Naked Cruelty (17 page)

Melantha moaned; he was there at once. “Waking up, are we?” he asked, slapping her face. Her dark eyes rolled, then cleared; she gasped.

“Yes, I'm
Didus ineptus
,” he said, “and I've come to do all kinds of things to you.”

She couldn't scream or talk back to him. The duct tape was in place. But she didn't need to ask him her most important question; he had already answered it by speaking.
Didus ineptus
intended to kill her.

He raped her for hours, vaginally and anally, with penis and fist, using his cord around her neck time and time again, retiring to his chair to read, returning for another assault. He pinched, pummeled, pounded.

“I am not a pervert,” he said to her. “My only instruments belong to my body.”

Melantha's mind began to wander as the strangulations went on; so intent was he on what he was doing that he almost missed the change begin in her eyes. She was lying half on her stomach, but this next one would be the last. He flipped her over—the chains allowed that—and pulled the hood from his head. The eye slits were too frustrating to retain it at such a moment. When she died, her eyes must be looking into his face. And, in case this was the ultimate of all experiences, he paused to snap on a condom. Buried in her, choking her, eyes locked on hers, he watched the life slowly die until he understood that all he had left was her shell. The bitch had escaped him! The orgasm never came.

As he left the bed, tossing the unfilled condom on to the card table, the front door lock gave a dull thunk as the dead bolt turned and fell back. The Dodo's hand went under the pillow and emerged holding the .22 pistol.

“Melantha? Hi, honey,” said a man's voice.

He was halfway across the living room when the Dodo shot him in the throat, and he collapsed, dying, in a gurgling heap. But that was not satisfactory. Reaching him, the Dodo stood over him and shot him between the eyes.

That taken care of, the Dodo unchained the lifeless girl and replaced everything in his knapsack, tucking his souvenired book down in one pocket. The load was heavier now that he had added chains to it, but on the whole the weight was worth it. He had almost come inside her; that he would definitely come later as he held the book he knew, but it was a disappointment nonetheless.

At four in the morning
Didus ineptus
stole out of the place, wriggling on his elbows across the grass of the backyard until he reached the shelter of the side fence, down which grew a row of small pines. There he waited long enough to be sure that he was undetected, then he crawled on hands and knees to the front boundary. On his feet now, he ran across the road and into the deep shadows of the street's maple trees. From there, it was a short run to Persimmon Street, where his car was parked. As soon as he reached it he got in and put the knapsack on the back seat floor. But he didn't drive away. No, he'd wait until other cars were growling into life; only then would he drive away. A good night, all considered. He had always wondered how he would cope with an intruder. Now he knew. No sweat.

The bodies were not discovered until noon, when a friend had gone to see why Melantha hadn't attended the morning's rounds; she was meant to be presenting a case to Prof. Baumgarten—
important.

And Helen was back with the Dodo.

“It isn't a question of your winning any victories,” Carmine said to her icily, “it's simply that I need manpower, and you know the case. But don't you ever play another trick like the one you did on Lieutenant Goldberg. If you do, you're out one second later, and your father will know why.”

She said nothing, just hastened to report to Delia; her luck that Nick's wife had succumbed to a critical illness, and he was on compassionate leave. Knowing how he disliked her, she shrank from their confrontation once he was back at work. Oh, pray Imelda Jefferson was okay! The Dodo's victims were
black
!

With two women as his team, Carmine drove to Spruce Street in Carew. One corner of his mind yearned for Nick, but that was impossible. Black victims? It made no sense.

For Helen, the crime scene came as a shock that she was too professional to betray, and she was relieved to learn that her stomach was a strong one. A patrolman had been forced to race outside and throw up, but not Helen MacIntosh!

“Tell me what you see, Helen,” Carmine commanded.

“A black male, mid to late twenties, shot first in the throat, then finished off with a bullet to the brain. If the head shot had been first, he wouldn't have needed the throat shot. Whoever did it is a top marksman who made a mess of this guy's throat from fifteen feet away, to silence him, obviously. He administered the
coup de grâce
standing over the victim—entry is straight in, not angled,” said Helen. “I guess this is her boyfriend and that he has a key. I can't hazard much of a guess as to time of death. Have we beaten the Medical Examiner?”

“Just,” came Patrick O'Donnell's voice from the doorway. He took a liver temperature and examined both wounds. “I'd say he died at two in the morning, cuz. No earlier, but not much later.” He fished in pockets until he found a wallet and gave it to Carmine, then vanished toward the bedroom.

“Dr. Michael Tolbin,” said Carmine. “From his library card, a general surgery resident. Jesus, the waste! The country can't afford to lose two young doctors—senseless!” He went in Patrick's wake, the women following.

A worse shock for Helen. Melantha was lying stretched out on the bed in an X position, belly up, covered with the crimson marks of forming bruises. Around her wrists were angry rings that didn't suggest any kind of twine or wire; they were too broad and indistinct. Her face was blue and congested, the tongue protruding, the eyes open and so dark that it was difficult to discern an iris.

“She fought for every breath,” said Helen huskily.

“That she did,” said Patrick. “She died about the same time as the young man in the living room—a matter of minutes between them, I'd estimate. She was restrained with handcuffs, probably connected to chains, but her legs were free. This bed screams S & M—not that I'm implying that, only that it served the Dodo's purposes admirably. Melantha probably thought it was unusual in a pretty way. There are other pieces of Benares brass. Feet in socks, nails pared down—it's definitely the Dodo. He's escalated—this isn't accidental, he arrived to kill. That probably means he spoke to her, may not have worn his hood. Is there a book missing?”

“Impossible to tell,” said Delia, coming in. “The shelves are overflowing. Oh, the waste! Their whole lives ahead of them, so much work to get this far! Melantha would have had her M.D. in six more months. Her thesis is on meningococcal meningitis. She's twenty-five. Chubb Medical School! That means she was one of the best of her year nationwide.”

“As today is Wednesday, October 16, he's still on a three-week cycle. What a way to die,” said Helen.

No one answered. Helen drew a long, sobbing breath. “I'm okay,” she said. “Just spitting mad.”

“Delia, you'll have to stay here after the bodies are removed and go over this apartment with a fine-toothed comb,” Carmine said. “Keep Helen as assistance.”

He left; Delia looked at Helen. “Tell me what you see.”

“On the girl? Greasepaint, there. And there?” She looked puzzled. “If he uses greasepaint, I don't understand how he doesn't leave slathers of it behind.” She went red, but labored on. “I mean, sex with her, skin on skin? Even if it's a rape, sex is intimate physical contact. He's naked and she's naked. So why isn't there more greasepaint?”

“He cleaned her up with xylene,” said Patrick, packing his case. “It's an effective reagent for something oil-based, but it also says his own skin is on the delicate side. He's probably not of Mediterranean origins. Why not alcohol for his delicate skin? Because it's overrated as an organic solvent, and he's careful. However, he's neither a chemist nor a pharmacologist. Maggie had no Dodo administered drugs in her system, and I'll bet this girl won't either. He does it on surprise, brute strength and, for want of a better word,
natural
techniques. In one way he's a colossal psychopath, yet he uses no metal instruments of torture. Fingers, fists, feet. I suspect he despises rapists as sickos and doesn't think of himself as abnormal. The strangling ligature has to fit within his definition of normality, so I'm guessing it's made from human hair.”

“His own?” Delia asked.

“More likely his mother's.” Patrick picked up his cases and departed.

“Why did Dr. O'Donnell call the Captain ‘cuz'?” Helen asked.

“Their mothers are sisters,” said Delia.

“I never knew that! Does my father?”

“I have no idea,” said Delia, sounding bored.

The two women worked in silence, each taking half of the bedroom, the floor of which was covered in one of those annoying carpets that show every mark. Helen stared at it closely.

“Delia, take a look at this.”

Delia came, inspected. “Something with four legs sat here.

“That's what I thought. Don't tell me he brought his own dinky table!” Helen said, a little incredulously.

“More likely that he transported a table from somewhere else in the apartment—don't leap to the madder conclusions first.”

This time Helen's flush was pure mortification; lips tight, she left the bedroom to search for a table that fitted the marks. When none did, she checked again, and found the card table tucked in a niche to one side of the living room window. “Bingo!”

They opened it and stared at its green baize, which bore a number of marks and stains; there was still a faint reek of xylene. Smears of greasepaint marred the baize in several places.

“Paul will be able to get enough to match the color,” said Delia in quiet triumph.

“What's this?” Helen asked, pointing to a spot that also showed marks, but these were colorless. She sniffed. “Condom lubrication, do you think?”

“I do, but there's no trace of semen. His mutton gun jammed.” Delia began to fold the table. “We'll take it with us,” she said. “I wonder what else is here? We have to find it before the fingerprint boys arrive.”

But the apartment yielded nothing else.

“Where did he wait for her?” Helen asked.

“Behind the front door, I suspect. With Maggie Drummond, it was a wing chair, but there's no hiding place in Melantha Green's living room. He jumped her literally as she was entering, which might suggest that these photos are right—Melantha had martial arts skills.”

“Do you think three weeks is his cycle, Delia?
Do
you?”

“It seems likely, but that's speculation best suited for one of the Captain's think-tanks, if you mean the direction his future assaults are going to take.”

“Think-tanks? I'll be excluded!” Helen cried. “I want my own think-tank here and now, with you, Delia—with you! Why do we always wait for the men to lead, tell me that? It's obvious to me that this girl wouldn't have had time for a party since last year, if then. Added to which, she was in a serious relationship with a surgical resident who wouldn't be going to parties either. They would have met on the ward, not at a Mark Sugarman party. Nick's wrong, but he's a man, so he's believed.”

Delia was watching her, and frowning. “Stop thinking about this murder for a moment, Helen, and think about your own conduct. What you're doing right now is passing the buck to Nick for your exclusion from the Captain's inner circle, just as if he's not entitled to have one. You're restless, impulsive and ambitious. I don't blame the Captain for keeping you in your place, silly girl. You push too hard. There's one American saying that I just love: shape up, or ship out.”

A silence fell; Helen's face was beet-red. “I'm sorry.”

“I hope so.”

Suddenly Delia looked indignant. “I love and esteem our boss, but he can be thoughtless. He's buzzed off in our wheels. We are stranded.”

“No, we're not,” said Helen in a more cheerful voice. “I did a deal with the cop who got sick—if he brought my Lamborghini here, I promised not to breathe a word about his weak stomach.”

“Clever chicken! Just answer me one question: how are we going to get a card table into a Lamborghini?”

“We aren't. I asked my queasy cop to hang around in case we had any bulky evidence to transport.”

At six that evening, dressed in the shortest of miniskirts and with her wonderful legs sheathed in shimmering lilac pantyhose, Helen was sitting on a stool in Buffo's Wine Cellar waiting for Kurt von Fahlendorf. None of the staring young men would have believed for a second that this glorious young woman had spent her afternoon pursuing the aftermath of a particularly brutal murder. It was very unlike Kurt not to be doing the waiting; he was obsessed by gentlemanly conduct.

He came clattering down the area steps not two minutes later and perched himself on the vacant stool next to her, leaning to kiss her on the cheek. “Sorry I'm late,” he said. “Muons.”