Death Notice

Kat crossed the barn and peeked inside the alcove. She saw a modest nook consisting of a clean concrete floor and plank walls. Her view from the threshold gave her no reason to enter the alcove outright. Besides, if George’s killer hid there the night before, then a tech team needed to do a thorough scan of it. Maybe it would turn up something. A footprint. A stray fiber. Perhaps a hair. Anything would help because at this point they had nothing but a corpse, two pennies, and a wooden box.

Leaving the alcove, she gazed at the cat lying a few feet away. It hadn’t moved the entire time she was there. Not once. She watched for the tiniest of movements—an ear wiggle, the idle sway of a tail—but saw nothing.

Approaching the animal, Kat nudged it with the toe of her boot. It was as still as a brick and just as heavy.

The cat was dead.

Kat bent down to examine the animal further, noticing a small pile of sawdust around its hind legs. When she nudged it again, more sawdust trickled from a gash in the animal’s stomach.

The cat had been cut open, a long incision across its stomach showing where the knife had sliced. In place of its organs, someone had filled it with sawdust, which explained the heaviness. An unruly pattern of fur-obscured thread crisscrossed the incision. Stitches, used to sew the cat back up.

Kat inched away from the dead animal. What it meant to the case, she didn’t know. But staring at the poor creature sprawled on the ground, she clearly understood that despite her theories and best guesses, she didn’t have a handle on the situation at all.

Tony Vasquez was the first member of Nick Donnelly’s team to reach the barn. With him were a half dozen other state troopers. Tony stretched police tape across the gaping barn door. He then ordered two troopers to go on the other side of it and stand guard while the rest went to work.

Not wanting to get in the way—and not wanting to destroy any evidence in the process—Kat retreated to an empty corner of the barn and parked herself on a bale of hay. From her itchy perch, she watched as Rudy Taylor arrived, armed with enough evidence bags to seal up every strand of hay she sat upon.

Nick Donnelly and Cassie Lieberfarb showed up five minutes later. While Cassie joined her coworkers, Nick made a beeline to the bale of hay.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“That’s good,” Kat replied, “because I have to talk to you.”

Nick plopped down on the bale next to her. “You first.”

Kat took a deep breath and began. She told Nick about the death notice faxed to the Gazette newsroom before George Winnick died. She then moved on to what Alma Winnick had said about George investigating noises coming from the barn. That led to the search of the barn itself, where she found the dead cat stuffed with sawdust.

“That confirms my theory,” Nick said, once she had finished.

“And what’s that?”

“That it might not be the Betsy Ross Killer we’re dealing with.”

It wasn’t what Kat wanted to hear. Strange as it seemed, she had been hoping that all of this was the work of Betsy Ross. It’s easier to face the devil you know than the devil you don’t. And whoever killed George Winnick was one sick devil.

“All of this—the fax, the dead animal—sounds far different from what Betsy Ross does,” Nick said. “Serial killers like him do sometimes change their MO, but not as extreme as this. And George’s wounds were different from the ones on the Betsy Ross victims.”

“How did he die?”

“He bled to death.”

“From the cut on his neck? That was barely three inches long.”

“Three and one-fifth inches long,” Nick clarified. “Wallace Noble measured it. And it was more than just the cut that caused him to bleed out.”

“I don’t understand.”

Nick leaned forward. “Do you know what the carotid artery is?”

“Sure. It’s where the nurse checks your neck for a pulse. What does this have to do with George Winnick?”

“His right carotid was sliced open,” Nick said. “It’s difficult but doable. Whoever did this most likely reached through the cut in his neck and pulled the artery out of the body. One careful incision later and you have a blood geyser on your hands.”

Kat felt a stress headache coming on, signaling her brain was getting overloaded. The slight pain began just behind her eyes, ready to spread to her temples. Considering the circumstances, she was surprised the headache had taken so long to arrive.

“It’s a horrible way to die,” Nick said.

Kat couldn’t agree more. Perry Hollow had experienced its share of tragic deaths. Accidents. Brutal falls. But what Nick described seemed so cruel and hateful that she couldn’t quite believe it. Making someone bleed to death implied premeditation and planning. You needed to be prepared to do it.

“It gets worse,” Nick warned. “Do you want me to go on?”

Kat didn’t, but it was her job to say yes.

“The killer did more to George after he was dead.”

“The lips,” Kat said. “They were sewn shut.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you cut open a corpse, there’s very little bleeding because circulation has stopped and most of the blood has settled. There’s some leakage, but it’s minor. Wallace said there was an unusually large amount of blood on George Winnick’s lips.”

“There was,” Kat replied. If she closed her eyes, she could easily picture the reddish ice crystals that had coated his lips. It was the first time she had ever seen frozen blood, and she hoped to God she’d never see it again.

“That means,” Nick said, “that George was still alive when his lips were sewn shut.”

Kat’s mind whirled, imagining what such an act sounded like to the victim. Was it silent? Or could George hear the thread slipping through his skin, his flesh pulling together as it did so? If Kat concentrated, she could hear it, something not unlike the sound of a shoelace passing through the eyelet of a sneaker.

Trying to force the sound from her head, she asked, “Then what was the time of death?”

“That’s the problem. Wallace couldn’t tell for certain. It was definitely within twelve hours before you found him, but he couldn’t pinpoint it more than that.”

“Why not?”

“After George bled out,” Nick said, “the killer pumped liquid into his body.”

“Jesus,” Kat muttered. “What kind?”

“Part water, part formaldehyde.”

“Formaldehyde? Are you sure?”

“His body was filled with it. That’s why Wallace can’t pinpoint an exact time of death. The mixture killed off the microorganisms that cause decomposition. It slowed down rigor mortis. The right carotid was engorged, although that could have been from the tube.”

Kat’s voice rose with disbelief. “There was a tube?”

“Not when you found him, but the incision in the artery had been widened by something. The assumption is that the killer inserted a tube into it. That’s how he was able to get the formaldehyde and water mixture into the circulatory system. It got the job done, but it was pretty rough. Not at all like the professionals.”

“Professional who?”

“Morticians,” Nick said. “After George Winnick bled to death, the killer tried to embalm him.”

NINE

Henry lay on his weight bench, grunting against the 250-pound barbell he pushed away from his chest. The muscles in his arms tightened as he held the weight aloft for three seconds. When he lowered it, the tension eased, flooding his muscles with a satisfying warmth.

“One,” he said.

He raised the barbell again. He paused three more seconds. He lowered it.

“Two.”

Henry’s routine included a workout in a corner of his apartment filled with exercise equipment. One hour of each day was devoted to honing his body to its full potential. Although pushing forty, he possessed the strength and agility of a much younger man.

“Three.”

With his face looking the way it did, Henry knew peak physical prowess was the only thing that kept people from pitying him completely.

“Four.”

And he didn’t want pity.

“Five.”

He wanted to be left alone.

While he worked out, music blasted from a CD player against the wall. Puccini’s Tosca, one of his favorites. Opera was still relatively new to Henry. It was only in the past five years that he had become obsessed with it. Now it was the only music he listened to. Especially the tragedies. What he heard in the music, other people missed. The tales of doomed love, mistaken identity, and broken hearts of epic proportions were melodramatic, yes. But they were also true. You could love someone so much you would kill for them. Your love could be so strong that if they died, a large part of you died with them. Opera was tragic. So was life.

Finishing another set of reps, Henry lowered the weights and—breath heavy, heart thumping—paused to listen to the music. It was “E lucevan le stelle,” Cavaradossi’s third-act aria in which the doomed painter recalled memories of his lover, Tosca. The aria was sung in Italian, and Henry knew every word. He was fluent in Italian, having learned it in his old life. Before the accident. Before Henry Ghoul.

E lucevan le stelle.

Henry repeated it in English, like a prayer. “How the stars seemed to shimmer.”

Closing his eyes, he focused on the music, on the lyrics, on the perfect voice singing them. It reminded him of Gia. Sweet Gia. His Italian rose. The aria could have been written about her.

Entrava ella, fragrante.

“How she then entered, so fragrant, and then fell into my arms.”

Usually, he would have been enthralled, swept up in the aria’s embrace. But that day was different. The aria—and thoughts of Gia—put him in a dark mood, which was accompanied by an itching restlessness.

L’ora è fuggita … e muoio disperato.

“My last hour has flown and I die hopeless.”

E non ho amato mai tanto la vita.

“And never have I loved life more.”

Henry left the room without bothering to turn off the CD player. His apartment, located above a used-book store on the end of Main Street, was large by modern standards. But that evening, the place felt absolutely tiny. As he roamed restlessly inside it, the walls seemed to constrict around him.

He had to get out. Just for a little bit.

His steps quickened in the hallway as he headed for the front door. By the time he was outside, he was at a full jog—legs churning, arms pumping. He picked up speed to tackle the slight incline of north Main Street. When it flattened out at the end of the street, he kept the same pace, streaking over the sidewalk.

The stares of strangers confronted him as he passed. Blurs of faces trying to get a good look at him. Henry ignored them, soon becoming unaware of how many people he flew by or if they were staring. He also ignored the cold, which his flimsy workout clothes did nothing to ward off. He focused only on the steady exhalation of his breath and the rhythmic slapping of his feet on the pavement.

The sadness that overcame him in his apartment dissipated outdoors. He knew the melancholy would wash over him again at some point. No matter how fast he ran, Henry knew he couldn’t outrun his pain.

After he had sprinted at full speed for about fifteen minutes, a cramp stabbed his midsection. He slowed himself, legs winding down until eventually he came to a stop at the corner of Maple and Oak streets. Bent forward in exhaustion, palms resting on his knees, he noticed a large Victorian mansion dominating the corner.

McNeil Funeral Home.

Henry had never been inside, but the exterior impressed the hell out of him. Three stories tall with white siding, it boasted a green gabled roof, wraparound front porch, and Tiffany accents in the tall windows. Pretty fancy for a stopping place on the way to the afterlife.

Once he regained control of his breathing, Henry stepped onto the walkway that cut through the property’s expansive front yard. Without fully comprehending what he was doing, he trotted toward the front door. Not hesitating, he pushed inside, entering a tastefully appointed room dominated by a large mahogany desk. An attractive young woman sat behind it. She smiled at him when he entered.

“Hello, Henry,” she said.

He halted in the doorway. “How did you know it was me?”

“Because you look uncertain.”

Henry imagined he looked more than uncertain. He probably looked ghastly in his sweat-drenched T-shirt and running shorts, his flushed face making its flaws stand out even more.

Deana Swan, however, looked better than expected. Years of speaking to her on the phone had created a mental picture that wasn’t flattering. In Henry’s imagination, she was a female version of her brother, with chipmunk cheeks and oversized sweaters. That was the type of woman who spent her whole day in a funeral home.

The real Deana couldn’t have been further from the image created in his head. In her early thirties, she was slim, well proportioned, and modestly stylish in a black skirt and lavender blouse. She wore her strawberry blond hair pulled back, revealing razor-thin cheekbones, and startling, sparkling blue eyes.

“What brings you here today?” she asked.

Henry didn’t know, which was made obvious by his refusal to take one more step inside.

“I was jogging,” he said.

Deana ran her gaze up and down his body, lingering on his chest, his stomach, his crotch. The boldness of her stare made Henry pulse with excitement, as did the sultry tone of her voice when she said, “I can see that.”

“When I passed by, I thought I would stop in and say hello. Since you’ve told me I never do that.”

“You don’t,” Deana said. “And thanks. That was sweet of you.”

Oddly, Henry felt more awkward chatting with Deana than he did telling Chief Campbell about George Winnick’s death notice. That was being helpful, a good citizen. This was something entirely different. This was, Henry guessed, flirting.

“I just want you to know,” Deana said, her smile radiating a kind patience, “that my offer is still on the table.”

“What offer?”

“Lunch. I think it might be fun, since we’re coworkers in a weird way.”

That was true. Henry talked to Deana more than anyone at the Gazette. And she seemed friendly enough, with no hidden agenda except to get to know him better. Plus, he thought it would be nice just once to break out of his safe routine.

“A great sushi place just opened up on Main,” Deana said. “We could try it out one day.”

Henry was on the verge of saying yes. He felt the muscles in the back of his neck loosen, preparing for the nod to follow. But then something on the wall caught his eye. It was a mirror—large and gilded—and framed in its center was his reflection.

Staring at his own image, Henry suddenly felt foolish. He was in excellent shape, yes. But his face—that was unacceptable. And the more that Deana smiled benevolently at him, the more Henry became convinced that her motives were suspect. She wasn’t interested in him. Just like the patrons of a freak show, she was interested in his face. Its lines and scars and deformities.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Henry said, breaking his gaze from the mirror. “But thank you for the invitation.”

He regretted stepping foot into the funeral home. It was a bad idea, he realized. And now he was eager to leave.

He turned and reached for the door, surprised to see it was already halfway open. Someone was on the other side, pushing the door so forcefully Henry had to hop backward to avoid being struck by it. That’s when Kat Campbell burst inside, riding a gust of frigid air.

With her was a man Henry had never seen before. Although he was dressed in civilian clothes, Henry assumed he was a cop of some sort. He and the chief shared identical scowls as they passed, barely noticing his presence.

Henry nodded a wordless greeting and exited the funeral home. Crossing the front porch, he heard Kat through the open door ask, “Are Art and Bob here?”

“Arthur is,” Deana told her. “Is something wrong?”

Henry paused at the top of the porch steps, waiting for the chief’s response. When it came, he was surprised, intrigued, and more than a little fearful.

“I need to know,” Kat said, “how to go about embalming someone.”