BLUE MERCY (18 page)

“And what about the bleeding?” she asked. “Why do you think he bled them?”

“Maybe he’s wanting to stall the decay.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The organisms that cause decomposition actually use the blood as their conduit. So a body that has been bled won’t putrefy as quickly. You won’t get the normal rate of gases and bloating.”

“You learned this from your books, I hope.”

“Of course, Kay.” He smiled.

With the arrival of their waitress, Arsenault sampled his martini, then spat it back into the glass. “Did you even tell him I wanted it stirred?” he asked the girl, handing the glass back.

From the other table Billy-Bob One silently mocked Arsenault behind his back. Kay overheard the word
fag.
Arsenault must have heard it as well; she could see the tension notch up in his face in spite of the outward calm he struggled to maintain.

Kay waited for the waitress to leave with Arsenault’s rejected drink. “So do your books give you any other reasons why a guy like this bleeds his victims?” she asked, realizing too late that she’d slipped into the present tense. “Or how?”

“How? Well, they’d have to be unconscious when he bled them, right? You don’t bleed if you’re dead. But you’re on the right track by asking
why
. It’s the bloodletting that’s going to give you answers. You need to figure out
why
he’s draining their blood.”

“Any suggestions? Besides this decomposition theory?”

“Could be anything. Some bizarre cleansing ritual, maybe. Or maybe he keeps the blood.”

“You think he drinks it?” She’d heard of such things.

“Possibly. I’ve even read a case where some psycho artist used human blood as an additive for his paints. There are all kinds of possibilities. But if you can figure out his reasons, if you can come closer to understanding why he kills, I think it can lead you to the who. So you’re thinking Bernard didn’t kill those women, aren’t you, Kay?”

She shrugged, sipped at her iced soda water. “What do
you
think?”

“Like I said before, Bernard’s probably more than capable of murder, but to pull off such perfect disposals? Face it, if he hadn’t gone off on you and your partner a year ago, he may never have been caught. You had nothing on him until then.”

“So what if he had help?”

Arsenault appeared to consider this new angle for a
moment. “If Bernard did kill those women,” he said finally, “then, yeah, maybe someone could have helped him clean up. Someone with brains. Someone who knew what he was doing.”

“You know,” Kay said, sitting back in the booth, “my partner thinks it’s you.”

“Me?” Arsenault allowed himself a smirk then. “And what do
you
think?”

She gave him another shrug. “For procedure’s sake, maybe I should ask where you were Saturday night.”

“Is that when this last girl was killed?”

“Best guess.”

“I was home. Alone, of course. I just don’t seem to have much luck in the alibi department, do I?”

“Guess not. Do you have a girlfriend, Scott?” The question had been professional, but the second Kay asked it she realized the suggestiveness of the query—sitting in a bar with a man who was clearly interested. “It’s just that given your lack of an alibi, I was only curious.”

Kay’s attempt to recover set a smile on Arsenault’s face. He leaned forward again, his hand sliding across the table to where she held her soda.

“I work long hours,” he explained. “And I love my work. But I don’t need to explain that to you, do I? You know the toll of dedication, I’m sure. Of course, with the right person, I’d have no problems making adjustments. Making time.”

When she felt the caress of his finger against the back of her hand, Kay lifted the soda to her lips.

“Are you seeing anyone, Kay?”

But she didn’t have to answer. Their waitress appeared with Arsenault’s martini. Regret passed over his face as he sat back to make room for the drink.

This time the girl didn’t stick around for the taste test.
Arsenault eyed the bartender across the room as he brought the thin-stemmed glass to his lips.

The rest happened too fast. Kay had barely registered one of the Billy-Bobs standing up from the neighboring booth and starting past them when Arsenault swung the glass out.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Arsenault shouted, “are you putting it through a fucking blender?” But his last words faded as his hand collided with Billy-Bob’s groin behind him. Gin and vermouth sprayed out, soaking the faded denim of the man’s crotch.

“You little pansy-ass fag.”

Arsenault’s surprise was momentary. “What did you call me?”

“You heard me, asswipe.”

Arsenault shot out of the booth. So fast that even Billy-Bob seemed temporarily stunned. There was the sound of shattering glass, and as Kay stood, she saw the broken cocktail glass in Arsenault’s hand, the bowl gone and the jagged stem now pressed into the brute’s throat.

“Scott, leave him.”

Billy-Bob’s eyes were wide, his head thrust back to escape the pressure of the sharp stem. In her peripheral, Kay was aware of the other two Billy-Bobs clambering out of their booth.

“Scott, he’s not worth it,” she said. “Let’s go.”

But there was no breaking through the red rage. A muscle twitched wildly along Arsenault’s jaw. There was a fierceness in his whisper. “I could open you up right here,” he said. “What do you think about that, you ignorant fuck, huh?” The stem pressed tighter and a bead of blood broke the skin at the tip of the stem.

The music in the bar droned on, but the din had lowered. Kay sensed the eyes on them.

Then, Billy-Bob One swung at Arsenault, sucker punching
him from below. Arsenault folded. And Kay moved in.

“Come on, guys, it’s over.” She angled herself between the brute and Arsenault, almost knocking him off his feet as she did. Somewhere behind her she was aware of a bouncer moving in, but not before Billy-Bob swore and went to throw another punch.

Kay made a grab for him before realizing she was too close. His upward swing clipped her, his elbow connecting sharply with her lip. For a second she saw stars, felt the rush of endorphins. Then Kay felt the heat of blood. She sucked at it as the bouncer muscled in, hustling the boys back. Jostling and shoving. Swearing.

Arsenault was still heaving for air as she escorted him down the row of booths and to the door. “Put it on his tab,” she said to another bouncer on the way out.

“What the hell were you thinking in there?” she asked him once they hit the street. “Christ, did you seriously think you could take on those three Neanderthals?”

He didn’t answer.

“I hope you don’t do that on a regular basis,” she added, “or one of these nights it’ll be your body I’m standing over.”

“I’m not a fag.” Arsenault wheezed the words.

“And why would you think I’d even give two shits?” But Kay knew why.

He coughed several times, hacked up a wad of spit and sent it to the cobblestones. In the dim light, Kay didn’t see any blood.

“Come on,” she said, guiding him into the side alley that led to Fleet Street.

He coughed some more, this second fit preventing her from hearing the Billy-Bobs coming. One moment Arsenault was at her side, the next he was on the ground.

It was the same brute Arsenault had doused with the
martini that started the kicking, his heavy, military-style boot driving into the Web designer’s side at least once before his buddies joined in.

“Hey!” Kay groped under her jacket for her shield. “Hey!” She yelled this time, grabbing the shoulder of the closest Billy-Bob and spinning him around.

From the wildness in the brute’s eyes she knew he wouldn’t have thought twice about taking a swing, but Kay shoved the shield into his face.

“Back the fuck off. All of you! Now!” Her jacket brushed back, she had one hand on the butt of her nine. The shield was up and steady in her hand as the three goons backed away from the gagging heap that was Arsenault.

“You’re a fucking cop?” the first one muttered, a small trickle of blood still marking his throat.

“Damn right. And you guys can consider this the biggest fucking break of your lives that I’m not going to haul you in. Now get the fuck out of here.”

Before the three of them had even hit the end of the alley, she was at Arsenault’s side, hauling him up.

“I’m fine.” He brushed off his ruined chinos and straightened his hair. “Really.”

But Kay knew the bruises he’d have in the morning would not be restricted to his ego. She walked him out to Fleet Street then, his arm over her shoulders as she guided him to the Lumina. In the glow of a streetlamp she checked him over.

“I’m all right, Kay,” he assured her again.

“You’re damn lucky. Those guys could have really messed you up. I don’t know what the hell got into you,” she said, remembering the flare of rage that had come over him. She thought she’d had Arsenault pegged.

She unlocked the Lumina and fetched a tissue and pressed it to her bleeding lip.

“I know it was wrong,” he said. “It’s just guys like that …I’m
not
gay.”

“So you said.”

She wasn’t sure what prompted him then. One moment he was staring at her, the next he’d taken the tissue from her hands and was dabbing at her cut lip. The boldness of his move caught Kay off guard.

When he leaned in, one hand braced against the roof of the Lumina, the other lifting her chin to the light as though to inspect it, Kay wasn’t entirely sure of his intentions. But then Arsenault moved in, and she knew he was going to kiss her.

His advance didn’t surprise her. What
did
surprise Kay was that a part of her wanted him to. It had been a long time since someone had shown interest. A long time since she’d let someone close enough. And she was only human, after all.

In the dim glow of the streetlamp she saw the desire in Arsenault’s face, but in her mind’s eye there was Finn.

Pushing him back, Kay ducked under his arm. Behind her, Arsenault groaned, and when she looked at him again, she saw his disappointment.

“Come on,” she said, realizing she was shaking. “I’m taking you home.”

THE SUN HAD SIZZLED
the dew off the shallow front yards of the row houses sloping up to Television Hill. There was the smell of mulch, the lingering of yesterday’s garbage, and—for Kay—the memory of B. J. Beggs’s body splayed out in the back alley.

Kay knocked on her sixteenth door of the morning.
She’d been recanvassing the neighborhood since seven. Not knowing how late Finn had been out on Wilkens last night, she hadn’t wanted to wake him. She’d left a message for him on his desk, then drove to the district office on Cold Spring, where she enlisted the help of two uniformed officers.

On the concrete porch a plastic planter hung from the rail, the contents dead. Several editions of the
Sun
lay in the weather-bleached recycle bin. She rapped against the screen door’s lower panel, loud enough to wake the dead, let alone the living late for work. In the second-floor windows, closed blinds hung askew.

A strange déjà vu twisted in her gut then. Licking the tenderness of her lip, Kay pushed the memories aside and instead thought of Scott Arsenault.

He’d been silent during the short drive back to his building from the bar last night, and when she’d said goodnight, he’d turned in the passenger seat, and again she’d wondered if he would try to kiss her. She’d actually felt flattered by the Web designer’s interest last night. For the first time in longer than she could remember, it made her feel alive, part of the real world.

Knocking again, Kay eyed the flyers that jammed the misshapen tin mailbox mounted next to the door. Perhaps the house was a rental, sitting vacant between tenants. She moved to the bow window on the main floor, cupped her hands to shield the daylight, and peered through the crack in the curtains. There was little to make out. Dim outlines of scant furnishings. An oval mirror on the opposite wall reflected what little light bled through the drapes.

She was about to knock a third time when her cell went off.

“You still on TV Hill?” Finn asked over the digital connection.

“Yeah.” She turned down the steps of the empty house. “What’s up?”

“I’m at the ME’s. Jonesy’s starting on the girl. I thought you’d want to be here.”

“I’m on my way.”

Leaving the two uniforms to finish the canvass, it took Kay almost twenty minutes to battle morning traffic across the city and find a parking spot on Penn Street. Finn was waiting for her outside the OCME, crushing a cigarette into the sidewalk.

“I thought Jonesy wasn’t doing her until later,” she said as they took the elevator down to the autopsy suite.

“Guess he figured he’d get an early jump on things. He’s just wrapping up. What’s with the lip?” he asked, pointing.

“I’ll tell you about it later.” She swung open the steel doors of the main suite and crossed the floor. “Sorry I’m late, Jonesy.”

“Wow, who clipped you?” the ME asked.

“It’s a long story. What have you got on our girl so far?”

“Ketamine hydrochloride.” Jonesy handed her the tox results across Beggs’s body. “A dissociative anesthetic. Manufactured by Parke-Davis, marketed as Ketalar, and related to phencyclidine.”

“PCP?” Finn asked.

“Yeah, only ketamine’s safer, and much shorter-acting. It was originally created for children and was the anesthetic of choice in Vietnam. Works as a hallucinogenic. Causes the patient to feel dissociated from their body, making it possible to carry out surgical procedures. It’s still used in third-world countries, but here it’s mostly utilized in veterinary medicine.”

“So how does someone get the stuff?” Kay asked.