Free Progeny by E. H. Reinhard

behind another sheriff’s car. We got out and walked toward a large ivory-colored house where a deputy stood at the front door. Another deputy appeared to be looking into the bushes alongside him. However, as Hank and I neared, I realized the other deputy wasn’t searching but heaving into the bushes.
    I showed my badge to the one not retching. “We’re looking for a Deputy Gillison,” I said.
    “Garage,” he said. “Go inside and head to the right. Follow the blood.”
    The other deputy turned, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and faced us. “It’s bad,” he said.
    I nodded and entered the home, and Hank followed. We stood in the front entryway. On the floor, a few feet in front of us, blood was smeared in both directions—drag marks. I traced the route of blood with my eyes from left to right. It started around the far corner, next to the dining room. It came toward us and continued down the walkway. The blood marks disappeared under a door that, I assumed, led to the garage. Two sheriffs stood to the sides of the closed door. Hank and I walked over, being careful to not disturb the blood.
    “Deputy Gillison?” I asked.
    The one on the left spoke. “Inside.”
    He turned the handle and pulled the door open, carefully not looking inside. As the door opened, I could see what I figured to be a man hanging by his feet from the ceiling. His skin had been removed, and he too wore gauze wrapped around his waist. What was left of his hands just touched the pool of blood on the garage floor beneath him. A man in a lab coat with his back toward us was taking photos. A single deputy stood inside the garage. Hank and I entered.
    “Geez,” Hank said.
    The deputy looked at us. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties. His face was round with a thick brown-and-gray mustache—his buzz cut was the same colors. His belly strained the buttons on his green sheriff’s shirt. He rocked his neck back and forth and let out a little grunt. “I take it you’re my guys from TPD homicide?”
    “I’m Lieutenant Kane. This is Sergeant Rawlings.”
    “Gillison,” he said. “Does whatever this is match with what you guys found yesterday?”
    I walked over to the hanging remains. The skin that remained was consistent with the previous body. “It does,” I said.
    “So what the hell is this? We have a copycat of a serial killer from thirty years ago?”
    “That’s what it looks like. Do we know who this is?” I asked.
    “I’d say it’s the homeowner. The house belongs to a Herb LaSalle. As far as we can tell, he lived here alone.”
    “Do we have any proof that it’s the homeowner?” Hank asked.
    “There’s a bunch of blood-soaked clothes in the corner there.” Gillison jerked his chin toward the back of the garage, and his neck skin wiggled. “There may be an ID, but I’ve been told to not go through anything. We’re supposed to wait on someone from forensics.”
    “We have one of our guys on the way,” I said.
    “Yeah, that’s the word I got from our captain. It looks like this is going to be your show.” He said it in a way that sounded as if he wasn’t pleased that we would be taking the homicide as part of our case, and his demeanor toward us suggested the same.
    “What do we know so far, Gillison? Who found the body?” I asked.
    “The cleaning lady. She showed up for work, entered through the kitchen, and saw all the blood. She followed it through the house out here, saw this, and called us right away.”
    “Is she still here?” I asked.
    “She was with a couple of our guys outside, last I heard.”
    “The murder took place inside, and the man was brought out here?” Hank asked.
    “It looks like it. There’s a large blood pool around the breakfast bar in the kitchen. The drag marks start there,” Gillison said.
    The garage door leading back into the house opened. Rick stood there, staring in at the murder scene. “What the hell?”
    “Rick,” I said.
    He stepped in and