Part Two: Bodies. Chapter Nineteen

The arrest of Dr. Kelty at his Madison Park home was anticlimactic. Anderson stayed in the unmarked Dodge with Wallace and Creighton as the whole thing went down.

The choice of how to proceed was given to Wozcynski, so Dr. Kelty lost two doors in the bargain. His boyfriend came to the door screaming as the police took the doctor away. The whole operation took no more than 30 seconds and then Kelty was in a cruiser and they were on their way downtown.

Creighton was silent in the passenger seat and Anderson assumed he was practicing his “I had nothing to do with it” announcement for the next day's news cycle. Anderson watched rain streak the car window as they drove into the city.

“What about the fact that he's gay?” Wallace asked.

Anderson turned to the detective.

“What?”

“The fact that the doctor is a fag, that makes him less of a suspect, too, doesn't it?”

“I hadn't thought about it. Why do you say that?”

Wallace gave a small shrug. “Dunno. Just occurred to me. You were giving us all these reasons why the doc wasn't our guy, and it seemed to fit.”

“There's nothing to go on that reveals anything sexual about the unsub one way or another.”

“Weren't you taking one of the vics apart with Steele?”

“Yes.”

“Sexual trauma?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well there you go!” Wallace seemed satisfied with his logic.

“Sex and murder together are not as common as you'd think. The media has glamorized them, and it's what they put in the movies and on TV because its sexy and kinky, but most of these guys derive complete satisfaction from the act itself without adding any particularly sexualized behavior.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I never heard that.”

They pulled into the cops-only parking garage under building that held both the King County Courthouse, holding cells, and the offices of Seattle P.D. Anderson felt it hard to believe she had been eating lunch when she received the call only...what had it been? Ten hours ago?” She looked at her phone. It was after midnight now. At least ten hours ago. Seemed like a lot longer and a lot less at the same time.

The three of them got out, put their badges on display, and rode up in an elevator to the level with the holding cells and interview tanks. The elevator opened onto an empty lobby and slapped his wallet against a gray panel, springing the electronic locks.

It was easy to find where they were going by the crowd. There was a large observation room that ran the length of the interview rooms, with panels of one-way glass. The observation lounge, in turn, had windows that opened onto the corridor. The interview rooms opened on the far side into the locked down portion of the building. The observation lounge was crowded with men, not a woman among them, Anderson noted, and she caught a few odd glances when she entered with the commander and the detective. There were a couple of the SWAT guys with less armor and armament, some uniformed cops who no doubt had happened to be in the building at the right time, and a handful of men in street clothes, no doubt more detectives or building staff. She knew what they were all there for: A glimpse of a monster, a scary story to tell friends over beers, the day they saw the guy who would soon be listed alongside of Bundy and Gacy.

Chief Pounds was there as well and he made a beeline for Anderson, shaking her hand.

“So, you think we got the guy?”

Inside, T.K. winced. No doubt Wozcynski had built up his case and was telling everyone that their freak was already off the streets. “I'm afraid not, sir.”

“No?”

“They found his wallet at the crime scene and I just can't imagine that our unsub is that careless.”

“What about the fact that he's a psychologist?”

“Psychologists aren't always the most well-adjusted people, but the idea that they like to prey on the weak is largely a creation of fiction.”

“And he's gay.”

“So I heard.”

Pounds stood there expectantly. “So you really don't think it's him?”

“No, I don't.”

Pounds looked like briefly like a sad, oversized child.  He grunted in thought and then went to sit down.

Anderson wandered over to the one-way glass, where nothing much was happening. Wozcynski was sitting in room with the doctor, waiting for him to talk.

“What's going on?” Anderson asked one of the bystanders.

“Skeeze lawyered up, so they're just waiting. Pretty sick shit, huh?”

“That's what they tell me.”

The police would view Kelty's move as indicative of his guilt, of course, but Anderson put it as another mark in the innocent column. It's what a good citizen who could afford it would do under the circumstances. To Kelty, it must certainly feel like he was being railroaded. She wondered what the poor bastard had been told so far. The trouble was, the case still basically had no specific evidence, just a mass grave, so even if the psychologist was innocent, how would he prove it? Wozcynski wouldn't be having any of it anyway.

Anderson wandered away, went to the bathroom, and then found a coffee machine and got a hot chocolate. By the time she got back, the lawyer had arrived, which was what good lawyers did for rich people. They would have the “charge or release” argument, and then Kelty would be tossed in a cell for what was left of the night. Wozcynski shouted out a final profanity and left the interview room to the lawyer and his client.

“Guess that's that,” a cop said, and left the observation room.

Anderson agreed and left to go find something to eat and a place to sleep. She was tempted to find a dark office to squat in, but she was not on her home turf and she maintained hope that with a hotel room and blackout curtains she might be able to sleep in a bit. She knew it was likely a futile hope.

Part Two: Bodies. Chapter Eighteen

Author's Note: Violence ahead!

Alex was so excited he was practically giddy. The idea of doing something so spontaneous, let alone the idea of doing something so...proactive, was intense and satisfying. Surely not as satisfying as the deed itself would be, but it was a new sensation for him to be taking such initiative.

He had stopped at a thrift store and bought a uniform shirt. It hadn't mattered which one, just one that fit, and he had found a cable installer's shirt with a name patch on it that read “Dick”. He thought it was perfect. Just the shirt and his trusty clipboard would be all that he would need.

He found the cul-de-sac easily and wasn't the internet an amazing tool for such things? He parked his car on the opposite side of the street for fifteen minutes and watched. There was a car in the driveway, but the house seemed quiet. The car in the drive looked like a housewife's car, not a cop's car, but what difference would it really make? Now, or later, it would be the same in the end.

Alex pulled out and drove a few blocks away, leaving his car anonymously at the curb. He carried a backpack and quickly covered the few blocks back to the house of his prey.

At the base of their driveway he pulled his clipboard out of his bag and straightened his shirt. Sometimes it was so easy, he thought, as he rang the bell.

There was the clunk and rattle of a chain on the other side of the door. He wondered briefly if she was putting it on or taking it off, but when the door opened, there it was, and what a good, cautious cop's wife she must be. It didn't matter to him either way.

He could see a sliver of her face through the gap. “Yes?”

He reared back on his right foot and drove his left foot forcefully into the door, just below the doorknob. The chain tore out of place and the door cracked the woman in the face and drove a small grunt from her as she staggered back.

One step brought Alex into the house, and two steps had him on top of the woman, his heel kicking the door closed behind her. He drove the woman to the floor, his left hand on her mouth, his right hand producing a hunting knife, one of his favorite toys, an old one, a reliable one. He didn't want to rush this, he'd envisioned spending time with the family, but there was almost certainly bound to be someone else in the house. In fact, he heard rumbling upstairs, as if of a child running. That made him happy.

He could have killed the woman with one instant stroke, severing her arteries and letting her die almost immediately. Instead, with his weight and his left hand holding the shocked woman in place, blood bubbling through her shattered teeth and over her split lips, he placed the knife just beneath her left breast and felt the panic and stress electrify her body as the point pierced her flesh. It was delicious. She began to writhe, as much as she could with her smaller body beneath his and her damaged, painful head. Shock was fighting to keep her body her own, but it was his now. All his.

The knife slowly entered her, almost of its own volition, millimeter by millimeter, as if he were a teasing lover in a playful mood. He knew that at times like this the knife truly was a piece of himself and he swore he could feel its very tip pierce her heart, the tissue parting before the razor sharp blade, her eyes growing wider and wider, and then slowly, ever so slowly closing. He stayed there with her a moment longer, drinking in the visual, the woman who had wanted so much to fight, and who had, in the end, been so incapable of doing so.

Of course she had wanted to fight, he reminded himself. There were children in the house. It had been years since he had taken a child. People just paid too much attention to them, they were too careful with them. Like they were so goddamn special.

Alex quickly checked the rooms on the ground floor before going upstairs. He locked the doors as he went, throwing the deadbolt on the garage and the back door, and getting himself a nice big butcher knife in the kitchen on the way.

The he slowly walked up the stairs to what was clearly the level with all the bedrooms. Where the child or children were. His heart lifted with joy and he made his steps heavier, more intimidating, thinking of a terrified child hearing his steps and being certain there was now a monster in their house. And oh, but there was. A terrifying monster, much more frightening than those in books and movies. A real monster. A monster with a kind, simple face, and with a knife in his hand, and with a mother's blood all over him.

He heard a sound at the end of the corridor at the top of the stairs, and he knew that was where they would be. To be careful, he checked each other room first. It appeared there were too children, one young, one less so. One had cartoon posters on the walls, the other had sports and movies. There was a children's bathroom between the two rooms. That made the last room the master suite, he was sure, and he could picture it in his mind before he reached the door. A queen size bed, a cluttered bathroom, a TV in one corner. Just like so many he'd seen.

He'd never been in this position before, been so blatant and it made him feel powerful. The strength of what he was doing coursed through his veins, making him even more hyper and excited than he had been. It was so thrilling to be doing something different!

The door wouldn't open of course, and it would have been the matter of just a moment to figure out how to bypass the simple lock, but instead he kicked in his second door of the evening. This one was lighter and gave easily, rebounding so that he had to hold up his left hand to keep it from hitting him.

And there they were. The bedroom lights were on, but it was dim light, coming from two floor lamps, not from overhead. The children were huddled at the far corner of the room, on the other side of the bed, queen size, as he had imagined, and there were two of them, a little girl and a bigger boy, thirteen at the most. And what was it they were holding?

A trickle of urine spasmed from the end of Alex's penis when the identification fell into place. The little bastard was holding a gun. Of course, a cop's family, how could he have thought this would be so simple and now he was about to shot by a fucking little boy—

And then Alex began to laugh. At first it was a panicky, horsey laught, but it quickly deteriorated into gasps and gulps, and almost sobs of hilarity. He reached out a hand and steadied himself against the wall.

The boy was holding a gun, certainly. And Alex had no doubt that the boy would be deadly with it if asked to be so. But there was a trigger lock on the gun. There was no key in it. The boy had a gun, but it was not a gun he could use. Alex howled with laughter again, wiping tears from his eyes with his left hand, still holding the butcher knife in his right.

Alex began to walk around the bed to where the children were. The boy stood in front of his sister, defiantly, fire in his eyes, even as they sparkled with fear and tears. The girl behind him was in a tiny, whimpering ball, so precious. They were already in their pajamas. Alex found himself hoping that the cop wouldn't be home for quite some time. There could be quite the evening ahead of him.

“I will fucking kill you,” the boy said, his voice quavering, but not breaking. “Get out of here or I will kill you.”

Alex grinned his wolf's grin. “No. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Part Two: Bodies. Chapter Seventeen

The body was taken apart, various bits and pieces were weighed, samples were taken, slides prepared and when it was done what was left of the poor bastard was sewn back up, which seemed like an empty gesture to Anderson.

The two women were washing their hands when the front desk clerk came in, deliberately not looking at the body.

“Are you Deputy Anderson?”

T.K. looked up. “Yeah.”

“There's a phone call for you, sounds urgent. I guess they've been calling around.”

“Just a sec.” She dried her hands and patted her pockets, realizing that she must have left her cell phone in the car. She followed the clerk out to the front desk and picked up the phone.

“Anderson.”

“I gotta tell you princess, you're not exactly knocking this out of the park just yet, you know?”

“Antonov?”

“No one else could be bothered to do any more than just leave you a message, but I figured you wouldn't wanna be left out. They found someone. Might be the guy, might not, but they're moving on him right now. The task force took over a church at 23^rd and Olive Way, but the suspects lives closer to Madison Park. If you hustle you might catch up.”

“Got it.”

“And if you get on camera tonight, take advantage of it. And it wouldn't kill you to put some fucking makeup on.”

Anderson hung up. She left a card with Steele and thanked her for her time and ran for the door.

T.K. had a dashboard light and used it as she drove up and over Capitol Hill, taking Madison to 23^rd. The church was set back off the street and a privacy screen had been set up in the parking lot, a blacked out fence, to mask the police vehicles behind it. She parked on the other side of the street and entered the church. An officer checked her ID when she entered and had her sign in on a clipboard.

The interior of the church was a zoo. At the front of the sanctuary, directly beneath a cross with what looked like a robe draped over it, a small SWAT team was preparing, checking and double-checking equipment. They were Seattle SWAT officers, Anderson recognized one of them from a training exercise a year or so before. She remembered him because he had the worst teeth of anyone she'd ever actually met in person. She couldn't remember his name though.

And there, standing around a folding banquet table covered with maps and papers, was Wozcynski, a guy who was probably the SWAT commander, and two other men, one in a suit, one in jeans. Anderson approached the table.

Wozcynski, the son of a bitch, looked surprised for just an instant. Then he just moved on. “You made it, good. Guys, this is Anderson, she's the sicko specialist.” He grinned at her. 

“Hopefully we aren't gonna need you after all.”

“What's going on?”

“One of the bodies had ID on it,” the detective said, looking at the table and moving some things around. “Wallet was left on the body. It had a bunch of expired stuff identifying the body potentially as a veteran named Walsh. Records search showed that the guy was homeless or indigent, but that he had been reported missing after missing a regular counseling session at the VA Hospital. The shrink was who reported him missing, it turns out, and his card was also in the wallet. We have a...” he flipped over a piece of paper, “Mathison Kelty, PhfuckinD, a psychologist specializing in PTSD and survivor's guilt, according to the internet.” Wozcynski finally met Anderson's eyes. “And right now he's number one with a bullet on my list of potentially sick bastards.”

“You're kidding.”

“True story, wallet, ID, shrink. What's the problem?”

“I don't believe this. You going to arrest the guy who reported his patient missing?”

“No, we're going to bring him in and assume he could be dangerous. We'll only arrest him if he doesn't want to cooperate.”

“You know it's not him, right?”

“What's not him?”

“This guy's not your killer.”

“What?” asked the SWAT commander, finally taking an interest in conversation.

“It's either an accident or a set up.”

“What are you on about?” Wozcynski said.

“Look no one had any idea there was someone operating on this scale in this area until today. So our guy is not retarded. And if he accidentally left a wallet that had the vic's ID and his own fucking business card in it, then he'd have to be drooling idiot. Which our Unsub is not. Do the math.”

The men at the table were silent. Finally, the commander spoke again. “My men are professionals. They will bring this guy in whether he's a witness, a perp, or a goddamn victim. That's my job. You can sort out the rest of this mess.” The last line he directed at Wozcynski before he stalked off. The detective glared at Anderson.

Anderson turned to the two other men and offered her hand. The man in the suit was Creighton, a Seattle deputy police chief, and the man in the jeans was Wallace, a Seattle detective. They were there to keep Seattle in the investigation. They would conveniently vanish if everything went to hell and the credit would only go to Auburn PD. Seattle's SWAT would have only been acting under their direction. If everything worked out, however, everyone would get a piece of the pie and Seattle SWAT would be heroes, working “in close cooperation” with the investigation.

“I think we're just about ready to head out,” Wallace said. “You coming along?”

“That's what I'm here for,” Anderson said.

“You can ride with the chief and me if you like, we're just observing as well. I mean, y sorry, I assumed you weren't going in.”

“No, I'm not.”

Everyone stood around the table for another moment, in awkward silence. Then, with a brisk movement, Wozcynski rolled up his map and walked away. He yelled out to the church in general, “We leave in five!”

“FIVE!” replied the SWAT team in one loud, clear voice.

Anderson looked at the two Seattle cops.

“No one thought to say something before I arrived?”

“Not my area, deputy,” said Creighton, hiding behind his rank.

“Not my place, I'm afraid,” said Wallace. “Besides, stranger things have happened.”

“Not in real life it doesn't.”

“Anderson, I was a young buck when the Green River mess started, and the big rumor in the department was that they fished a body out of the river with a rock jammed up her,” he cleared his throat, “business. That was true. These guys are weird, wacky and there's no understanding them. If there is a chance we're dealing with a brilliant moron who wants us to find him, then we're not going to miss that opportunity.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you don't agree.”

“You make a good point. Unusual is possible. I would lay you steep odds, however, that we're not going to find a killer at the shrink's house. We'll find his body, or a very confused veteran's counselor who cared enough about his patient to report him missing. You won't find the guy who killed and dumped all those bodies in a hole in the ground.”

The chief nodded. “You're probably right. Wozcynski decided it wasn't worth the risk of waiting to find out, and I happen to agree with him.”

The nod and shrug that Wallace offered showed that he agreed with her more than his superior, but knew better than to say so.

“Well, I need a smoke before we head out,” Creighton said, straightening his tie. “I'll see you two out front in a minute.”

Great, Anderson thought, I'll be stuck in a car with two cops and the ghosts of cigarettes past.

Wallace looked at her and shrugged again.

“Well?” she asked.

“I don't know if you're right, but I'm sure as hell not gonna tell you you're wrong. I don't think bringing your killer in will be quite this easy, and I'll go ahead and say that whatever we find tonight is not going to be as satisfying as you toolbag partner over there.”

“Not my partner.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“I'm the specialist ringer they brought in to crowd him.”

“Right. That always sucks for everyone.”

“No shit.”

“So,” Wallace said, changing the subject, “How'd you get into this weird shit?”

“What weird shit is that?”

“Being a specialist, I guess.”

“I was in the right place at the right time once, gave me a reputation as a good candidate for this kind of position. The County paid for my post-graduate education and I get farmed off to every podunk town in three states that thinks it has a sicko.”

“Good times.”

“I eat a lot of bad food and spend a lot of time driving.”

“Pff. That just makes you a cop, far as I'm concerned.”

“Huh. Yeah, I guess it does. I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Coming from me, being a cop is never gonna be an insult. You ready to take a ride?”

“I'm ready for the ride, I don't know if I'm ready for what happens after that.”

Part Two: Bodies. Chapter Sixteen

Once Alex was finished putting his things in storage, it was time for him to take action. He found a Starbucks, paid the wifi fee, and logged on to the internet using his laptop. He did a phone book search for the last name Wozcynski. There were several in the greater Seattle area, but none with the first initials L or R for L. Randolph Wozcynski, the detective. It was, thankfully, a rare name.

Alex pulled out his pre-paid cell phone and called the number for Wozcynski, J, in Kirkland. He dialed the code first that would mask his phone's number.

“N'yello?”

“Hi, there, I'm calling for Randy,” Alex said, taking a stab in the dark with the name.

“Randy? Sorry, he don't live here. This is his brother, Jimmy.”

“Oh, hey. Listen, I'm just starting to do my Christmas cards and last year Randy's card came back to me. I'm just looking for his address.”

“Oh. Well I can't help you, I'm sorry. The wife takes care of that kind of thing and she ain't here.”

“Damn. Well, listen, could you help me out with his number at least?”

“Well...”

“I'm a retired sergeant and I've been getting the runaround with all the official offices, you know how that goes, and I understand. I was just trying to get his address the old fashioned way.”

“Just a second. Yeah, here you go.” Jimmy Wozcynski rattled off his brother's home phone number. “Tell him not to be such a stranger. You'd think he lived in another state.”

“I sure will. Thank you much.”

“No problem.”

Alex hung up, grinning. People were so easy so much of the time. He dialed the number he'd been given. He cleared his throat and put on a friendly voice.

“Hel-lo!” A child's voice answered the phone.

“Hi, sweetie, is your mommy there?”

There was a rustling on the other end of the phone.

“I'm sorry about that. Who is this?”

“This is Mike Martin at the King County police pension office, Mrs. Wozcynski. I have some files here we need to send you for your husbands 401k, but they got returned unknown address. Could you give me the correct address, ma'am?”

“Oh, of course. It's 29132, 48^th Avenue SE, 98093.”

“Excellent. And this is a good number to reach you?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well that was easy! Thanks so much for your time.”

“Thank you.”

Well, shit, he thought to himself, putting the phone away. Sometimes things just worked out the way you wanted them to.

He pulled up Google maps and entered the address Mrs. Wozcynski had given him. It was in Auburn, just a few miles from the body dump. It was an area he had grown very familiar with.

He thought of the tools that he had in his car. He would have to get to his van and get his kits out of it. He was going to make a trip, but this time, unusually, he did not plan on bringing anything home with him.

Google Street View showed him that the Wozcynski homestead was on a small culdesac, backing onto a green belt. Unfortunate for the family, but very useful to him. He sighed with satisfaction. He had another hour of driving ahead of him, which would give him lots of time to develop delicious plans in his mind. He wouldn't have time to get to all of them, no doubt, but it would be a worth distraction on the way.

He turned his mind to other things and checked his email while waiting for his erection to fade so he could leave. It was going to be a good night.

Part Two: Bodies. Chapter Fifteen

Three body bags were laid out on three separate wheeled tables. Two of the bags were shapeless, clearly containing just a skeleton. Steele nodded at the fuller bag.

“That's the fresh one, we're going to take a look at it and see if we can't find something useful. We might get something to go on from the skeletons, but it'll be from records, not examination.” Anderson noted that the doctor had an odd way of saying skeleton, pronouncing it instead like the comic actor, Red Skelton. “Marty!” Steele called, and a technician in a face mask entered from a side room. “Take measurements, dentals and whatever else you can get off of these two.” Marty nodded and wheeled one of the bodies out of the room.

“Hopefully some of the dentals match up to missing persons. It'll take a while to match all the records, but narrowing it by gender and age will help a lot. But you know that, don't you.”

“Mm-hmm,” Anderson responded.

“Before we start, though,” Steele led Anderson over to a table. She pulled a small brown bottle out of her lab coat, removed the cap, and placed a drop in a surgical mask before putting it on.
“Lavender essential oil,” she said, repeating the process and handing the mask to Anderson.

“Smell is a bit overwhelming at first, but it beats the hell out of the way it's gonna smell in here in a minute.” She reached up and threw a switch in the wall and there was a low hum as an exhaust fan began to turn.

The smell in the mask was obnoxious, but Anderson was sure it would be better than the alternative.

“Since Marty is working in there,” Steele said, moving back toward the fuller body bag, “I may ask you for some help. Alright?”

“This isn't really my area.”

“Can you follow simple directions?” Steele asked sharply as she examined her tray of tools.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Then you'll do fine. And enough of this ma'am shit. I know what people call me behind my back, but you can call me Steele or Milly. Sisterly solidarity and all that, okay?”

“Alright.”

“Now, stand on the other side of the body.”

Anderson moved into place. She had not attended many autopsies, she was usually assigned to a case long after this step had been reached, but the few autopsies she had attended had been clean, sterile affairs. The smell of this body indicated that this autopsy would be otherwise.

Steele reached for the zipper on the body bag. “Here comes the fun stuff,” she said. The zipper came open and tears sprang to Anderson's eyes. She would never have guessed that any smell would be able to penetrate the cloying lavender scent that had practically been shoved up her nose, but this did. The scent of rotten, decayed flesh crawled into the back of her throat and stayed there.

“Ugh,” Steele said, shaking her head. “This is a bad one. Now, the boys in the field packed up all the dirt from around this body and they'll sift it and run the results through the lab for fibers and what not. This, on the other hand,” she said, finishing with the zipper, “Is just for us. Aren't we lucky?”

Anderson's head was swimming.

“So what have you heard about me, Anderson?”

“I'm sorry?”

“What have you heard. I know there are all sorts of stories about me, you must have heard some of them.”

“Of course.”

“Any good ones?”

“They said you did an autopsy on a gorilla once.”

Steele peeled back the body bag, revealing the reeking corpse. It appeared to be a male, the hair still largely intact, but dark and matted and coming away from the scalp in places. The nose was almost gone and the lips had receded, giving the appearance of a hideous grin.

“Sort of true,” Steele said, “I sat in on a post-mortem of a lowlands gorilla at Woodland Park Zoo once. They have a local obstetrician do all their deliveries, too, you know. The biology is very similar. Don't do much else with animals though. What else?”

Steele peeled back the rest of the body bag and Anderson saw that the body was lying on a back board inside the bag. The hands had freezer bags over them, held in place with rubber bands. Steele grunted as she grabbed the handles on the board and lifted the body up. She nodded at Anderson and the detective began to slide the body bag out from under the board.

“I heard you threatened one of your ex-husbands with a scalpel.”

The body's right hand fell off of the board and landed with a crinkle of plastic and a softer, fatter slap on the table before Anderson. She ignored it and continued to pull at the body bag.

“Just a second.” Steele returned the board to the table and moved to the feet of the corpse. Shoes were still in place, Anderson noted, which struck her as odd somehow. “Again,” Steele said, lifting the feet of the body up as T.K. struggled to pull the body bag away. “Good,” the older woman said, as the bag was finally tugged away. “Over there,” she said, nodding to a waste container, “They won't want it back. The board either, I imagine.”

Wincing at the smell, T.K. balled the bag up, swallowing and swallowing to keep from gagging, taking shallow breaths through her mouth. Cramming the empty body bag in the trash made her feel better, but she couldn't tell if the smell was actually reduced any or not. She suspected it was not. When she returned to the table, Steele continued talking.

“The scalpel story always interested me, considering it was one of my husbands who pulled it on me. I won't tell you which though. Hell,” she said, carefully pulling one of the body's sneakers away from its food, “You aren't old enough to remember any of those bastards anyway.”

“No, ma'am.”

“Milly.”

“Milly.”

“So shall I tell you some of the stories I've heard about you?”

Anderson swallowed again as the second sneaker came away. The feet were discolored and the nails were blue.

“Go ahead.”

“Well there are the obvious ones that men make up of women they're afraid of, like that you used to be a man, or that you're a lesbian. I can tell that you're neither, by the way, and any smart person would be able to do the same, but men can't help themselves sometimes. Just like the scalpel story, I suppose. For some reason it's easier if we're threatening rather than just intimidating.”

She used scissors to cut away a sweatshirt, t-shirt, and jeans from the body. These she bagged up to be gone over by an evidence specialist.

“You'd get it a bit less if you grew your hair out, I imagine. I like it short though.”

“Me, too. You only have one asshole grab your hair through the cage in a patrol car once, believe me.”

“Smart girl. Not enough police officers learn from mistakes like that one. Not that I ever learned from my mistakes, mind you. I have some crazy bastard who thinks he'll make a good husband, three exes to the contrary.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don't smoke, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Nope, what?”

“Uh, nope, Milly.”

“Atta girl. Never start. I've seen cancerous lungs much closer than anyone should and I still can't bring my self to quit. Pathetic.”

Steele pulled on a magnifying lamp that was attached to the edge of the table and flipped it on. She began to examine the body closer, inch by inch. Here, her chatty manner stopped altogether and Anderson watched and waited as the doctor spent the better part of a half an hour examining every detail of the body. Three times she stopped and removed something from the body with a pair of tweezers, placing it in a small plastic cup and sealing the lid. When she finished she stood up and stretched placing her hands in the small of her back. “Probably from the clothes,” she said, “But you can never be too careful.”

Anderson helped the doctor roll the body over and she repeated the process on the back side of the corpse. She took swabs from the body's mouth, nose, eyes, rectum and urethra. Anderson winced at the violations, but she was the only one who seemed to mind. Then Steele hosed the body down thoroughly. When she was finished, she pulled a filter from the table's drain, placing it in a special container.

“All sorts of fascinating things turn up in those, you know.”

T.K. nodded. Steele turned away and bent over her table of instruments. T.K. was examining the body when she heard a high-pitched whining. She looked up and saw the doctor wielding a tiny power saw.

“Alright, Anderson,” she said, her eyes gleaming above her surgical mask, “What do you say we cut this fucker open?”

Part Two: Bodies. Chapter Fourteen

Alex doesn't often keep things to remember those he spends time with, but sometimes he is compelled to do so. As he moves his few things into his storage locker, he has time to reflect on his mementos. He'd kept something of Liz's, of course, how could he not? But he also kept something of McConnell's. McConnell was the beginning of a new chapter, an important milestone, a new step for Alex. Murder in plain sight. McConnell's service ribbons, which he'd found in the bottom of a drawer while taking a break from spending time with the vet, had a special place in the cigar box where Alex kept his special things.

He'd planned on taking a few days off, but visiting McConnell during the day had left him too excited. He put his plans into action immediately. He went to a Home Depot and bought a length of heavy rope that was tested to more than 200 pounds. Wouldn't do for it to be too weak. Then he bought a sheet of wood that was only a quarter of an inch thick. And then, wonder of wonders, they cut it to length for him! He had them cut it into strips, a foot deep and two feet wide. He admired the large ripping circular saw the young Latina girl used to chop his lumber for him. Free of charge even. It was hard to believe anything was free anymore. As he watched her deftly saw the lumber, he thought of other applications for the large saw. How tragic it would be if someone just accidentally slipped and how gloriously damaging it would be. Even a simple accident here would cause you a digit or a limb. He was sure he would have explored such a thing if he had a space to do it in.

That was a fantasy of his. A cabin, not unlike the one where'd he stayed with Liz, up in the mountains, far away from questions and hearing ears. There he could set up a tool shop, a morgue, a dungeon, anything his little heart desired and he would be able to explore any idea he had. A fantasy, and it always would be, it would never be safe to stay in one place very long, certainly not while living in such as way as to expose himself to prying eyes. Ah well, some fantasies lived perfectly well in the imagination without needing to explore the reality.

The reality was what he would be exploring tonight with Roger Lloyd McConnell. He had a leisurely steak dinner that evening, and the heavy table disguised his excitement as he planned his evening, step by step. He always treated these experiences as a treat to himself, and spent money accordingly. Tonight was extra special, as he would be trying something completely new.

He wondered how long McConnell would last. He could still be playing with him well into tomorrow, depending on how things went. That would be very special. And at the end, McConnell himself would be left, exposed to the world, a slap in the face to the entire world and the structure and bullshit of justice and Alex would just walk away.

He went to a movie and tried to keep himself distracted until 9 p.m., when McConnell usually turned his lights off and watched television. Alex drove by at 9:30 and could see the flickering blue light of the television through the blinds. He drove off and came back twice, and when the television was still on after midnight, Alex guess the man had fallen asleep. The thought of being able to sneak into McConnell's house and taking him right there in the living room filled him with joy. It would be so much better than drugging him and having to move him.

He walked confidently through the front yard, carrying his backpack. He always looked like he knew exactly where he was going and it served him sell. One of the blinds was not completely lowered, and he could see McConnell snoozing on the couch, his head tilted back at an awkward angle. No doubt he would be snoring.

Alex went to the back door and he was easily able to repeat breaking into the house, again wrinkling his nose at the sour milk smell of the interior. As he slowly opened the door he heard that he was right, the man was indeed snoring. Alex grinned his hungry grin and quietly let himself into the house, making sure the door was locked behind him.

He took of his shoes immediately and quietly zipped open the backpack. He removed the rope from it and standing in the kitchen, he tied a hangman's noose in it. He had debated simply tying a slip knot, it would certainly work the same for what he had in mind, but he somehow thought of McConnell as more of a traditionalist than that. Once the knot was finished, he looped the excess rope over one arm and crept into the living room.

It was perfect. McConnell was sitting a few feet forward of a heavy exposed beam that ran through his ceiling. The beam was what had given him the idea in the first place. Alex quietly moved a chair from the flimsy chair that served as a dining room table and stood on it beneath the beam. He threaded the noose over it and lowered it to the floor. He moved the chair out of the way and looked for someone that he would be able to secure the end of the rope to. He couldn't find anything at first, and for a moment he was furious with himself. After a moment, though, he spied the solution. The kitchen had a that opened out of the living room, into the kitchen. It had a large, brass handle on it. It would have to do. And if it didn't do the job, he could always resort to more traditional methods.

He carefully placed two phone books and a short stack of sheets of wood beneath the place where the noose hung from the beam. He was ready.

And now the moment was here. Alex's erection strained against his pants as he took his place behind the grizzled snorer. This was always the moment. The place where his plans and fantasies crossed paths with the reality and the practice, what he wished would happen, what he imagined would happen, and what he actually created. He tied the loose end of the rope in a loose loop over one shoulder and under the opposite armpit. He kept taking deep breaths, as he felt he was dangerously close to hyperventilating. Alex weighed close to what McConnell did, he was confident, so he knew he could do what he had planned. He also knew it would not be easy. He smiled, his teeth flashing in the blue light of the television.

He stood behind the vet for a minute or two longer, carefully reviewing the steps he would take. 1-2-3-4, his fingers quickly counted back and forth, touching thumb tip to pad, thumb tip to knuckle. He laid the noose on McConnell's shoulders as gently as an undertaker would place a shroud. The old man barely stirred. Alex wrapped one hand in the loose end of the rope, slowly taking out the slack. When that was finished, Alex placed his other hand on the back of the recliner. In an instant, he dropped the back of the recliner and the old man was almost horizontal, his eyes just beginning to pop open, and in another moment, charged with adrenaline, Alex was hanging from the loose end of the rope, pulling the noose taught and then pulling the old man off the ground. He pulled and heaved and McConnell's feet cleared the ground by almost a foot. Maintaining the tension, practically dangling from the end of the rope himself, Alex pushed the stack under McConnell's flailing feet with his right foot. The old man kicked the first telephone book off the pile, and it thudded against the recliner, but as he lost his breath and his feet began to kick less, his toes found the support and stood there. Alex watched the old man struggle to live, lifting up on his toes to take the strain off his neck and throat.

Alex waited until he saw the man's chest fill with air, he was sure so that he could scream for help, and then Alex heaved on the rope again. With a gag, the old man rose again, his feet losing the support, kicking in the air again. Alex made his way to the kitchen door, making a fast knot around the brass door handle, making an adjustment before releasing the tension. The old man's toes were now barely able to reach the phone book, and Alex called out to him, walking around him.

“Hey!” As he crossed in front of McConnell, Alex saw recognition in his eyes. “Remember me? Listen, man, I'm just here to steal your stuff. I'm not gonna hurt you if you don't do anything stupid, okay? I promise. If you stop struggling I'll put another phone book under your feet so you can breathe better, alright?”

“Oguhk,” the old man, said, and Alex took that for an okay. He carefully approached the other man and placed the second phone book under his feet. He then gently rotated the hanging man so he was facing the kitchen door. Alex stood before him again.

“Now listen, I'll be as quick as I can. You make any noise, you try to attract any attention, I'll lean on this rope until you die. Otherwise, when I'm finished I'll cut you down. Alright?”

The old man could breathe better now and his eyes glared at Alex. “Just get out.”

“Soon,” Alex said, and left the room. He put on latex gloves and quickly went through the old man's things, looking to see if there was anything worth keeping. Other than the man's military bars, there were not.

When he returned to the living room, the old man was trying to do a half-assed pull up on the ceiling beam, taking tension off of his throat. Alex was impressed. The man was apparently stronger than he thought. Maybe he would last a while after all. Excellent. The old man's pale, sagging arms vibrated with tension and he pulled himself to the very tips of his toes, gasping for clear breaths. Alex strode forward and put his body weight on the other end of the rope. The old man rose higher, his arms slipping off the beam in surprise. Holding the tension in the rope, Alex kicked the top phone book away. He lowered the old man back and watching him struggle to maintain his weight on his toes, standing on the remaining phone book.

“See now you've upset me,” he said, wiggling the rope in his hand. The old man's eyes held nothing but panic now. His chest heaved and his shirt was almost dripping with sweat.

Alex met his eyes and began to wait.

Author's Interlude: Progress and Process

When I wrote the title of this blog entry it felt weird to refer to myself as an author.  Usually I just think of myself as a writer, or more accuratley these days as a story teller since I work in theater and help others tell their stories as well.  Occasionally I think of myself as a novelist.  I don't walk around thinking that my lack of success ever affects my standing as an "author".  I wonder why.

Today I gained another couple of followers and I'm up to seven.  I appreciate that.  Not all of them are actively reading this, but I know they intend to.  Two of my readers, my sister Rochelle and Nicole Miller, are both reading on an active basis and tell me they are excited to read the next chapter.  I'd forgotten how much fun it was to write in a serial format and have people actively waiting for the next part. 

I have only fourteen chapters, as of now, and the next one will be posted tomorrow.  That means my reserve of backup chapters is spent.  Unless I write more tonight, and I may, I'll be up against a deadline every day.  It may be good for me, but I'm entering tech week directing a play this week and it'll add stress as well as satisfaction to my writing.

As to the writing, I've never done this before.  As my dear Courtnee reads these entries, a lot of what she sees is the errors instead of the story.  Some of my readers will have that experience and won't be able to appreciate the story until it's cleaner.  That's fine and I totally understand that.  Most of the writing that I share with people is at least the 1.5 version, that is the first draft plus tidying up.  The idea of writing via blog was to brain dump so I've done the least amount of tidying possible just so the damn thing is readable.  This is me at my most raw and a great way I can give my readers insight into my process.

The origin of this story came more than a year ago when I started working as a medical transcriptionist.  Again.  I did it for about a year, until this April.  My initial idea for writing this book, which is more a thriller than a mystery, as there's no whodunnit, was to crank it out furiously over last Labor Day weekend.  I can't remember what prevented me, but something got in the way.  I've often fantasized about doing a novel in a short period of time and seeing what I came up with.  My standard format of a mystery ala Elegy would not work, as it's a slower process.  But I liked the idea of writing a book that would read really quickly, at least partly because I wrote it the same way.  I have a few more of those ideas tucked away and I look forward to digging into them.

This book idea, which is saved on my desktop as "medial records" with a typo from Medical that I've never bothered to fix, started with almost my first day of transcribing.  I typed up a psychology report on a guy who'd been jumped and beaten on Capital Hill, here in Seattle, and who had some kind of PTSD.  It wasn't expressly stated in the report, but the implication, to me, was that it was a hate crime.  He had barely left his house since.  I wanted to go find him and give him a hug and I easily could have, as I had his medical file, which had an address in it.  Then the light went on.  If I could, anyone in my position could.  At the time I was thinking or reading about the Green River killings, and body dumps, and the two ideas met and voila, novel idea.  The medical records have played much less of a role than I thought they would so far, and it's been fascinating to see how this base of an idea has played out over 40+ pages at this point. 

When I am done, I will have a novel.  I will likely email the ending to my readers so I have a marketable novel left over instead of a whole thing available for free, but working under deadline and for people I know are waiting and letting the story evolve as I write it has been rewarding, and it's exciting.  It's a challenge and it has been a long time since I really, deliberately threw myself a challenge. 

Thanks for following along, it's truly appreciated.