Free The Hundredth Man by Jack Kerley Page A

rat with ham biceps and steroid-worm veins, but a guy with a hard and regular regimen. His shirt was unbuttoned and the slacks unzipped, the pants bunched low around his buttocks. Outside of the scarlet collar there was no sign of blood or other violence on his clothing. Hembree’d caught the case.
    â€œWhat’s the word, Bree?” I asked.
    â€œLooks like you and Harry are going to pull some overtime.”
    â€œCause of death?”
    â€œJust like Nelson. Can’t find anything on the body. But a head wound. . . .”
    â€œCould be floating past the Dixey Bar lighthouse about now.”
    Hembree nodded. “If the perp’s using a gun, I’d bet a twenty-two. Most of the time the slug goes into the skull and ricochets around inside like a Ping-Pong ball. No exit wound, no splatter. Just brain pudding.”
    I thought about what the mind might make of a pellet bouncing within its confines like a metal wasp. Could a brain comprehend its own destruction? Hear itself scream?
    â€œWhat about the blood when the head comes off?” I asked, rubbing my hands together, suddenly cold.
    â€œHeart’s stopped, blood’s not moving. Less exsanguination than you’d think. Was me I’d slide a towel under the neck to sop blood, then remove the head. Wrap the head in the towel, drop it into a bowling-ball bag, and wave good-bye.”
    â€œJust don’t get the bags mixed up on league night. Any writing?”
    â€œBeen waiting for you to ask.”
    Hembree slid the deceased’s briefs past his pubic hair. The same minuscule writing, but in two lines. The top one said, Warped a quart of whores. Quart of whores. Whores warped. Quart of whores. Warped whores. Quart of whores. Warped whores. This was followed by Rats Rats Rats Ho Ho Ho Ho Rats Rats Rats Rats Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho An icy finger tickled the base of my neck.
    â€œThe whores angle again,” Hembree said. “You guys went that road?”
    I nodded. We’d contacted vice and homicide departments across the Gulf Coast, expanding to national crime-stat sources. No unsolved killings in our area, at least not within our parameters. Whatever this was, we had an exclusive.
    Hembree pointed to the second line. “ Ho as ‘whore’?”
    â€œOr ho like in laughing at us, Bree.”
    Hembree closed his eyes. “Oh, man, anything but that.”
    Taunts from psychopathically disordered killers were a chilling sign. The killers felt certain they could get away with anything. Some did, especially if they had iron-hard self-control, like the control to precisely sever a head and write in tiny, perfectly defined letters. Suchpeople could live anywhere, be anything: janitor, schoolteacher, bank president.
    Hembree said the ME’s tech had approximated TOD at two or so hours before, give or take. Harry said, “I’ll go look around the rest of the place. See if you can get anything from the woman. Girlfriend?”
    â€œFiancée,” I corrected. “Sally thinks she’s clean.”
    â€œGood enough for me,” Harry said, familiar with the magic. He buttoned his jacket. “Damn, it’s colder’n a tomb in here.”
    I returned to the room with the fiancée, not looking forward to what I might become to her. In a grocery store I once unknowingly stood in line behind a woman I’d interviewed about her daughter’s violent death. When our eyes connected she turned white, made kitten-mew sounds, and ran out the door, her groceries still riding the belt. Now, entering the worst moment in this woman’s life, I prayed her mind blanked me out after tonight, and when nightmares screamed open her eyes, it wasn’t my face printed on the ceiling.
    â€œExcuse me, Ms. Knotts, I’m Detective Carson Ryder, and I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes if I may.”
    She took a deep breath and nodded. “While it’s still . . .