Duplicity
By Divamercury
Yes, I know, my posts are becoming few and far between, but they're longer than they used to be! That's all I can say in my defense, except I'm being slowly killed by high school. I've got so much homework to doand it's a long weekend! Oh, well. I'll survivebut some of the characters (most of whom I don't own) might not. Anyway, won't say any more than that. I'm so proudI worked a disclaimer into my author's note! ;) And I just have to say one more thing before I shut up and let you read Chapter 13. I just want to apologize in advance for anything that anyone might find offensive, such as references to names being stupid, etc. I haven't gotten any flames but I don't want to and, of course, these statements are simply my opinions. There, don't have to apologize for a while. Enjoy, and don't you dare forget to review! Or I'll delay my posts intentionally and just make your lives miserable like that. *blushes* Well, probably not. Love ya!
~DM
Chapter 13
"Number C14!"
One of the clerks at the unemployment office announced numbers in what seemed to be hourly increments but in actuality they were probably periods of five to ten minutes.
I glanced down at the slip of paper in my hand and sighed.
C15. That was my number today, so I would be nexthopefully. Last time I had been cut off because it had been closing time and I had only been three people away. I hoped that this experience wouldn't repeat itself. I was determined that I wasn't going to be a freeloader on Sara, so in order to avoid this, employment was the natural choice. I closed my copy of Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux and stood up when another clerk said "Number C15."
I stood up and stowed my book away in one of the large pockets of my coat and sat in the chair in the front of her desk.
"All right, Mr., umNottingham. How can I, like, help you?"
Oh, God. Must not strangle Valley girl. Ian, you've moved past that now,' I thought.
I bit back my retort, "I need a JOB, damn it!" and said instead, "My previous employer and I had a falling out and I need to find a position elsewhere."
"Oh. So what are your, you know, um, those things"
"Credentials?" I supplied.
"Yeah! Those," she said, grinning. "I knew I'd think of it."
God help me.' Aloud I said, "Well, if I tell you, I'll have to kill you."
I actually wasn't trying to make a joke, nor did my demeanor suggest such, but Barbie cracked up, making a shrill sound similar to that produced by hyenas. "You are, like, so funny, Mr. Nottingham. Now, really, what are your credentials?"
"I already told you. If you were to discover them, I would have to end your life, and I would not relish the task." Well, the last part was a lie, but
Barbie's eyes widened and she stared at me. Her hand crawled over to the phone on the side of her desk and she hit one button. "Hey, Pete? It's Cheryl. Um, yeahcan you take this one?"
Several minutes later I was sitting in front of a different, albeit identical desk, but this time I stared across the aforementioned furniture at a young man of about 30 with black hair and blue eyes, whose name was Pete Nelson. He was the one from the conversation I had overheard when speaking with Barb—Cheryl. He seemed pleasant, although slightly severe, but his blue eyes lit up after I told him of my exchange with Cheryl.
"Way to go, sir. She's really annoying, and I always get stuck with people who get fed up with her. I wish everyone around here could pull his or her own weight. But enough about me. You're looking for a job in what field?"
"I was a bodyguard ever since I" I trailed off. "Was a child" wouldn't be a good way to finish that sentence. "Was old enough to work," I finished.
"I see." Pete searched the archives or whatever program was on his computer and made a sound. "Well, there's several openings, one being at Vorschlag Industries."
Well, I couldn't say I was expecting that. "That's the position I just vacated."
"Who did you work for?"
"Kenneth Irons."
Pete grimaced. I nodded. "Well, Adair Avilla is asking for a bodyguard. Do you know her?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Apparently she is Kenneth Irons's daughter, although I have never laid eyes on her. And I worked at Vorschlag for quite some time."
"Evidently she just emerged from the woodworksomething about her mother's death?" Pete said.
I nodded. "I heard something similar to that. I don't know what it's all about, though."
"Well, do you think you'd like to check it out? See if she's different than Kenny?" he asked.
"That sounds like a good idea. But in case that position doesn't work out, are there any other openings?"
"Yeah, there are two other possible positions." He handed me three business cards, one bearing the all-too-familiar logo of Vorschlag on its front. "Check out those other ones if Vorschlag doesn't appeal to you. Should I call Vorschlag and set up an appointment with Ms. Avilla?"
"I don't see why not. Thank you." There wasn't really any point in objecting. It would be interesting to meet this woman—not pleasant, but certainly interesting. I sat and waited while Pete talked with the receptionist and then hung up the phone three minutes and twenty-eight seconds after placing the call.
"Ms. Avilla will be expecting you at 9:30 tomorrow morning, Mr. Nottingham."
I nodded and stood to leave. Pete rose as well and we shook hands.
"Thank you very much for your help" I trailed off, not knowing what to call him.
"Pete," he supplied with a smile. "Thank you for coming in today, Mr. Nottingham. I hope I was able to help."
"I hope so, too. I just hope I don't have to come back," I said with a small smile. Pete chuckled and I left the unemployment agency feeling slightly more securebut I wasn't exactly looking forward to the next morning.
* * *
Adair Avilla had been right about that Nottingham guy. He seemed nice enough or whatever, but he was just on this side of scary. He must have been pretty desperate to have to come here, toohe just didn't seem like the type to have to ask for help. I wasn't sure why she had called here making sure that I helped him get an appointment to see her, butwho can fathom the minds of the newly rich and relatively famous, in Adair's case. She was one screwed-up chick from all I had heard about her, but hey, a whole ten grand just for setting this up? What guy in his right mind would say no? Certainly not Pete Nelson.
* * *
I was preoccupied with all the paper I was pushing when Connor suddenly reappeared in the office.
"Hey," he said, sitting down. I merely grunted in response to the sound.
"Pez?"
I looked up. "Oh, hey Connor. Sorryjust got a little preoccupied by all this. How's the new case coming?"
Connor grimaced. "Not too well. Vicki's working on it. Priority, too. Probably won't take too long considering there didn't seem to be too much left to examine."
I frowned. "I really didn't need to hear that, rookie."
"When do you ever? Oh, and this came for you. It was up front." Connor handed me a long, narrow white box, almost like the ones that held flowers, that was marked "Detective Pezzini." I took the box from him and flipped it over while searching for my letter opener to cut the tape binding it. As I glanced at the bottom, I noticed a card taped to it and removed it first. Scrawled on the inside of the plain white card in permanent marker were the words:
Guess she won't need this anymore.
--BC
Fearing the worst, I carefully opened the box. My fears were justified, because Connor and I were face to face with a two-foot long section of what appeared to be large intestine.
"Oh, shit."
"Damn," Connor said. "This guy's sick."
"And getting sicker. So what now?"
"Knock, knock."
It was Vicki, still in mortician mode major.
"Who's there?" Connor asked tiredly.
"Bowel," I injected.
Vicki looked at me strangely. "Bowel who?" she asked, a legitimate question.
"Bowel in a box on my desk. Apparently our killer keeps thinking he's an organ donorthey're just not his organs."
Vic took one look at the box and shook her head sadly, rubbing her temples. "Jesus H. Christ. Well, at least we found part of it."
"Part of it?" Connor asked, turning a lovely seafoam green.
"Yup. The rest is still missing."
"Spectacular," I groaned.
"I can tell you what's going on if you'll accompany me to my lair," she said, doing a bad Dracula impression while saying that last part. She was trying to lighten the mood but she failed. Miserably. Connor and I got up without a sound and followed Vicki down to the morgue.
When we arrived down there, slowly acclimating to the distinctive smell of formaldehyde as we stood there, and Vicki pulled the sheet back off of the body and its head.
"The victim's name was Paula Bonner. She was 25 years old and was a young accountant. She seems to be one of the last people to be killed like this and was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"What do you think about our friend J.R.?"
"J.R.?" Connor asked.
"Jack the Ripper. Our killer seems to really admire the guy," I remarked.
"Well, evidently he's getting angrier as he goes along," Vic began. "He's taking more and more body parts with him as souvenirs of his handiwork, and that's just the beginning of the creepiness."
"Cause of death?" I asked as I slowly circled the examining table.
"Well, it was hard to tell considering the amount of damage done—" I winced at this, "—but I think it was this here." She pointed to a hole in the woman's forehead right above the bridge of her nose. "I think this was done by an ice pick, and it penetrated in one blow. Which means?"
"Male killer," I replied. "Very few women would have enough force to send it straight through with one try."
Vicki nodded. "That's the most logical theory, at least."
"And our witnesses said that it was a man running away from the scene. So what did the ice pick do?" Connor asked.
"Well, basically it scrambled her brains on impact. Like a lobotomy, I guess, or something. There was some stuff leaking out of the wound earlier, must have been what was left of her gray matter, but—"
"Okay, okay, that's plenty on that subject," Connor said. "What else?"
"Well, that's not all the damage done to the head. The tongue has been torn out, rather viciously I would have to add, and ears have been sliced off. Can we say Van Gogh?"
I chuckled slightly at this but quickly refocused. No doubt that would be what I'd get next in the mail.
"Then we get to the damage of the rest of the body. He focused on the abdomen and basically nowhere elseother than the head. The large intestine has been completely removed, but you already knew that. The right kidney's gone, too, and the liver's in terrible shapeit's been quartered, and rather badly at that. But the interesting part is the pancreas."
"The pancreas?" Connor and I asked simultaneously, incredulous. Not exactly the first organ that would come to mind when Vicki was explaining something like this, so our attention was piqued.
"Yeah. Our killer must have had some time on his hands, because he removed the pancreas, turned it inside out, and then sewed it back together. It's weird"
"Well, that's not something that we hear very often," I joked. "Nothing's ever weird around here."
"Figures. It's one of your cases," Vicki said.
I rolled my eyes. Not that again. "Have we contacted the family?" I wanted to know.
"Yup, it's already been taken care of. I took some time to do that after we wrapped up the crime scene. They'd already identified her body and I was in the area so I went ahead. I'm glad you weren't there, Sarait hurt to see the parents, but I'll tell you more about that later. Thanks for the briefing, Vic."
"Sure thing. I'll send the report up a little later. Justtry to forget about this for a while."
"See ya, Vic," I said, and Connor and I headed back up to the office.
"You're seriously lucky to have missed it, Pez. Mr. Bonner was trying to be strong for his wife but Mrs. Bonner just broke down. She just simply didn't want to believe that it was her daughter lying on a slab at the morgue. And there were two or three younger siblings hanging around bawling, too. Thank God Al went with me or I probably wouldn't have made it."
"No parent ever wants to believe something like that. It's a very common tale and I've been witness to many of those conversations. And this won't be the last one you experience in your career, either, rookie."
"Hey, I thought we were past the whole rookie thing!" he said.
"Well, you thought wrong. Now let's get back to work. I need to get my mind off of this and I'm sure you do, too." By this time we'd made it back to the office and we sat down at our respective desks, preparing to drown ourselves in paperwork until we could escape from the horrors of the day.