Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) (15 page)

“Ahh, right.” Cairny’s eyes focused and her demeanor stiffened. Concrete discussions related to work had a way of pulling her mind out of the aether. “Well, I can definitively say I know what killed Terrence and…what was his name? Octavio?” She consulted a clipboard. “Yes, Octavio.”

I tapped my fingers on Terry’s exam table. “Could it be, perhaps, the daggers we found sticking out of their chests?”

Cairny nodded. “That’s right. Both men died from massive internal trauma due to a fatal incision to the heart. In both cases, the blade pierced the cardiac organ as well as numerous major arteries.”

I pressed a couple fingers to my temple. “Um, right. Look, Cairny, that’s why I asked what you could tell us about the bodies that
wasn’t
immediately obvious.”

Cairny drew her brows together and tilted her head to one side. “I don’t understand. I think the fact that the murder weapons pierced the victims’ hearts is very interesting, especially when combined with the knowledge that the wounds experienced very little bleeding.”

I took a glance at the bodies as I recalled the crime scenes. Only a trickle of blood had coursed its way down Terry’s chest onto the mattress underneath, and Creepy’s death scene was even more sterile. A direct shot to the heart should’ve resulted in a show more similar to something out of a cheap piece of slasher fiction. Even if the flow of blood had somehow remained controlled, there should’ve been a greater overall volume soaked into the mattress and sheets.

“I noticed that, too, Cairny,” said Steele. “At the time I attributed it to the cold weapons. Low temperatures make liquids more viscous, body fluids included. I thought perhaps that might’ve contributed to the lack of blood.”

“Yes, the icy weapons,” said Cairny. “I’d heard about those. It’s certainly a possibility, and not something I’m willing to rule out completely, but I have another theory. Take a look at Terrence’s anticubital fossa.”

Cairny sometimes forgot the rest of us didn’t speak the same language she did. “His what now?”

“His elbow pit.” Cairny drew her index finger to a spot. “See that?”

Her finger hovered over a small, ring-like discoloration in the skin over a primary artery.

“Hold on,” I said. “Terry got injected with something?”

“That’s right,” said Cairny.

“Before or after death?” asked Shay.

“Before, based on blood clotting,” said Cairny. “Though I’m not sure why someone would want to inject a person with a substance after killing them.”

Steele shrugged. “Me neither, but I had to ask. There are plenty of other things about these murders that don’t make any sense yet, either.”

“If you look at Octavio’s left arm, you’ll find a similar mark,” said Cairny.

I looked. The marks were hard to miss once you knew what to search for, which of course we initially hadn’t. Why would we? Why drug someone and then stab them with a knife? It didn’t make any sense.

Cairny wandered over to the other side of Octavio’s exam table. “My theory—and this is
just
a theory mind you, I haven’t performed any tests—is the victims were injected with some sort of blood thickener. That would explain the minimal bleeding after sustaining their wounds.”

I straightened up and rubbed the scruff on my chin. “This case keeps getting weirder and weirder. Cairny, could you confirm your suspicions with some tests? I want to make sure these guys didn’t get injected with something else.”

“I can try,” she said. “There are certain toxins I can check for, and I can run blood cultures to see if they were injected with a bacterium. But I won’t be able to detect something like a blood thickener. Why? Do you doubt my diagnosis?”

I sighed. “Not as such. I don’t have any reason to. But everything about this case is completely whackadoodle. Nothing makes any sense. I mean, why would a person inject someone else with a drug and then kill them afterwards? And in the case of Creepy—”

“He means Octavio,” Steele said to Cairny.

“—why dose him with a knockout drug like ether first, then inject him with another drug, and then kill him? And why a blood thickener? What could be the purpose of slowing the blood flow of someone you’re planning to murder? And of course the biggest question—why in the world were the murder weapons cooled? What possible purpose could that serve?”

“Let’s not forget,” said Steele, “that both murder weapons were antiques, specially designed so they could be filled with refrigerated liquid. Oh, and each victim was stabbed in the heart, and one of them was stark naked and had his apartment smashed to smithereens.”

“Right, that,” I said. “Because those additional clues really pull the whole mess together.”

“They do?” asked Cairny.

“Sarcasm,” I said.

“Oh,” said Cairny. “Well, regardless, I’ll go ahead and run some blood cultures for the two victims, as well as some tox screens. But don’t hold your breath.”

“I won’t.” I tsked. “Well, it wasn’t the report I was hoping for, but thanks anyway, Cairny. I’m sure this’ll all make sense eventually. Once the proper clues fall into place, that is.”

“With the two of you on the case, I’m certain it will,” said the coroner.

I started to leave, but Shay dawdled behind me.

“So, Cairny,” she said. “I was serious earlier. Drinks tonight after work?”

“Oh, yes. Splendid! Find me before you leave. I know a wonderful little champagne and cocktail bar a few blocks from here. We can shoot the breeze and dream up a few fun outfits to liven up Daggers’ wardrobe.”

I think I retched a little in my mouth.

26

Quinto and Rodgers had disappeared by the time we returned to the pit, but the corkboard remained where we’d left it. A pile of red yarn and pins lay on the corner of my desk, taunting me with its case-solving impotence.

I slumped in my chair, running my hand through my hair. Shay plopped down in her seat with similar flair, except she leaned forward, intertwined her fingers, and propped her chin on them as she stared at the sketches and slips of paper that dotted the corkboard.

We sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in our own swirling cyclone of unfinished ideas, tantalizing connections, and furtive images of dancing bears and scantily clad showgirls riding unicycles—or at least I did. I can’t speak for Shay, but my mind tends to wander.

“There’s something here we’re missing,” said Shay. “Probably something obvious we can’t see due to all the crazy elements that are fighting for our attention.”

“Like the murder weapons powered by liquid gas?” I said. “And the injections of drugs into our victims, and the ornate nature of the blades, and the varying levels of nudity we’ve encountered at the crime scenes?”

“Yes,” said Shay. “Exactly.”

“Alright. I’ll bite,” I said. “Let’s assume there’s an obvious, vital clue between these murders that we’re missing. How do you propose we unearth it? Should we sweep all those deliciously odd tidbits of information we’ve gathered under the rug while we ruminate on the hopes and dreams of our two dead guys?”

“Sort of, yeah,” said Shay.

I blinked. “Really? Because I was just spouting hot air.”

My partner smiled. “I know. But seriously, we’ve been too focused on how the murders have been committed and why they’ve been committed that way—with good reason. The slayings have been so distinct that understanding the core methodology behind them
should
lead us right to the killer, but right now that’s not working because the elements involved are too disparate to be brought together in any logical manner.

“But there are connections to be made—connections we’ve already discovered and should be more focused on. As you pointed out earlier, the murderer must’ve known Octavio, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to get in close proximity to him to dose him with ether, or whatever it is that he used. We can logically assume the murderer knew Terrence as well, but let’s not forget that Terrence and Octavio also knew each other.

“And there’s more. From what we’ve gleaned from their relatives and neighbors, both of these guys were loners. Outcasts. In the case of Octavio, he suffered from a diagnosable social anxiety disorder. So why, then, were the two of them hanging out together? It’s clearly not a coincidence both our victims took days and nights off work every two weeks during the exact same time period. What were they up to, and why didn’t they bother sharing it with anyone else?

“And of course, there’s the work connection. Terrence worked at the precise book bindery that had contracted with Octavio’s company. At first glance it seems they might’ve met through work and became friends, but it’s not like Terrence was an accounts executive and Octavio was an operations manager. Terry was cheap labor operating a printing press, and Octavio was a janitor. There’s no reason either of them should’ve ever crossed paths in the line of duty. So how did they meet, and why were they working in related industry jobs?”

I rubbed my chin. “Good points. And there’s one more thing I’ll add, one thing we haven’t given enough thought to. Unless we’re dealing with a serial killer—and based on the differences between Terry and Creepy’s murders, I’d guess we’re not—there has to be a motive. So what did either of these guys have to offer? Most murders are perpetrated for one of three reasons: love, money, or power. Neither of our victims appeared to be involved in any kind of relationship or affair. On the contrary, they seemed like the lonely, desperate types who’d commit crimes of passion, not be the victims of one. And both were working bottom rung, lower class jobs. Neither had anything to speak of in terms of money or influence.”

“Exactly,” said Shay. “So what were they up to? What did they get mixed up in that exposed them to this? Could they have joined a cult? People with severe social anxiety are often susceptible to promises made by those who prey on the lonely and desperate.”

I steepled my fingers and stared at them. Then I grunted.

“What’s on your mind?” said Steele.

I curled my lip. “Are my tics that obvious?”

“Usually, yes.”

“Well,” I said, “the work connection seems significant. Your cult idea is solid, don’t get me wrong, but it seems like a stretch that both victims would join the same cult and also work in closely-related businesses.”

Shay nodded.

“So, they must’ve been up to something else in their free time,” I said. “Something they didn’t want anyone else to know about. Something potentially illegal—and I’d bet lucrative. Did you ever read that famous L. E. Goldschmidt con novel?”

“I think you can safely assume I haven’t read any of the same novels you have, Daggers.”

I shook my head, silently bearing the ignominy of Shay’s poor reading habits before continuing. “In the novel, two guys plan a heist of a major museum, and one of them is working an inside angle. He’s employed as a janitor, and during his entire time at the museum—over a year, in total—he pretends to be mentally handicapped so no one’ll suspect him of anything when the artifact they swipe goes missing.”

Shay drew her brows together. “So…what? You think Octavio wasn’t really as socially awkward as others thought he was?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Both our victims were loners. How well do we really know them?”

“I guess it’s possible,” said Shay. “Except neither of our guys worked at a museum. What in the world would they steal from Williams and Sons or Chapman Books?”

I drummed my fingers on the table. My partner had a point. I sat and thought for a few more moments, but wild, unfounded theories began to threaten my more reasonable deductive instincts. I acted against them preemptively.

“Well, that’s enough for me,” I said. “I’m heading home.”

“Already?” Shay glanced at the windows. “That’s two days in a row of early exits. Captain won’t be pleased.”

“I won’t be slacking off,” I said. “I need time to ponder and decompress. I can do that as easily at home as I can here. Besides, I’m not going to sit around on my ample posterior. I plan on immersing myself in the craft and culture of Chapman Books. Perhaps by doing so I can piece together this jigsaw puzzle of a case.”

“Huh?” Shay looked at me askance. “Immerse yourself in culture? You’re just leaving to go read more of that dopey Rex Winters novel, aren’t you?”

“How many times do I have to tell you, it’s not dopey,” I said. “And yes, I am. Not only is it entertaining, but it’s thought-provoking as well. Who knows what insights it’ll dislodge in my brain.”

“Oh, it’ll dislodge something all right,” said Shay. “But whatever. Have fun with your reading. I’m going to see if I can find Cairny and hash out a schedule for tonight. Don’t worry, we won’t spread too many bad rumors about you—and we’ll only share a few with the Captain.”

I groaned. Tomorrow was shaping up to be a blast.

27

I sat there, my eyes plastered to the page, absorbing the edge-of-the-seat thrill ride that was the latest Rex Winters novel. I couldn’t stop reading, and I didn’t feel even the slightest hint of guilt about it. The book was far more prescient and insightful than I’d ever expected it could be. But how would it end? I needed to know, for more than simple curiosity.

Rex Winters barreled around a corner, the sound of footsteps heavy behind him. His chest heaved as he stared down a corridor full of closed doors. He ran to the first one and tested the doorknob.

Locked.

The crash of the footfalls escalated. He could hear shouting, angry threats, and rageful commands. He ran to another door and cranked on the knob.

Locked.

The footsteps pounded like drumbeats in his ears, playing out a heavy, regular rhythm that pealed out his impending death. He raced to a third door and twisted the knob in panic-fueled desperation.

It gave.

He threw himself inside, closed the door, and slammed the deadbolt shut. He heard muddled shouts in the corridor behind him, bleeding through the closed apartment door. He searched around the room desperately, looking for a window or some form of escape, but none presented itself. Instead, his already precarious situation became even more hectic, as a shrieking woman brandishing a twelve-inch chef’s knife launched herself at him from the kitchen, screaming bloody murder and—