The Death Box (20 page)

She snapped her fingers and the tech filled them with several photos. “This is the head of John Doe Middle Stratum. You’ll note that the neck flesh is ossified by the concrete, but you can’t hide a slash like that. The victim was slit ear to ear. It also seems the hands were severed on this victim. They’re on their way to the lab. A severed hand means thievery in the Muslim world, right?”

“Biblical, too, maybe, given the Old Testament. Any ID on the body?”

“None. But the clothing was somewhat intact. He wore a suit, silk. We have a label from the jacket, an expensive Italian make. We have shoes as well, also Italian and pricey.”

“What was that guy doing underneath a cargo of dirt-poor Hondurans?” I mused.

“Slumming?” Gershwin ventured.

“Now for JDBS, our bottom victim,” Morningside said. “The first body dumped in the pit and more ossified than the Hondurans. I figure our bottom John Doe was down there for a couple years, so maybe a year before the others.” The tech anticipated the fingersnap by getting there first, handing the doc a dark plastic bag, large. “Glove up, Ryder,” she said and I resisted dropping my mouth in awe: Morningstar was letting me handle evidence. I snapped the latex in place and the doc reached into the bag and handed me its contents.

“A skull,” I said unnecessarily, turning it in my hands and noting the lower mandible was missing. “Or what’s left of one.”

“Wait. More to come.”

The tech took the skull from my hands as Morningstar opened her hand and revealed an object resembling a petrified thumb until I looked closer.

“Is this what I think it is?” I asked, grimacing.

“Yep. A penis.”

“It fell off the body?”

“We removed it from the oral cavity of the skull. Go ahead, take a look. It won’t bite.”

I lifted the severed member. I had held but one penis before and felt uncomfortable holding this one, even though it seemed more statue than human. “The preservation is rather remarkable,” Morningstar said. “Don’t you think?”

The urethra seemed to stare at me and I looked away.

“I guess.”

“Check the base. There’s no tearing of the flesh nor internal tissue. Probably removed by a razor-sharp knife. Zip … and it was gone.”

The
zip
did me in. I set the penis on the table.

“Any idea as to meaning?” Morningstar said. “The oral placement?”

“In certain circles it means the penis has been places it shouldn’t. The only other time I’ve seen this was when a gang boss discovered his wife fooling around. He had lover-boy brought in and removed his equipment with a kitchen knife, jammed it in the guy’s mouth and put a bullet in his head. The, uh, surgery was not very neat.”

“Torture, you think in this case?” she asked. “Or an example?”

“An example would mean a victim was shown around as a warning to others.”

I recalled my personal encounter. The gangster had assembled friends of the victim at gunpoint, forcing them to behold his work. When the horrendous story hit the streets the boss became one of the most feared monsters around. It was a double-edged sword, because word eventually made its way to the cops. The boss was now doing life in Holman Prison and I hoped it was a short one.

“So someone might know?” Morningstar asked.

“Or have heard about it. That’s all it takes to create a street mythology. Mess with my woman, steal from me, this is what happens.”

Morningstar looked me in the eye. “The bottom victims give no indication of being trafficked. They appear to be separate incidents. Think it’ll change the situation with Homeland Security?”

I felt a rising excitement. “I’ll let you know,” I said, turning toward the exit. “You should probably expect a call from Roy.”

I kept my expectations in check as we headed to Miami and didn’t mention my hopes to Gershwin. I didn’t want to call Roy with the information, but convey the news in person. I also expected I’d have to do a sales job, perhaps with Morningstar’s help, but she seemed on my side, finding HomeSec’s investigation lackadaisical and almost inept thus far.

We parked and headed to Roy’s office, and found the door wide as usual. Roy wasn’t a closed-door kind of guy. “There’s my man,” Roy said as I knocked on his door frame. “I left some real-estate brochures in your office, though you’ve probably already found a—”

“You should call Morningstar, Roy,” I interrupted, running on hope and adrenalin. “She’s out at the site.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not any more, maybe.”

Roy frowned and was talking to Morningstar in seconds. Or listening, mainly. After a minute he tapped the phone off and gave me a raised eyebrow. “I understand what you’re trying to do. But most of the column …”

“Yes indeed, Roy. But I can live with dual ownership.”

What I was proposing was not something Roy wanted in his day, but the big hands clapped together in a decision made. “I’ll have the interested parties pow-wow at the site. Rayles ain’t gonna be a happy pup, you know that, don’t you?”

Like a bouncing ball, we headed back to the site. Roy, Gershwin and I arrived first, the HomeSec twins a minute later. Morningstar handed them a copy and photos of her latest findings, then retreated to the fringe of the conversation.

“What does all this mean?” Rayles asked me, scanning the report. I saw him wince and figured he’d got to the amputated penis part. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It’s in the files, Major. There were two bodies in the lower section of concrete, both hideously mutilated, one sexually. I can show you mutilations on the actual bodies if you wish. They’re over in the—”

“I’ll trust the photos.”

“The bottom line is that the assault was savage and meant to create extreme pain and fear, the kind of action I associate with a psychotic mind.”

“And this leads you to think—”

“That it’s our case, FCLE. At least the two bodies in the lower section of the column. You can have the upper section.” I smiled with all the charm and bonhomie I could muster. “We’ll investigate the case together, Major, like a team.”

The look on Rayles’s face told me my idea was not bringing joy to his day. He looked to Roy. “Your thoughts, Captain McDermott?”

“Detective Ryder has a point,” Roy deadpanned. “He’s looking forward to working with you, Major.”

Rayles was irritated, not, I figured, at sharing a case that would go nowhere from a national security point of view, but at being bested by a guy whose credentials lacked the gravitas of a command at Gitmo.

“It’s inefficient,” he said. “Meetings alone would be problematic.”

“I’ll come to your department every morning to review findings, Major. How’s the coffee at HomeSec?”

He was now looking less angry than ill.

“Or …” I said as if the idea had just occurred, “FCLE can handle both investigations. If you’re looking for efficiency, Major Rayles, I think that may be the best solution.”

I watched Rayles mentally juggle his options for several seconds. Though his chin was on full and clenching jut, his words came out in an even tone. “Given that the investigation was initiated by FCLE and the bulk of the investigative material has been generated by FCLE, the appropriate response is that jurisdiction reverts to FCLE. For the time being, at least.”

Rayles’s assistant, Robert Pinker, eyeballed his boss. If anything, he looked more pissed off than Rayles.

“That’s it, Major?” Pinker snapped. “The guy wins? You’re gonna hand it back just like that?”

“It’s a criminal investigation, Mr Pinker,” I corrected. “Not a competition.”

Pinker moved close and looked ready to swing on me. A surprised Rayles stepped between us, eyeballing Pinker. “Detective Ryder is correct, Robert. We’ll leave the investigation to the capable hands of the FCLE.”

The
capable
was nice, though a political frippery, like congressfolks addressing each other as
honorable colleague
when all they wanted was to gut one another. Rayles turned to leave, but paused to turn back, needing to end with a note of command.

“I expect to be copied on every aspect of the case, Ryder,” he instructed. “Do you read me?”

“In triplicate,” I said, holding up my fingers in the Boy Scout salute.

We were back on the case.

31

Minard Chalk is sleeping in his expansive home in Key West, sweat beading on his brow, the red silk sheets jumbled from his tossing and turning. The white suit worn at Orchids restaurant is hanging in the closet and freshly laundered. Every day Chalk leaves the house at one-fifteen p.m. for lunch at one of the nearby restaurants. The staff arrives at one-twenty to gather laundry for dry cleaning, drop off fresh laundry, and to pick up, dust and vacuum. A prepared dinner is left behind, as well as a snack for later in the evening. The dinner and snack combined must not tally beyond eight hundred and sixty-five calories.

The staff must be gone by two-thirty. Chalk never returns before three-fifteen. When Chalk is at one of the other residences – Seattle, San Clemente, Minneapolis – the house receives a total cleaning.

Chalk is dreaming of a girl. He does not want this dream, but his moaning, rolling body cannot fight it off. He always loses to the dream.

The girl’s name is Xaviera Teresa Santinell and her sixteen-year-old skin seems to glow with its perfection. Her hair is as black as polished coal and her eyes as gentle as the eyes of a faun. She is dressed in a simple pink dress that ends well above her knees. Her legs are long and slender and when she stands with one small foot on the ground and the other cocked in the air behind her, she reminds the young Minard Chalk of a beautiful flamingo. Xaviera moves through the Chalks’ sprawling San Clemente household like a vision, an ethereal presence in the eyes of Chalk, eleven years old.

Minard Chalk is in love. He’s been in love for four months, since his eyes first fell across Xaviera, entering the Chalk household beside her mother, the Chalks’ newest housekeeper. The previous housekeeper, Maria, had disappeared after a shouting match with Mrs Chalk, a door slamming as she ran crying from the home. Mrs Chalk is a demanding woman who goes through several house staffers annually.

They are alone, Minard and Xaviera. Her mother is visiting relatives in Los Angeles and Chalk’s parents are in Spain or Italy or wherever the jets fly, though Minard has never been further than a private academy in New Mexico. The Chalks do not vacation with Minard because it makes them look old enough to have a child of that age.

Sometimes when all the parents are gone Xaviera has her friends over, other teenage girls who swim in the pools – one inside and one outside – and giggle into one another’s ears. They wear tiny swimming suits and move like cats. When they use dirty words it makes the eavesdropping Minard feel sweetly crawly inside, though he doesn’t know why.

Later, in his room, he repeats their words and feels sweetly crawly yet again.

“Fucking. Boobies. Pussy. Dick. Rubbers.”

Minard has been watching Xaviera from the furthest shadows of a darkened room across the hall from the room Xaviera had been dusting. She has just done something truly amazing: plucked a feather from the duster and lay down on the wide bed in the guest room, dusting herself where Minard could not see, below her belly button, her pink dress hiked high on long legs ending at pink tennis shoes. Her hair is tied in a red silk bow and splays across the bed, dark locks cascading over the side. Her pink tongue pokes from lips like a fresh rose. The sun blazes through the window across the room and the space seems filled with golden light.

She turns and sees him watching. Her eyes widen. The sun explodes and the room turns to pure white.

Minard rolls and moans and his fingers dig into the pillow.

The room shivers back into view, at first just an outline of Xaviera, then filling with color. She is cross-legged on the bed now, the feather on the floor. Chalk’s hand covers his genitals over his khaki shorts.

“Come here, little one,” says the rose mouth of Xaviera. “I want you to show me what’s under your hand.”

“I … I … I …” Minard Chalk’s breath has frozen in his throat.

“Don’t be frightened, little dove. Maybe we can have a trade.”

“T-t-trade?”

“If you show me what’s in your hand, I might show you what’s in mine. Would you like that?”

Xaviera’s hands are cupping her breasts. Her teeth shine like stars. The girl’s hands fall from her breasts, their points visible under the thin fabric. Minard wants to stare at the tiny perfect moons but knows that is rude.

“You do this a lot, do you not?” Xaviera says, her voice as quiet as a prayer. “Watch me?”

His eyes drop to the floor. His tongue is a rock in his mouth.

“I’ve seen you, Minard. I know all of your watching places. You’ve watched me since the day I arrived, no?”

“It just l-l-looks like I’m …”

“Shhh, Minard. I’m not angry. I like to be watched.”

“R-really?”

A pink finger slips to one of the moons and brushes over it. “It makes me feel special. Why do you like to watch me?”

“Because I-I love you.”

“You’re so smart, Minard. Don’t shake your head, everyone knows it. Tell me in smart words how much you love me.”

The boy tries to search his mind but he’s frozen by the girl’s beauty. Twenty years away Minard Chalk moans into his pillow.

“I-I can’t.”

“You don’t really love me then,” she says, her face dropping. Even sad she is so beautiful that Chalk wants to cry.

“I do, Xaviera. I really do. I-I want to marry you.”

“What? I didn’t hear you. Tell me louder.”

He swallows hard and takes a deep breath. “I love you and I want to marry you,” he says, his voice filling the room.

A wide smile. “Oh? What will we do, Minard? If we are married?”

“Go to another country. China, maybe. Or Australia.”

“Why so far?”

“To be happy.”

“I think you should kiss me, Minard. Will that make you happy?”

The boy’s mouth drops open. He has practiced kissing in the mirror a hundred times. The world turns to stillness as he leans forward with his lips on fire. But her hand touches his chest and holds him back.