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“Is she going to make me anything?”
“An ash tray, I’m sure.”
The blood was well-contained. Pierce was jumped. An axe sunk into the back of his skull deep enough for him to taste the keen, acuminous edge. The murderer looked like he put all his fury into that one swing. The mess of his bone and brains left at the entry wound means the killer tried for a while to un-jimmy the axe from Pierce’s head. Pried out; rocked back and forth. Yanked.
“Have you eaten at that new Japanese place near the water? Sixteenth and Bayline?” Clevenger asks as he crouches and studies the skull.
“The only thing I eat raw comes from the ass of a cow,” I say. “Anything else was intended by God to be cooked first.”
“Sushi is very good. And healthy. I’d recommend you trying something easy first like a California roll or salmon nigiri or—”
“Put a sock in it, Clevenger. You know you ain’t gonna convince me to eat that shit. I ever tell you about the cuisine during the war?”
“I know, I know. Dog and monkey. They’d dice up a cat and tell you it was chicken.”
“Right.”
The body was left lying on a tarp. Standard blue. M.E. thinks a serious hunting knife took the limbs off. Both arms and legs were severed and stacked on one end of the tarp, firewood style. His torso was exposed and carved with the knife tip. The word Betrayer carved over and over. Good for handwriting analysis.
“How is your car coming along?”
“Ordering parts. Mechanics.”
“I told you not to go there. They’re cheap for a reason. I know a guy named Eric, and he’s the one you want—”
“Tell me about him next time, then.”
Pierce White has his genitals in his mouth, like a roasting pig biting an apple. Good thing he had an axe buried in his noggin before his cock was sawed off and fed to him. Arrogant jack-off or not, that’s no way to be found dead.
“Came in through the back,” Clevenger says, kneeling by the body. Absently picks at something. Stands.
“With a backdoor like that, I would too.” The backdoor was paneled with glass. There is more breakable surface on that door than wood. It was for looks, not security.
“Pretty straight forward,” Clevenger says, points out back. “Footprints.”
There’s a hefty, disheveled trail running through the backyard. It looks like the killer intentionally drug his or her feet through the snow to destroy any easy footprints. I assume the killer followed the same path back out in similar fashion.
“The killer opened the wooden privacy fence gate—unlocked, of course—and meandered up into the backyard. One pane of glass is right next to the backdoor handle. Broken out. Unlocked from the inside. There’s even tape residue around the glass where our murderer must have patched the hole.”
Didn’t want ol’ Pierce here to come home from a long day at the office and feel his house twenty degrees cooler. That tells me the killer showed up much earlier than White did. Means the killer didn’t know White’s schedule so he made allowances for time or he needed time in advance to set something up.
“Then, just wait. Jump. Mutilate,” Clevenger says.
“Any chance at all this was a burglary he walked in on?” I ask, knowing the answer.
Clevenger looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
“All right. Never mind,” I say. “Your killer knew Pierce.”
“I’d put money on it.”
“I’d hope he did anyways,” I say. I want a cigarette. The kind of wounds Pierce sustained says intimate knowledge. No one just cuts someone’s family jewels off and stuffs them into a mouth without reason. Barring complete insanity, there is motive behind it.
We look at each other for a moment. Like the old days.
“This done by your girl?” Clevenger asks.
“Maybe. I don’t know her style.”
