Public Anatomy (18 page)

Detective Lipsky drove an unmarked squad car south on I-55. He had just crossed the state line into Mississippi and felt relieved at the geographic transition. Maybe it was the magnolias painted on the state welcome sign. Maybe it was getting the hell out of the garbage-ridden, flesh-melting pothole of Memphis for the afternoon.

So what if he was en route to investigate another strange death. More body parts on display. At least it was not in his downtown. Lip-sky planned just to take a look and assess any possible relation to the recent murders. Then he would let the local crew clean up the mess.

He settled back, found an oldies station, and the song took his mind back to a high school dance and a particular grinding with Mary Elizabeth Delbechio. Smack in the middle of a slow dance with Mary ‘Lizbeth, his radio crackled to life.

“Detective Lipsky, what’s your twenty?”

He shook his head. “Damn, Basetti. I had her all the way back under the bleachers.”

“Who’s that, boss?”

“Never mind. What do you want?”

“Where you headed?”

“Do you have to know every time I take a piss?”

“No. Just in the interesting places. Heard you were going to Tunica.”

“If you already knew, why you asking me?”

“Strange time of day to go down and shoot craps. You got a gambling problem?”

“No, I got a Basetti problem. And I feel like shooting
him
.”

“Just thought you’d want to know about our pro wrestling fan.”

“Who?”

“You know, tongue lady.”

“Oh yeah, what about her?”

“Happens that she was a nurse. Another Gates Memorial employee, dead.”

Casinos and high-rise hotels in Tunica sprout from the Mississippi delta like bastard offspring from Las Vegas. With over a dozen casinos, Tunica boasts America’s third largest gambling destination, all in the midst of flat cotton fields and a stone’s throw from the mighty Mississippi.

Lipsky turned into the entrance of Spankin’ Rich, the latest member of an ever-branching family tree of Tunica-based gambling establishments. The parking lot was smoking hot, wavy lines warping his view of the casino as though in a mirage. He parked next to a Nissan Altima with Lafayette County tags. Retirees over from Oxford, he thought, in for some mid-morning blackjack.

Off to the right, well away from the entrance, a couple of Tunica County police cars sandwiched an ambulance. Apparently, casino management wanted to keep this debacle as low key as possible so as not to disturb the customers. Dead bodies tended to slow down action at the slots.

A security guard greeted him at the entrance. Lipsky flashed his badge. The guard shifted his eyes side to side without moving his head. Lipsky knew he was reveling in this brush with violent crime, hungry for more than just escorting tipsy gamblers back to their rooms. The guard cocked his right arm and his hand came to rest on the holstered pistol.

“Follow me, detective,” he instructed Lipsky. “Best keep your profile low.”

Lipsky splayed his hands out to emphasize his pudgy five-foot-six frame. He cocked a grin. “I’ll do my best.”

Inside the cool casino, they wove through a maze of slots, blackjack tables, and roulette wheels. Waitresses in short skirts carried trays full of multicolored cocktails.

From the main floor, Lipsky noticed a man in a tan-colored suit watching them through a full-length second-story window. The security
guard took Lipsky up one flight and the man met them at the elevator.

“I’m Alex Dalhauser.” He extended his hand. “I manage the casino. Glad you could come so quickly. Follow me.”

Dalhauser led them past conference rooms until the carpeted hallway ended at the health spa. After nights of drinking and draining your bank account, it’s nice to know a treadmill’s close by to whip you back in shape.

Entering the spa, Lipsky was introduced to the Tunica County police chief and his deputy, a man named Weaver. In the foyer, gilded molding surrounded a central reception desk. Above the desk, a heavy chain dropped from the ceiling, an electrical cord woven inside it, typical for a chandelier except that a black plastic bag had been draped over the light fixture, completely covering it.

“We’ll come back to this,” the police chief said.

They moved en masse to follow the manager of Spankin’ Rich. Behind the reception desk, the room opened to an indoor pool with a Jacuzzi off to one side. Lipsky knew immediately that was where the victim had been found.

The man was dark-skinned, of Indian descent, and overweight. Very overweight. His back lay against the edge of the tub, both arms out, apparently resting in a position of comfort. His head was back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The Jacuzzi jets were still on, churning the bloodstained water, red waves lapping over the sides.

Lipsky looked at the chief of police, who answered his question without his having to ask it.

“The Jacuzzi was on when we got here, so we’ve been resetting the timer, trying to preserve the crime scene as close as possible.”

This never happens, Lipsky thought. The locals always disrupt the scene. He tried to imagine the deputy resetting the timer every fifteen minutes.

“How do we know it’s a crime scene?” Lipsky asked, just to challenge them. “Maybe his hemorrhoids exploded and he bled out.” Lipsky gave a quick laugh but the others didn’t follow the humor.

“Turn off the jets,” the police chief said.

The turbulent water calmed, air bubbles evaporated, and the fluid
leveled out until the tub looked like it was filled with Hawaiian Punch.

“How the hell we getting him out of there?” Lipsky asked.

The deputy and the security guard stepped forward.

“Weaver already lifted him,” the chief said.

The guard chimed in. “Part way.”

“So you have been in there?” Lipsky asked.

“Just enough to see what we’re dealing with,” Weaver admitted.

Like a game show host, Lipsky motioned toward the victim. “Okay, let’s see what we have.”

Both the deputy and the security guard put on a pair of gloves and approached the body, their shoes sloshing through a layer of bloody water covering the floor tiles. They grabbed the man under his shoulders and hoisted him until his butt came to rest on the side of the tub. It was easy to see where all the blood had come from. The man’s abdomen was split down the middle and his intestines coiled out like loops of spaghetti.

“What the hell?” Lipsky said.

The officers turned the man sideways, pulled his legs out of the water, and laid him flat.

Lipsky crouched down to examine the wound. The incision made a clean cut from his breastbone, around his navel, and stopped just short of his crotch. The wound was remarkable by how straight and precise its maker had been. Not a knife jab and an uppercut. Moreover, none of the intestines appeared to be damaged, even though the coiling mass was displaced from its abdominal home.

The manager of the casino cleared his throat. “This is very distressing for our casino.”

Lipsky nodded. “Yeah, for him, too.” He searched the area for a calling card such as was left at the previous two scenes. Finding none, he felt relieved for some reason. He asked, “Did any of you find a card next to the body?” Lipsky made a square with his hands to demonstrate.

“Yes,” the deputy said. “In the reception area.”

They turned away from the tub, and Lipsky followed them back to the health spa’s entrance.

Behind the reception desk, Lipsky noticed a pool of blood that had
coagulated on the floor. Above it, the police chief reached up and removed the black plastic bag from the light fixture. Suspended from the chandelier was a glistening piece of pale-colored meat. It was oblong and round, forming a tube.

“They cut his damn stomach out,” Lipsky said.

Then the deputy spoke, again. “I’ve seen a lot of crazy things but this beats all.”

Lipsky thought about what the deputy might have seen out here in the Delta. Dead cows bloating in the road, someone stealing a tractor. At most, a nice clean bar fight turned homicide, if the deputy was lucky.

Lipsky moved closer, but not under the line of dripping blood.
I’m the one who sees crazy things. That should’ve been my line
. But Lipsky had to admit, piece of a man’s gut cut out and hung from a chandelier was weird as hell.

He looked at the reception desk. There it was, leaning against the lamppost. From where he stood, Lipsky could make out the sketch of a stomach on the card he had asked about.

“Is someone usually sitting there?” he asked. “Maybe they would have noticed their work space being adorned with human organs.”

The casino manager stepped forward, reluctantly. “There’s an attendant on duty from ten a.m. to ten p.m., Dalhauser said. “But after hours, a guest can enter with a room key.”

Lipsky thought about that. “So potentially, if no one else chooses to spa in the middle of the night, the killer could have taken his time carving up his artwork.”

Dalhauser cleared his throat. “A guest came in at six this morning to use the treadmill and found Dr. Singh.”

Lipsky caught the prefix. “Doctor?”

The manager left the reception foyer and returned to the body. Lipsky and the others followed him.

“He was a regular here,” Dalhauser said. “Dr. Singh was one of our best customers.”

“How regular?” Lipsky asked.

“Drove down from Memphis once a week. Took off from his medical practice. Very faithful.”

Lipsky thought faithful was an interesting way to describe a gambling habit. “What kind of doc was he?”

“Anesthesiologist, I believe.”

Lipsky looked down at the body. “He’s put his last patient to sleep, that’s for sure.”

“He was well-liked around here,” the manager said. “Very generous with his money.”

“I guess that will boost one’s popularity at a casino,” Lipsky said. “Wife? Anyone come down with him?”

“No, he came alone but usually ended up with a friend here.”

“Friend?”

The casino manager looked at the police chief who looked away. “A lady friend. Let’s leave it at that.”

Lipsky turned to face the manager. “We got a dead body and I need to talk to the last person who saw him alive.”

Dalhauser remained silent.

Lipsky told the police chief, “You need to get a crime-scene tech in here. Start taking samples.”

The police chief glanced at his deputy who just shrugged his shoulders. “Our tech quit a few weeks back,” the police chief said. “The guy who’s supposed to replace him is not answering our calls.”

Lipsky punched numbers into his cell phone. A few seconds later, “Basetti, I need you down here in Las Vegas South.” Lipsky turned away from the others. “Got some more twisted shit. Bring your camera.”

Salyer’s student’s car had been parked in front of the Rebel Yell for only five minutes and already the vinyl seats were too hot to touch. Salyer climbed in the backseat and lay down on it long ways. He said nothing during the short drive back to his office. Eli didn’t know if he was hiding, trying to nap, or what. When they arrived, Salyer told the graduate student to take the afternoon off. Eli followed the professor into Ventress Hall. He was surprised by how easily the man took the stairs after several midday drinks. Once inside his office, Salyer locked the door behind them. Then, he removed a key from the back of his desk drawer and opened the closet he’d converted into a shrine to the sixteenth century anatomist.

During his college year abroad in London, Eli learned the history of Vesalius, anatomist from Brussels, author of
De Humani Corporis Fabrica Librim Septum
, the fabric of the human body. Little did Eli know that a series of murders would bring him back to Vasalius’s work.

The renegade, Renaissance anatomist had published the seven books that comprised the
Fabrica
in 1543, the same year Copernicus published his heliocentric theory
De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium
, on the revolutions of the celestial spheres. Just as Copernicus had proven that the sun, not the earth, was the center of the universe, Eli learned that Vesalius had proved Galen wrong in many aspects of anatomical dissection. He knew that Galen’s anatomical teachings were based on his observed dissections in dogs and monkeys, for instance, whereas Vesalius performed the dissections on humans, often executed criminals he pulled from the gallows himself.

Centuries later, the
Fabrica’s
woodcut illustrations were considered
works of art. And Salyer’s passion. Eli knew the anatomist-turned-history-professor never missed a chance to lecture. As though giving a confessional, Salyer faced the iron-gated door and spoke of just these Vesalian details.

Standing behind Salyer, Eli glanced at his watch. He was scheduled to work a graveyard shift in the ER and hoped to return to Memphis a few hours before it started. At this rate, that would not happen. Finally, Salyer unlocked the door.

The tiny room allowed Eli to enter only a couple of steps, more step-in closet than walk-in. The
Fabrica
rested on a podium of sorts that slanted forward to display the over four-hundred-year-old masterpiece, which was measured at least three times larger than a dictionary and twice as thick. Salyer turned on an overhead light that illuminated the book’s magnificent cover. Tiny illustrated scenes, each no larger than a postage stamp, were carved into tanned vellum. Eli squinted to see the details, one scene showing a priest kneeling and ministering to the sick.