I was paid not to make mistakes. And I never did, that’s why I was the man for the job. I was meticulous and discreet, and the men I worked for trusted in my ability to remain private, as I trusted in their ability to make sure my identity remained confidential, even to them.
The body was lying on the bedroom floor, slumped back against the side of the bed, an expensive duvet covered in a thick splash of dark blood. His head was dropped forward, resting awkwardly against his chest. His arms hung like lazy palm branches from his sides, hands wedged between the carpet and his legs.
At the back of his head, where it rested against the bed, a gaping wound opened like an exploded firecracker. I raised his head slightly, a solitary finger elevating his idle chin. The entry point was a burned starburst that told the story of a pointblank kill. It had all the hallmarks of a professional hit.
My hands sweated heavily inside the latex gloves. I’d double-gloved in case of tears, and now in the summer heat I could see sweat running like capillaries from the far reaches of my fingers to the fold of my wrist.
I stood back from the body and looked around the room. Nothing else seemed to be disturbed. It was a clean crime scene, with the exception of the body and the bed. I removed a digital camera from my jacket pocket and began taking photographs.
Rigor mortis had not yet commenced, but I knew I didn’t have much time. I looked at my watch. I got the call at
The crime scene displayed aspects of an organized offender, a sophisticated criminal who controlled his victim and the environment. A good detective would immediately notice that this was a personalized attack, a kill where the offender knew the victim. A gangland murder. I needed to change that. Quickly.
The body was first. I had little time to manipulate it before the onset of livor and rigor mortis. I pulled down the victim’s pants, careful not to fully remove them. I grabbed a nearby bedside lamp, removed the bulb and frame, and inserted it into his anus.
I stuck a hand inside my briefcase and removed two lengths of freshly cut nylon rope and a four-inch long section of dull gray masking tape. Finally, I peeled off a clean pillowcase from the far side of the bed, plied it and twisted it between my gloves to give it a roughly used appearance, and then placed it beneath the victim’s head. It needed a little something else. I carefully walked around the bed and opened a set of drawers until I found what I was looking for. I pulled out one pair of underpants and then tossed the rest of the items in the drawer around, leaving it open. I then eased the underwear into the victim’s mouth. I placed the masking tape across his lips and tied a length of nylon rope to each wrist. That was certain to confuse the investigators.
I stood back from the body, standing like I was admiring artwork in a gallery. I love what the artist has done with those delicate brush strokes of color across the canvas, so subtle, yet so incredibly captivating. I took some more photographs, raised the camera closer to my face, turned it slightly to capture the right light, and reviewed the images. Everything seemed fine.
Now for the rest of the scene.
I walked around the house until I found the study. A large bright orange Apple computer sat humming in the corner on a mahogany desk. The walls surrounding the desk were crammed from ceiling to floor with books. I took some more photographs.
I tapped the space bar on the keyboard and the screen ignited in a burst of color. Perfect. No need to decipher passwords or login codes. I hit the Internet Explorer icon and looked around the room while I waited for the page to appear. Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman, Pound. He had quite a collection of American literature. Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. I smiled.
Internet Explorer was open. In the address bar I typed www.sadism.com, and then followed that with a stream of pornographic sites and visits to sexual sadism groups, blogs, and violent video downloads.
I knew forensics would be able to identify the time of the searches, but I also knew the likelihood of a comprehensive forensic examination of the computer was highly unlikely. The police would settle for finding the visited sites. They wouldn’t be concerned about the times.
I stretched my back, and threw out my arms when I’d finished on the computer. I had been bent forward two-finger tapping on the keyboard for 20 minutes and my back and shoulder had begun to ache.
I turned from the computer and walked into the kitchen, pulled two champagne flutes from a cupboard, lifted a bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator, and sat them all together on the kitchen table, unopened and unused. I took some more photographs before walking into the living room. I fingered through a respectable CD collection until I found The Essential Barry Manilow hidden between Lyle Lovett and John Mellencamp. I opened the case and pulled the disc from within the sleeve and inserted it into the stereo. I adjusted the volume until Mandy was soft enough that it gently drifted throughout the house without attracting attention from outside. I took one final walkthrough, double-checked the body, and grabbed my briefcase.
I disappeared as quickly and quietly as I had appeared.
By the time the first police arrived at the crime scene the body was infested with maggots, and flies the size of buttons swarmed throughout the house. Uniformed police, suburban detectives, scenes of crime officers, the duty inspector, and even a dog squad officer were on scene. More than 15 people had trampled through the crime scene. Outside, the situation was considerably worse. News crews, neighbours, and even more police milled around on the footpath, in the yard, and on the street. It was a typical crime scene.
“One sick sonofabitch did this,” said a patrol officer, walking out of the house and into the thick early evening shadows.
“What do you think we’re looking at here, Serg?” asked a junior detective.
“Looks like a sadistic killer,” I said.
“Just what I thought. Looks remarkably like that killing from last year,” said the detective.
I agreed.