugly divorce. Why?”
“Because she was murdered some time yesterday morning.”
Sharon gauged Niles’ astonished eyes widening like exploded wedges. He arose, fell toward the kitchen, shouted to his wife. A large-boned woman dusted with the lime she’d been spreading, Gretchen plodded inside to hear the news.
“Archie, bear in mind these are the Last Days.” Gretchen’s monotone sounded almost pitiless and mechanical. She gave Sharon the impression of a bored bouncer helping a drunk reach his taxi.
Reverend Niles wagged his sagging head. “No, no. The Book of Revelations hardly applies here.” He peered up at Sharon. “We will assist you in any fashion,” he promised before choking off in body wrenching sobs.
Sharon showed herself to the door.
* * *
Late that night, the carpenters finally departed. When Sharon crawled into bed, she curled into a cocoon of sleep, imagining a clean, aromatic cedar scent permeated the percale sheets. Her tomcat Hercules slept on the spare pillow, the protective bars of moonlight through the venetian blinds slanting across them both.
The next morning, it was raining. Upon sight of the bayonet, Dawes ranted at how MacSorley’s Forensics team could have overlooked it.
“You fished it out of the most likely spot to boot,” Dawes said.
“I was playing a hunch. That’s all.” Sharon shook out her umbrella.
“MacSorley is a bear,” Dawes warned. “He was on an all-night stakeout at the ex’s trailer.”
Sighing, Sharon waved back before riding the elevator to the third floor.
Slouched behind his metal desk, Captain MacSorley looked haggard and jaded. Frustration knitted his habitual scowl. He arched a thumb at Sharon to plant herself in the chair by his telephone.
“Shar, I want to retire and take up basket-weaving and pinochle,” he growled.
Crossing her legs, Sharon elected to ignore his idle threat. “The ex. What’s the story on him?”
“He’s a workaholic,” MacSorley grumbled. “Thus, his alibi appears watertight. I’m still checking it out, though.”
“Ever consider he’s not our perp?” Sharon proposed.
MacSorley’s thumbnail scratched his eyebrow. “No. I’m saying it’s the ex.”
“Where’s your proof, Captain?”
“He had ample motive. Plus, he served a hitch in the Marines.” In triumph, MacSorley smirked at her. “There’s the connection with the damn bayonet.”
Sheepishly, MacSorley then also smiled. “All right. Truce, then. What gives with the preacher?”
“Maintains he assisted the murder victim through a divorce,” Sharon said. “Like you, I’m not totally convinced there wasn’t more than just spiritual advice dispensed.”
“You birddog Reverend Arch. I’ll stick to the ex. Maybe we’ll get somewhere,” said MacSorley. “But exercise extra caution out there,” he said.
Buckled back into the Honda Civic, while Sharon clawed through her purse for a pair of sunshades, the envelope from Sally Cheatwood’s apartment bobbed up. There was the telephone number inside the valentine she hadn’t checked. At a launderette, her idling engine left to pop and hiss, Sharon hunched over a pay phone. Punching in the numbers, she waited for a clerk to identify the Crampton Motor Lodge. Hanging up, Sharon booked in that direction.
Built of faded cinderblock and red awning, Crampton Motor Lodge haunted the fringes of Bay City. Sharon glimpsed beyond the Welcome sign. It wasn’t too seedy to hole up, say, and fornicate away a Wednesday afternoon. Sharon sidled into the lobby. A gawky kid ogled the next action shot in a NASCAR Rally Days magazine.
“Recognize these?” Sharon dealt him the DMV file photos of Reverend Archie Niles and Sally Cheatwood.
The kid barely glanced over, nodded once. “Yep. They’re regular as clockwork. In Room 23, the end unit behind the soda machines. You Reverend Archie’s old lady?”
“Nope. Police.” Sharon flashed the shield for his benefit. “What say we sneak a peek inside their little sugar shack?”
Together, they traipsed to Room 23’s door where the kid slid in the key. Twisting the knob, he thrust the door forward, and with a flourish bowed for Sharon to enter. With the curtains drawn, the dimness obstructed her adjusting eyes.
Lunging through the bathroom door, an assailant thwacked the back of Sharon’s head. Surrendering balance, the carpet twirling to a blur and her knees caving, Sharon dipped her shoulder to roll with the fall. A blank, black unconsciousness consumed her.
When she swam back up, the kid was leaning over her. “Heck, you were a goner there for a few.”
With pain drilling through her brainstem, Sharon anchored one elbow under herself, raised to one shoulder only to collapse. Grimacing, she lay flat on her back collecting her composure.
“Did you snag a look?” she asked at last.
“Don’t know. Maybe somebody in bib overalls. A car pulled away from around back. But I don’t know. See, I was busy catching you,” the kid replied.
“Can you help me up?” Sharon asked calmly, but with authority. The room had ceased spinning, which she took as an encouraging sign. By the time they limped around the room, Sharon had regained her sea legs enough to stand up. Wobbling to climbing atop the bed, she poked at the drop ceiling tiles. A surveillance camera tumbled down onto the mattress.
“This is what our head-banging pal was after,” Sharon said, picking it up to inspect. “You can walk into any store that peddles electronics and join the spy business for $100 or less.”
The kid stared wide-eyed at the camera. “Lady, I know nothing about it,” he contended.
“Didn’t suggest you did,” Sharon replied, walking out to her Civic.
The kid secured her car door. “Where are you headed?” he asked, his voice cracking.
A fresh rage cleared Sharon’s senses. “To defrock a preacher. Gang way,” she said.
Within minutes, a knot behind Sharon’s crown had swollen hard as a croquet ball. Cringing, she touched it. Damn. Heedless of MacSorley’s warning, she mashed the gas. The acceleration plastered her against Naugahyde.
With the parsonage rising into view, she saw Gretchen stomping over the yard sifting lime from a homemade scoop. The grass appeared as on a frosty morning. Despite wearing a scarf over her pin curls, Gretchen dressed in bib overalls looked sturdy.
Sharon coasted parallel to the Pontiac, cut off the ignition. Gretchen looked over. Sharon stepped out, but not before wedging the .38 into her waistband and tugging her blouse out. Deliberately crossing the Pontiac in her path, Sharon detected the heat moiling off its front grille. Gretchen was now approaching at a half-trot.
“Why, Ms. Knowles. What fetches you to our neck of the woods?” Gretchen wondered. Angry with herself, Sharon felt intimidated by the large woman who loomed no less than a foot away.
“A policeman’s day is never done,” Sharon rejoined. “I have several more questions for you both. Your husband, is he about?”
Gretchen dropped the corroded bucket, clapped her palms puffing up a cloud. “Catnapping more than likely. Tell you what. Give me a second to scrub up. Then we will all talk out on the patio.”
Once the screen door had slapped behind Gretchen, Sharon roamed the yard. Behind the forsythia was a potter’s shed. She gave the parsonage a summary glance. The kitchen curtains stirred, perhaps from shifting April breezes. Sharon wouldn’t bet on it.
Against the far corner in the shed, a claw-footed bathtub was brimming over with white lime. Across its sides were stencils of daggers dripping blood. Sharon immediately made the connection to those on Sally Cheatwood’s body. Then another thought occurred to her. Body parts immersed in the lime bath would dissolve away and emit no foul odor from their decomposition.
Two gunshots exploded inside the parsonage.
Sharon came running. Rushing inside their bedroom, she found Gretchen had blown away her philandering husband, then trained the same gun on herself.Contact the Author - e_lynskey@yahoo.com
Author Site - www.satlug.org/~lynskey