Chaos in Death

Six

Eve glanced over at Peabody as she walked back into the bullpen, got a shake of the head.

So no luck, yet, on masks or makeup. She went into her office, got coffee, then sat at her desk, put her boots up, and studied the board.

Everybody liked Rosenthall; nobody liked Billingsly. Instinct dictated a push on Billingsly—and she intended to listen. But she’d give a little push on the good doctor as well.

Arianna Whitwood. Beautiful, rich, smart, dedicated, caring. The good daughter, and again, the good doctor.

Didn’t that make an interesting triangle? Billingsly wanted her—and didn’t bother to (ha-ha) disguise it. Rosenthall had her.

And what did that have to do with the three vics?

They were Arianna’s. Her patients, her investment, her success—at least so far. Rosenthall’s, too.

Maybe Arianna had given them too much time, attention, made too big an investment. A man could resent that. She sometimes wondered why Roarke didn’t resent all the time, the attention, the investment she put into the job.

But there weren’t a lot of Roarkes in the world.

Maybe the three vics—or any one of them—overheard Arianna and the good doctor going at it over her work, that time and attention again. Hey, bitch, what about me? Shouldn’t I be the center of your world? Maybe he’d lost his temper. Couldn’t have the gossip mills grinding that one.

And no, just not enough for that kind of slaughter.

Maybe the vics, or one of them, overheard the two doctorsin-love arguing because Rosenthall was sampling product. Experimenting. That’s what you did in a lab. You experimented. Maybe he’d developed a problem of his own during those experiments. Now that, combined with being found out, could lead to bloody, vicious murder. Could be Arianna didn’t know. Can’t have her find out he’s become what he’s supposed to cure.

That could play.

Or, onto Billingsly. He pushed himself on his beautiful associate, and again one or all of them saw the incident. Possible.

Or the annoying doctor fooled around with a patient, maybe—hmm—maybe tried a move on Darnell. Rejected, humiliated, worried she’d tell Arianna. He’d lose any chance with the woman he wanted, and his license to practice.

That could play, too.

But none of it played very well. Maybe she just needed to fine-tune a little.

For now, she read over Peabody’s notes on her interviews at Slice and the twenty-four/seven, the diner hangout. Nothing buzzing there, Eve thought, but continued as Peabody had started or completed a number of deeper runs on the players in those arenas.

Rising, Eve got another cup of coffee, then started deeper runs of her own on Rosenthall, Billingsly, Arianna, Marti Frank, Ken Dickerson, and Pachai Gupta.

Gupta came from some wealth, and an upper-class social strata, and she considered the fact that his parents, also doctors, had worked with Rosenthall years before.

Now Gupta had the plum position of the renowned doctor’s lab assistant on a major project. Couldn’t something like that make a career?

How would Gupta’s upper-class parents feel about him pining for a recovering addict? Possibly he wanted to keep that on the down low, and possibly Darnell wanted to go public.

Possibly.

Both Marti Frank and Ken Dickerson came from the ordinary, and in Dickerson’s case the rough, with his dead addict of an abusive father. Both had excelled in school, she noted. Frank top of her class in college—on a full scholarship. Dickerson third—accelerated path. He’d graduated high school at sixteen, college—again on scholarships—at nineteen, and straight into medical school.

And they were both still on scholarships, she noted, in the intern program at the Center.

She brought the lab setup back into her head. Working together on the project, she mused, but they’d seemed very separate, hadn’t they? With Rosenthall center. Neither Dickerson nor Frank had gone to Gupta when he’d broken down.

So not friends—not especially.

Competitors? Didn’t you have to have a competitive streak to come in first in your class, or in the top tier with acceleration?

And was it interesting, she wondered, or frustrating to learn that all six of them had sufficient medical training to have performed the amputations?

She’d eliminate the females, except one of them might have acted in collusion. Dead low on the list, she decided, but it felt too soon to eliminate.

All of them knew the vics’ location. None of them had alibis for the time in question. All of them knew and/or interacted with the vics. All of them had access to drugs and could easily put their hands on the protective gear.

She picked her way through the data on each suspect, added to her notes, her board. When the sweepers’ initial report came through, she pounced. More paint flakes, some black fibers from the window casing, some hairs—no roots. All sent to the lab.

None of the victims’ ’links had been found on scene. So he’d taken them. Taken the ’links, she mused, but not the money. Fibers on the windowsill, footprints in blood. So he’d only sealed his hands, or worn gloves.

And walking through the blood, that was just stupid. Amateur hour. If they found the shoes, they had him.

First kill, she thought. She’d make book this had been his debut.

Time to circle back.

She walked out to Peabody. “I’m going back to the scene.”

“Okay. I’m not getting anywhere anyway.”

“No, you keep at it. I’m going to talk to Louise after, then work from home.”

“I’m serious about getting nowhere.” Peabody huffed out a breath, shoved at her hair. “I’ve talked to the top costume shops—and some costume and theatrical makeup designers in the city. What I get is, sure the skin color’s no problem; hair, no big; nose, teeth, you bet. But the eyes? Every one of them tells me if they used apparatus like that—to make them bulge out, or appear to, and turn that red—it would hamper vision. Same with the jaw.”

“It was dark, even with the streetlight. Middle of the night. Maybe the wit exaggerated some.”

“Maybe. A couple of the people I talked to were all juiced up about it, trying to figure out how to make it work. I’ve got them promising to experiment, see what they can do. But nobody’s got anything like this. Not in any sort of mask, or doable with makeup and prosthetics. Nothing that would allow the person wearing it to see clearly, speak, or laugh the way the wit described.”

“Keep at it anyway, because it is doable, as it was done.”

“What if he’s some kind of freak?”

“Peabody.”

“I didn’t say demon or monster. Like a circus freak, you know? A contortionist or a freak show type. He looks like this—or something like this and he just pumped it up.”

“Circus. That’s an angle. I’ll work that at home. Not bad, Peabody.”

“You’d kick my ass if I said monster.”

“Keep that in mind if you become tempted,” Eve warned, then headed out.

She thought of makeup, freaks, altered appearances as she drove—and had a brainstorm. “Contact Mavis Freestone, pocket ’link.”

Contact initiated.

“Hey, Dallas!” Mavis’s pretty, happy face filled the dash screen. “Say hi to Dallas, Bellorama.”

Instantly, the baby’s chubby, grinning face replaced her mother’s. “Das!” she cried with absolute joy, and pressed her wet lips to the screen of the pocket ’link.

“Yeah, hi, kid. Kiss, kiss.”

“Slooch!”

“Right. Smooch.”

“Make the sound, Dallas,” Mavis said offscreen.

Eve rolled her eyes, but complied with a kissing sound. Bella squealed with yet more delight.

“Playtime.” There was some shifting, giggling, then Mavis came back on behind the film of Bella’s slobber. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Dallas?” Mavis demanded.

“I didn’t have time. It was—”

“We’re going to chit some serious chat about this.”

“Okay.” With Mavis, it would be okay. “But later. I need you to—can you wipe your screen off? You look like you’ve been licked by a Saint Bernard.”

“Oh, sorry. So what’s the up?” Mavis asked as she whipped out a cloth and polished the screen.

“I’m going to send you a sketch, and I need you to get in touch with Trina, show it to her.”

“Why don’t you just send it to her?”

“Because I’m busy.”

Mavis angled her head. Her hair, a curling mass of gold-streaked red today, bounced. “Coward.”

“I’m a busy coward. I don’t want her giving me grief because I didn’t rub some shit on my face, or in my hair. Or listen to her tell me I need my hair cut or whatever. I’ve got something hot, and she might be able to help.”

“Give me the goods. So I finished my gig on the vid,” she said as Eve ordered the sketch accessed and sent.

“What vid?”

“Nadine’s vid—your vid. The Icove Agenda. It’s mag to the nth they wanted me to play myself. And the chick playing you? Man, they made her a ringer. I got wigged when I—Holy shit on a flaming stick!”

“Shit,” Bella echoed happily in the background.

“Oh hell—hello,” Mavis muttered. “I swore in front of the baby. But holy you know what, this is too totally scary. I’m scheduling my nightmare right now.”

“Sorry. I need to know what it takes to make somebody look like this.”

“A pact with Satan?”

“With makeup and prosthetics, and that stuff. Trina knows that crap.”

“I’ll be passing it on—and getting it off my ’link just in case it has the power to materialize.”

“Come on. Other angle. You did some carny work.”

“Back in the day, sure. Always plenty of marks at a carny.”

“Ever see anything like this? Freak show–wise.”

“I saw plenty of mega weird, but nothing like this. You wouldn’t ask unless it—he—whatever—killed somebody. He looks like he’s born to kill. Jes—jeepers,” she corrected. “I got bumps of the goose all over. I’ll tag Trina now, so I don’t have to wig alone.”

“Thanks. Let me know.”

Eve pulled over at the curb in front of the crime scene.

She unsealed the door, used her master. And stood inside, left the lights off. Not as dark as it would’ve been, she thought. But there was a streetlight, enough for some backwash.

Still, he’d had to know which mattress each vic slept on. He’d moved with purpose, with a plan despite the ferocity.

She moved straight through to the back, opened the window, climbed out.

And yeah, the building across the street had a good view of the window, the sidewalk, the recycler. Eve imagined the killer dancing and spinning in the spot of the streetlight, laughing.

Spinning and dancing up the street, Cynthia had said. So he didn’t care about being seen. A vehicle nearby? Or a hole to crawl into. His own place?

If he’d taken a cab, the subway, a bus? Even in New York somebody would’ve reported it. All of the lab rats lived within blocks. Both of the doctors and Arianna had vehicles.

Eve turned back to the window. He jimmies it, she thought—quiet now. No dancing and laughing, not yet. Climbs in.

She followed the steps, easing in, sliding down to her feet—left fibers behind. Opens the satchel for the protective coat.

Some boxes in here, she noted, and tidy piles of old materials—but he doesn’t bump into them. He’s been here before. And he walks right into the front.

As she did, the door started to open.

She had her weapon out, trained. Then hissed when Roarke stepped in.

“Damn it.”

“I’m the one with a stunner aimed at me. I get to say, ‘Damn it.’ ”

She shoved it back in the holster. “You’re not supposed to pick the lock on a crime scene.”

“How else would I get in? Your vehicle’s outside, and the seal’s broken. I knocked like a good civilian, but you didn’t answer.”

“I was out the back window.”

“Naturally.” He stood where he was, looking around. “What an unholy mess. The crime-scene records never have quite the same impact.”

Since he was here, she’d use him.

“He jimmied the window, rear, quietly stepped around the stuff back there—in the dark or near dark. Not much would come through the window—it’s grilled—from the streetlight. But he doesn’t wake them.”

“He’d been in here, and back there, before.”

“Yeah. Knew just how to navigate, and knew where each one slept. Leads with the bat.” She swung. “Cracks Vix across the side of the head where he lay. He’s the lucky one. I doubt he ever woke up. Changes to the knife.” She mimed switching hands. “Puts it into Bickford’s chest—two blows, and another in the gut. Fast. Bickford might’ve made some sound, tried to call out, but his lung’s punctured. Now it’s time for Darnell.”

“She’d have woken, don’t you think?”

“Bash, slice, movement. I think she woke up before he’d finished with Bickford. Got up, either tried to run or tried to fight. He uses the bat, breaks her kneecaps. Maybe she screamed—nobody heard—or maybe she just passed out or went into shock. But he went back to Vix, beat him into jelly. Blood’s flying everywhere, bones snapping, shattering. He put the protective gear on in the back room, but blood’s on his face. It feels warm, tastes hot. He loves it. He wants more, so he goes back to Bickford with the knife and stabs and hacks. Over eighty times.”

Eve shifted. “She tried to drag herself away. See, the blood’s smeared on the floor there from her knees, from her trying to pull herself away. But she’s in terrible pain, in shock, in hysterics. He’s laughing now because this is so much fun. Just better than he’d ever imagined. And now it’s her turn.”

She could see it, all but smell the blood.

“He says her name. I bet he said her name, and his. He wanted her to know him. It’s face-to-face, it’s his hands on her throat so he can feel her pulse going wild, then slowing, slowing, slowing while her eyes bulge and her body beats itself against the floor. While that pulse stops, and her eyes fix, and her body goes limp.”

“Christ Jesus, Eve.”

“That’s how it happened.” Inside she was as cold as the images fixed in her head. “That’s close, anyway. He’s not done. It’s too funny and thrilling. He doesn’t use the knife. He takes a scalpel out of his satchel because he takes pride in the work. Now he makes a point. An ear, an eye, her tongue. They’re a trio, aren’t they, like the monkeys. Hear no, see no, speak no.”

“Evil,” Roarke finished. “Because he is. What you’ve just described is evil.”

“Maybe, maybe even to him. But he likes it. Likes the taste of evil, the smell of it. He just can’t get enough, so he breaks the place up, what little they had. Destroys it. He stages them against the wall. Then he uses their blood to leave us a message.”

Roarke studied the wall. “It took time to do that. His letters so carefully formed. Not dashed off, but clearly printed. He gave it some thought.”

“He’s so clever, a real joker. Dr. Chaos. I bet he slapped his knees over it.”

She paused a minute. “Arianna said something. How they’d found their quiet. Especially Darnell. That addiction steals the quiet. That’s what he brought back. The unquiet. The chaos. So that’s the name he picked.”

She walked away, into the back. “He takes off the protective gear. Turns it inside out to keep the blood off his clothes, and he climbs back out, shuts the window. He laughs, and he dances, just so full of the fun of it he can’t contain it. He stuffs the gear in the recycler, properly disposing of it like he tells us to do with the bodies. A little clue, so we’ll be sure to find it. And that has him doubled over with laughter. Then he dances away, high on the unquiet. Dr. Chaos had the time of his life.”

“Did you learn any more from this re-creation?”

“Maybe. Yeah.”

“Then you can tell me about it over the drink I find I want very much right now.”