Sheriff Jeremiah leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his head. Deputy Jones watched his every move, waiting for permission to speak again. The air conditioner hummed quietly and blew tiny gusts of wind onto the corner of the sheriff’s desk. Approximately fifty tiny heads bobbled along with the current.
“I don’t know,” Sheriff Jeremiah said as he stared at the far wall. “Right now, none of it adds up. No matter how many times I see it, I can’t seem to make the pieces fit together.” He removed the thin-framed glasses from his nose and rubbed his eyes. A look of frustration crossed his face. “Even the most basic information doesn’t make sense.”
“You sure I can’t help, boss?” Deputy Jones asked.
“I’m not sure it would do any good.”
Deputy Jones shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know about that, boss. We studied a lot of things at Harvard. How to be superior. Looking with contempt at people who went to public universities. Discovering never before known injustices and then protesting them. Keeping Asians off our campuses. I’m sure I could help you with this.”
“Alright,” Sheriff Jeremiah said, “I suppose I could give you a chance.” He handed the pictures to Deputy Jones. “I know one of them is Timon and one is Pumbaa, but for the life of me I can’t remember which is which.”
Deputy Jones did his best not to roll his eyes. He was able to stop the right one, but the left one did a full three-sixty. Sheriff Jeremiah figured a leopard cockroach had entered the deputy’s brain and was playing spin the eyeball from the inside. He reached for his sidearm to blast away the intruder but remembered that the leopard cockroach was endangered. The gun slipped back in the holster.
“Timon is the meerkat,” Deputy Jones said.
“What’s a meerkat?”
“A rodent found only in Africa and West Philly. It’s the genetic offspring of a prairie dog and a skunk.”
“And the narwhal?”
“The warthog.”
“You sure?” Sheriff Jeremiah asked.
“Yes,” Deputy Jones said with more confidence than required. “In my evolutionary biology class, I learned that a narwhal is a descendant of the two-legged elephant which roamed the great inland swamps during the Crustacean period. They evolved into sea creatures long before warthogs ruled the plains.”
“You learn something new every day,” Sheriff Jeremiah said, obviously impressed with his recent hire. He returned the pictures to the file labeled ‘Unsolved Mysteries’. “Well, I guess it’s time to head down to the morgue. We got another new admit. Arrived early this morning. Deputy Martinson processed the crime scene for us and sent the information down. I’ve got it right here.” He held up a brown folder. “Ready to go?”
Deputy Jones nodded and stood up with the sheriff. The regular morgue overflowed with tourists who had died when they saw the ticket prices at Disneyland, so they headed to the temporary one in the basement of the sheriff’s department.
Stepping out of the stairwell and pushing through the heavy, steel doors, the sticky heat of the upstairs gave way to the cool dampness of the LA underground. The odor of burnt, moldy popcorn hung in the air. A vague feeling of disquiet made everything seem even chillier as though the souls of the dead roamed the halls in search of rest or a coat.
Sheriff Jeremiah glanced up at the buzzing, yellow lights before pushing through another set of double doors at the end of the hall. The doors opened into a space, no larger than a typical hotel room, with a single bed in the middle illuminated by an oversized lamp hanging from the wall. A man well past his prime hunched over the body of a woman lying on the bed.
In the dull glare of the wall lamp, Sheriff Jeremiah saw the extent of the damage done to the woman’s face. Not much was left of it. The top of her head had caved in. Large chunks of the scalp were missing. A toothless jaw hung limply to the side.
“This one looks personal,” Sheriff Jeremiah said.
“Could be,” the hunched man replied. “Or maybe the killer was simply full of rage. Like the others.”
“The same guy?” Sheriff Jeremiah asked.
“The same person,” the hunched man said.
“You’re saying the killer could be a woman?” Sheriff Jeremiah asked. “It’s not likely given the way the victims have been killed.” He stepped forward for a closer look and poked at the place where the nose should have been. “Besides, it took a lot of strength to do this kind of damage.”
“I’ve seen a woman lift a three-hundred-pound man off the ground and throw him across the room as if it was nothing.”
“Really? Who?”
“Wonder Woman,” Carl said. “Now, I’m not saying she did it. I’m just keeping an open mind. Kind of like what I need you to do with this one.”
Sheriff Jeremiah moved closer to where Carl, the hunched over man and resident coroner, pointed.
“You smell that?” Carl asked.
Sheriff Jeremiah took a whiff and shook his head. “Other than the early stages of decomp, I don’t notice anything unusual,” he said. “That body really hasn’t begun to turn yet.”
“Get down closer,” Carl said, “and take a good sniff.”
Sheriff Jeremiah dropped his nose a few inches from the incised Y on the chest and inhaled. He shrugged. “Nothing,” he said.
“Try it one more time,” Carl said, “but this time take the nose plugs out.”
Sheriff Jeremiah bent over once more and drew in a deep breath. This time, there was something, or, at least, he thought so. His eyes narrowed briefly as though in recognition, recalling a memory which can only be brought on by a scent.
Carl smiled the slight smile of coroners. “It’s there, isn’t it? You know what I’m talking about.”
Sheriff Jeremiah tilted his head like a person with muscles on only one side of his neck might do. “It smells like … baloney, the smell of advanced decay and rot. Either something died inside this person a long time ago, or you dropped your baloney sandwich in her when you were doing the autopsy.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Carl said, happily munching on his sandwich. “But as you can see, I fished it out before I closed up. No. That smell you smell is the smell of death. A healthy, young woman like this with no signs of disease, but it, the odor, is unmistakable. Coming from deep down in her healthy tissue. As though something inside her died a long time ago but her body hadn’t realized it yet. Or hadn’t shown the outward signs anyway.”
Sheriff Jeremiah rubbed his lips in consideration. He pulled out the notebook in which he carefully recorded his observations from the previous crime scenes and flipped over the pages. The crinkle of graphited leaves soothed his anxious heart.
Flipping a little more, he found it. Lips pursed in anticipation. The words formed on his tongue, but he couldn’t find the courage to say them.
“What is it?” Carl asked.
“Is she missing something?” Sheriff Jeremiah asked.
“You mean besides the top of her head?”
“Do me a favor. Check inside her mouth.”
The coroner downed the last bite, licked his fingers, and pried open the remnants of the woman’s jaws. “What am I looking for?” he said.
“Just look. In the back of her throat.”
Carl flipped his head light onto bright and shined it deep into the gaping mouth. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of it? Her uvula, the dangly, air-freshener of the body. It’s missing. Seems as if it’s been cut out. Or ripped out. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. It was just a hunch.”
“You think that’s what’s causing the odor?” Carl asked, the beam of his head light resting on Sheriff Jeremiah’s face.
“No. He’s collecting them.”
“Who?”
“The killer,” Sheriff Jeremiah said.
“For what reason?” Carl asked.
“I couldn’t tell you, but I aim to find out.” Sheriff Jeremiah turned to Deputy Jones. “Where’d they say the body was found?”
Deputy Jones opened the brown folder. “In an alley off of Wilshire. Behind The Conch Shell. It’s a bar where the locals hang out.”
“I know the place,” Sheriff Jeremiah said. “Stopped in a few times to quench my thirst. It’s not a place I’d expect someone dressed like her to frequent. She seems like more of the executive type. The I don’t want to get dirt under my lovely manicures by hanging out with the riff-raff type. The Conch regulars would buy her a beer, then, send her on her way.”
“You think our killer is one of the regulars?” Deputy Jones asked.
“I doubt it. Although, I’d bet he was familiar with the area. My guess is you won’t find any cameras anywhere along that street.”
Deputy Jones looked through the files. “Nope. No mention of any cameras.” He paused to think. “I bet the killer walked her there. Maybe going to the Conch as a pretext. But then he took a turn down the alley and … well, you know the rest.”
“He didn’t walk her there,” Sheriff Jeremiah said. “He drove her there. Someone would’ve seen the two together. Our killer is too clever to allow that to happen.”
“Last night was a scorcher,” Deputy Jones said. “Not many people would’ve been out.”
“I suppose not,” Sheriff Jeremiah said. He thought for a moment before continuing. “We won’t discount either theory. Go back out there with Martinson and canvas the area. See if anyone saw something.”
“Will do.”
Sheriff Jeremiah and Carl watched the deputy head off. When the last clumping of his shoes stopped echoing in the corridor, Carl turned to the sheriff.
“There’s something else you should know,” he said.
“What is it?” Sheriff Jeremiah asked.
“I found a card in an inner pocket of the woman’s suit coat. Your detectives must’ve missed it when they were doing the initial investigation.”
Carl removed the card from his own pocket and handed it to Sheriff Jeremiah. The sheriff flipped it back and forth, reading both sides at least twice.
“Marvin Bivins. 213-555-0861,” he said out loud. “Must be an actor.”
“Is it from the killer?”
The sheriff looked at the card again. “It doesn’t have a date, but the ink looks fresh. It’s hard to tell. Could be a coincidence.” He placed the card into the brown folder. “However, I’ve been in this profession too long to believe in coincidence.”