Dust To Dust (27 page)

"That's over."

"But you went to the investigator's house on a DB call anyway. IVhose bright idea was that?"

"The call came over the radio.We were in the vicinity." "You're a regular magnet for coincidence."

"We had no way of knowing the dead body was Fallon."

"You knew it as soon as you got there. You should have hauled Ogden out of there.You seem to make a habit of saving his ass.Why didn't you do it when you got to Fallon's house?"

Rubel stared at her for a long, unnerving time. Liska's head pounded with the beat of her pulse.The nausea swirled in her stomach.

"If you sus
ur part
he said at last, "why . pect some impropriety on o

aren't you talking to IA about it?"

"Is that what you wan
.t me to do?"

"You won't because your case is closed. Fallon killed himself" "That doesn't mean it's over. It doesn't mean I won't still talk to your supervisor-"

"Go ahead."
1
h Ogden?" Liska asked. "How long have you been riding wit
I

"Three months."

"Who was he riding with before you?"

"Larry Porter. He left the department. Hired on with the Plymouth PD. You could get all this from our supervisor. If you wanted to talk to him."

There was a hint of smugness in his tone, as if he knew she wouldn't go to his supervisor for fear it would get back to Leonard.

"You know, I'm trying to cut you a break here, Rubel," she said irritably. "I don't want bad blood with the uniforms. We need you guys. But we need you. not to fuck up at a scene. A case can be made

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or broken on what happens at the sceneWhat if it turned out someone murdered Andy Fallon? You think a defense attorney isn't going to make us all look like assholes when he hears Ogden, of all people, was there stomping around?"

"You've made your point:' Rubel said calmly. "It won't happen again."

He started to walk away toward his truck.

"Your partner is a loose cannon, Rubell" Liska said. "If he has the kind of problems I think he has, you'd be smart to get yourself clear of that."

Rubel looked at her over his shoulder. "I know what I need to know, Sergeant." He looked at her car and said, "You'd better get that window fixed. Id have to pull you over for that."

Liska watched him walk away and get in his truck. Gooseflesh pebbled the skin of her arms and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. The Explorer started with a rumble, exhaust billowing out the tailpipe. He backed out and drove away, leaving her alone again.

She couldn't decide who was scarier: Ogden with his steroidpumped temper, or Rubel with his eerie calm.What a pair they made. Breathing deeply for the first time since Rubel had startled her, she

moved away from the Saturn and made herself walk, hoping to shake off the weird weakness that trickled down the muscles of her arms and legs. She looked at her garbage-bag window and wondered if she was being paranoid reading into Rubel's crack about getting it fixed. He wouldn't have to break into her car to get her address off herjunk mail. Cops had any number of ways to easily come by that information.

But then, someone might have broken the window for another reason. Out of anger. To frighten her. As a setup to cast suspicion regarding any future crime against her on someone like the old drunk who had tried to jump in the car with her. None of the options was good.

As she stared at the window, she slowly became aware of something hanging down from the back end of the Saturn. A chunk of grungy snow, she thought. Another reason to hate winter: the filthy snow boogers that built up behind the tires and would freeze to the density of graruite if not quickly removed.

But as Liska went back to kick the thing off, she realized that viasn't what she'd seen at all.What had caught her eye wasn't hanging behind the tire. It was hanging from the tailpipe.

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The nausea surged up her esophagus as she bent down.The pain in her temples intensified. Dizzy, she had to brace a hand against the trunk as she squatted behind the car.

A filthy white rag had been stuffed into the tailpipe. A cold sweat rm*sted her skin.

For all intents and purposes, someone hadjust tried to kill her. The cell phone in her pocket began to bleat. Shaking, Lis-ka rose and leaned against the car as she dug the thing out and answered it. "Liska, hormicide."

"Sergeant Liska, we need to meet."

The voice was familiar. She put a name to it this time: Ken Ibsen. "Where and when?"

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C H A P T E

H E Y,
R E D , i have a couple of questions about autoerotic asphyxlation."

Kate
Conlan stared at Kovac. Rene Russo might be this goodlooking
on her best day, he thought. She combed an errant strand of hair behind her ear. A wry smile pulled up one corner of her sexy mouth.

"I'm so flattered you thought of me, Sam. Come on in," she said, stepping back from the door. "John and I were just talking about indulging in some weird sex games."

"I didn't need to know that."

"You rang the doorbell. Let me take your coat."

He stepped into the entry hall, scrubbing his shoes on
the mat. "The house looks great."

"Thanks. I'm liking it out here in the 'burbs. It's nice having space," Kate said. "And there's the added benefit that no one's tried to murder me here, or died a hideous death in the basement."

She tossed that out as if she were saying it was great not to have carpenter ants. Oh, those pesky serial killers. The truth was that she had come too damn close to becorming a victim herself instead of an advocate for victims, which was herjob. Kovac had been on the scene

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that day, along with John Quinn. Kovac ended up with smoke inhalation. Quinn ended up with the girl.

The story of my life. "You're something, Red."

"Follow me to the inner sanctum," she said, leading the way down a w ide hall with a polished wood floor and red oriental rugs. An enormous hairy cat sat on the hall table. It reached out and tapped Kovac with a paw as he started past.

"HeyThor." The cat made a sound like a squeaky toyjumped to the floor with a thump, and dashed down the hall ahead of them with his huge plume tail straight up in the air.

They went into a den with lots of light-stained pinewood paneling and dark green paint on the walls. A Christmas tree stood near a set of French doors that led outside.A fire crackled in a fieldstone fireplace. A big yellow Lab puppy slept heavily on a pillow near the hearth. Thor the cat went to the puppy and stared at him with suspicion and disdain.

A pair of desks sat back-to-back on one side of the room, each fully equipped with computer, phone-fax machine, and the usual clerical cluttenjohn Quinn sat at one, intent on the computer screen.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Kate said.

Quinn did, and grinned, pulling off a pair of reading glasses. "Sam. Good to see you."

"Don't be too thankful," Kate said dryly. "He wants to talk about his sex life. The joys of autoerotic adventures."

Kovac blushed. "I'm not that desperate."

Quinn walked to him and shook his hand. Rugged and athletic, he looked younger now than when they had met during the Cremator case, more than a year past. There was an ease about Quinn he had not possessed then, and the haunted look was gone from the dark eyes. That was apparently what love and contentment could do for a person.

After the Cremator, Quinn had left the FBI, where he had been top gun among the M1i ndhunters. Too many cases, too much death, too much stress had taken a toll on him. The Bureau had a history of running its best horses into the ground, and so they had done with Quinn-with Quinn's wining participation. But nearly losing Kate to a killer had been the wake-up call. Quinn had traded the Bureau for

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private consulting and teaching-and life with Kate. A sweet deal all the way around.

"Have a seat," he offered, gesturing to a pair of fat couches in front of the fire. "What are you working on, Sam?"

"An apparent suicide that was ruled an accident that might be something else."

"The Internal Affairs guy?" Kate asked, handing Kovac a neat scotch. She sat down on the couch too close to Quinn, and put her stocking feet up on the coffee table.

"That's the animal."

"He was found hanging, right?" Quinn asked. "Was he nude?" "Yes."

"Any evidence of masturbatory activity?" "No."

"Fantasy, role-playing, bondage?"

"No, but there was a full-length mirror there so he could see his reflection," Kovac said."Someone had written the word Sorry on the glass with a marker."

Quinn's brow furrowed.

"Did he have any kind of protective padding positioned between the rope and his throat?" Kate asked. She herself had worked for the FBI in the old Behavioral Sciences unit-in a past life, as she said. "No."

Kate frowned. Quinn got up from the couch and went to a set of bookshelves on the far side of his desk.

"Most practitioners of autoerotic asphyxiophilia-the more sophisticated and experienced ones-won't risk the rope leaving a mark on their throat," Kate said. "How would they explain it to coworkers, family members, friends, et cetera."

Kovac reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat. "I've got some of the Polaroids."

He laid them out on the coffee table. Kate looked at them without reaction, sipping at a gin and tonic from time to time.

"Did you find any videotapes with sexual subject matter?" Quinn asked, coming back to the couch with a couple of books and a videocassette.

"Holiday Inn," Kovac said. "I suppose some people could argue it's full of latent homosexual subtext or some such bullshit."

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"That's a little more subtle than I was thinking." Quinn went to the television, punched on theVCR and the set, and loaded the tape.

"No porn-gay, straight, or otherwise.The vic was gay, by the way, if that matters."

"It doesn't.There's no data suggesting this paraphilia is more a gay hobby than a straight one," Quinn said. "The reason I asked about videotapes is that a lot of people who indulge in this kind of thing will videotape themselves, so they can relive the fun later on."

He came back to the couch, settled in next to Kate, and hit the play button on the remote. Kovac leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs and his eyes on the screen, studiously avoiding looking at Kate's hand, which settled casually on her husband's stomach.

The show that rolled across the screen was sordid and sad and pathetic. A man's home video of his own accidental death. A pudgy, balding guy with too much body hair, dressed in a black leather S and M harness. He set the stage carefully, checking the elaborate rigging of the rope, which hung in what looked to be a garage or storage shed. He had draped the background with white drop cloths and strategically placed a couple of female mannequins dressed in dominatrix garb. He spent three minutes taping a riding crop into the hand of one of his silent witnesses. INXS played in the background: "Need You Tomi ght."

When he was satisfied with the set, he walked to a fiill-length imirror and went through his own little play, complete with dialogue. He sentenced himself to punishment, pulled a black discipline mask over his head, and wrapped a long black silk scarf around his throat several times. Then he danced his way from the mirror toward his makeshift gallows, fondling himself, presenting himself to the mannequins. He mounted the step stool and put the noose around his neck. He stroked his erection and eased one foot and then the other off the step.

His toes were just touching the floor, a position he couldn't maintain for long. The noose tightened. He didn't realize he was in trouble yet. He was still playing out the fantasy.Then he began to struggle with his balance. He extended one foot back to step onto the stool. The stool skidded backward and the noose tightened as he tried to reach behind and hook the thing with his foot. He let go of his penis to grab for his safety rope, but he had twisted to one side in an effort to catch the stool and he couldnt quite reach the rope.

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And then it was too late. That fast. Seconds, and his dance became something from a horror movie.

"See how quickly it all goes wrong?" Quinn said. "A couple seconds too long, a slight miscalculation-it's all over."

"Jesus," Kovac muttered. "You don't want to accidentally return this one to Blockbuster."

Though Kovac knew this was from Quinn's tape library. His specialty was sexual hormicide.

They sat there and watched a man die the way other people would sit through their neighbor's vacation video. When the guy stopped kicking and his arms pulled up and went back down for the last time, Quinn clicked the tape off. From start to finish, the hanging had taken less than four minutes.

"There's not always this much ceremony involved," Quinn said. "But it's not uncommon. Not that any of this is common. Rough estimate, you're probably looking at a confirmed thousand autoerotic deaths in this country every year, with maybe two or three times that that are missed calls, labeled suicide or something else."

"But those are just the people who miscalculate and don't escape whatever contraption they've devised," Kate said. "Who knows how many actually practice the paraphilia and don't screw up.You haven't found any family or friends who suggested he was into this kind of thing?"

"The brother says they used to play hangman when they were kids. You know, cowboy stuff, war games, like that. Nothing kinky. But what about that angle? Have you ever seen family members involved in this kind of thing together?"

"There's not much I haven't seen, Sam," Quinn said. "I haven't seen that, but it could certainly happen. I never say never, 'cause just when I think I can't be shocked, someone comes up with something worse than I ever imagined.What's your read on the brother?"

"He's a redneck type. I don't make him for kinky sex, but I could be wrong. There was a lot of resentment for the younger brother." "What about friends?" Kate asked.