In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (54 page)

He rubbed his hands together and I heard the knuckles crack. They sounded like cellophane. “I only require samples.”
 

“Of what?” I narrowed my eyes at him.
 

“Of you, naturally. You are a lovely specimen.”
 

Specimen? Yuck.
 

“What kind of sample? Better hurry. If Dr. Watts catches you in here, she won’t be happy.”
 

He smiled, showing his ragged gums. There was blood in his teeth, they were so wrecked. “She won’t catch me.”

I swallowed hard. “What do you want Flincher?”
 

“Blood, skin cells, a cheek swab, hair with root, and a fingernail clipping.” He coughed and some sputum landed on the floor with a splat. “Nothing you can’t spare.”
 

“I’ll be the judge of that. Why do you want it?”
 

“Just a little hobby of mine.” He shook his tackle box. “I’m ready.”
 

“I’m not. Why do you want it?” I asked.
 

“Does it really matter? I have what you want.”
 

“It matters. Tell me or get out.”
 

He pulled up a chair and a tray table, sitting with his bony knees jutting out. He laid out his collection swabs and a phlebotomy kit with several vials. They were all new and clean, but there was no way he was touching me with anything he brought in. Then he pulled out a sheath of papers covered in graphs and complicated chemical analysis. “I thought you might require more than my other subjects.”
 

“I’m not one of your subjects. What is that?” I asked.

He sat up straighter than I would’ve thought possible with his hump. “My work.”
 

“That doesn’t strike me as mortician stuff.”
 

“Because it’s not. Funerals are a means to an end.” He laid the papers in my lap and tapped them with a long bony finger. “This is the end.”
 

Flincher’s papers looked sort of like a drug study, but I didn’t recognize the chemical compounds or the methodology. “Are you studying something?”
 

“Death,” he said, leaning over and spewing fumes in my face.
 

“Whose?”
 

“Everyone’s. I’m going to cure death.” He clasped his hands together and beamed at me.

Oh dear lord. Where’s that tea? Aaron! Dr. Watts!
 

Flincher pointed to a chemical compound on the first page of his papers. “There it is. It’s taken me forty years, but I’ve finally got it.”
 

“Um…great,” I said. “What is it?”
 

“I can’t tell you that. It’s proprietary.”
 

“Of course. And what do you need my samples for?”
 

“Testing. I’m always testing. A scientist must always be striving for the next discovery.”
 

“As long as you’re not using live subjects,” I said gently.
 

Flincher blinked. “Oh, I am. I must.”
 

Oh my god!

I gripped the cane hard. “Do they know you’re using them to test your…discovery?”
 

“No. Of course not. They’d never agree. But science can’t wait for fools to acquiesce. We’d never advance.”
 

“It must be difficult to operate under those conditions.”
 

He glanced around. “Yes, it is. No one will accept my little treats anymore.”
 

I’m shocked.
 

“So how are you continuing your work?” I asked.
 

“I use the ultimate subject,” said Flincher, sticking out his bony chest.
 

Please don’t say the neighbors’ pets.
 

“Myself.”
 

Thank god.
 

“Um…how’s that working out for you?” I asked, glancing at the door.
 

Flincher gestured to his ravaged body. “As you see, but once I perfect my serum all will be well. I project that I will return to my seventeen-year-old self immediately.”
 

Great. The year you killed your parents.
 

“Sounds…good. Seventeen is good.”
 

“So you agree?” he asked, his eyes going all watery.
 

“What evidence do I get regarding the body?” I asked.
 

“Photographs, blood, and fingerprints. I was thorough. I knew you’d want it.”
 

“All right then. Let’s do it.”
 

Flincher picked up the needle.
 

“Nope. Back off. I’ll be using Dr. Watts’ stuff,” I said.
 

“If you must.”
 

“I must.”
 

I hopped out to the autopsy suite and, without turning my back on Flincher, I collected everything I needed. He was impressed with my ability to draw my own blood, a skill I never thought would come in handy. I learned it in nursing school when my blood drawing partner kept passing out. I’d swabbed my cheek before Dr. Watts banged on the door to the elevator. “Mercy! Mercy!”
 

“I’m fine!”
 

“Is Flincher in there?” she yelled.
 

I looked at him and he at me.
 

“I don’t know! Where’s Aaron?” I asked.

“Looking for you. I’ll come around to the other door.”
 

“Okay!”
 

I collected Flincher’s other samples, he gingerly put them in his tackle box, and stood up with every joint creaking. “Thank you, Miss Watts. You’ve been a great help to science.”
 

“And my evidence?”
 

He handed me a small packet. I stuffed it under my hoodie and he left through the door to the elevator seconds before Dr. Watts came storming in.
 

“Are you alright?” she asked.
 

“Perfectly fine.”
 

“And Flincher didn’t come down here?”
 

“Haven’t seen him.”
 

“Thank god. I thought he’d make a play for you.”
 

I shrugged. “He wasn’t here. Where’s the tea?”
 

She slapped her forehead. “I forgot it at Mrs. Mahoney’s place. I had the most terrible feeling about you and ran back. But you’re fine.”
 

“I am.”
 

“My intuition must be out of whack.”
 

Aaron walked in with a thermos of tea and I gave him a wink behind Dr. Watts’ back. We drank it while my cast dried and I tried not to think about Flincher injecting himself with toxic substances. What was I going to do about him? I had no clue, but I couldn’t leave it alone. Someone that crazy was capable of anything.

I didn’t open Flincher’s packet until I was in bed with my cast propped up on five pillows. It throbbed and ached, but it wasn’t time for another painkiller. Aaron prescribed chocolate and ran off. Pick woke up, licked my toes, and went back to snoring. Dr. Watts fussed around, straightening my covers and muttering about Pick smelling like river.
 

“You’re welcome to wash him if you want,” I said.
 

“That’s not much of a thank you. He did risk life and limb today.”
 

“He’s a water dog. Why do you think he leapt right in?”
 

“To save Lane. I think he would’ve jumped into fire for her.”
 

We looked at the poodle, who promptly gassed and rolled over with all four legs in the air.
 

“Looks like a hero to me,” I said.
 

Dr. Watts picked a moldy leaf and a stick out of his fuzzy tail. “He looks like a goof, the very best kind of hero, but the smell has to go.”
 

“Pick,” I said. “Bath.”
 

The poodle flipped over, jumped off the bed, and scratched on the door frantically.
 

“I thought you said he’s a water dog.”
 

“He likes baths. He just forgets until he actually gets in the bath.”
 

She ran her hands through her spiky hair. “How do I get him in there? He’s too big to drag.”
 

“Go in the bathroom and say sausage.”
 

“That’s a mean trick.”
 

I rolled my eyes. “You can give it to him after he’s clean.”
 

“He gets at least five then.”
 

“Fantastic. More gas.”
 

Dr. Watts cackled, went in the bathroom, and said, “Sausage.”
 

Pick stopped and darted in after her and she closed the door.
 

“What a sucker,” I said, pulling the packet out of my hoodie. Inside were a set of five pictures of a middle-aged Hispanic man. In the first two pictures, he was dressed in black Under Armour athletic wear and Reeboks. I couldn’t see any blood and his face was intact. In the last three pictures, he was completely nude. No tattoos. No identifying marks. I winced. This guy had been murdered and then he ended up in Flincher’s hands. I couldn’t imagine anything less respectful. The victim had two gunshot wounds to the center of his chest. No stippling so the shots came from a distance, but I already knew that from the marks on the fence. The worst part was what had been done to him after he died. Flincher had taken samples. From what I could tell, he took pieces of skin, liver, kidney, one eye, and the brain.
 

I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat and turned the pics face down on the bed. No more of that. Thank you very much. I dumped out the rest. Flincher had been thorough and generous if I could reconcile that word with the ghoul. I got several evidence collection tubes with blood, a cheek swab, and a tooth. The last thing was a fingerprint card with all ten digits on it. Everything I needed to find out the victim’s identity, but suddenly I didn’t want to. He probably had a family. I didn’t want to know their names or his story.
 

Toenails hit the tile in the bathroom and Dr. Watts exclaimed. I stuffed everything back in the packet and under the blankets. She opened the door and glared at me, drenched. Pick ran in, yipping and shaking.
 

“That is why I’m never getting a dog.” She squeezed out her scrub top.

Pick scratched at the door.
 

“What now?” she asked.

“He wants to go out.”
 

“And I’m supposed to take him.”
 

“Would you?” I asked.
 

Dr. Watts grumbled and let Pick out, crossing paths with Aaron, who came in with a large mug of hot chocolate with a swirl of whipped cream on top. He gave it to me and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, watching me while rubbing his hands together. I’d missed that. I really had. I took a sip and closed my eyes. French. Whole milk, bittersweet chocolate, and a dab of vanilla, probably cognac. “Delicious.”
 

“You still hungry?” he asked, bouncing like crazy.
 

“I could eat.”
 

He ran for the door and I yelled out after him, “Wait. Can I borrow your phone?”
 

He tossed the phone on the bed without a word and closed the door. First, I texted Chuck, telling him why I didn’t answer his call. Chasing a would-be murderer seemed like a good excuse, but who knew what Chuck thought because he didn’t answer. I didn’t call my parents though I should’ve. I called Spidermonkey. It was late so he should be out searching for clues about The Klinefeld Group, but he didn’t answer. I left a message, telling him my phone was dead and I needed his help immediately.