The Killing Game. J. Kerley A.

      Gregory screamed and kicked the pail of soapy water across the floor of his garage. It was useless to try and clean his car seat. The brown stain had not only set, it spread as he rubbed with the detergent solution.

      “You stink like a sewage factory, poopy. Go home and learn how to use a toilet.”

      Gregory had nearly crashed twice on his return, once driving through a stop sign, the second time almost missing a curve. His drive took him past Ema’s house and for some wild reason he pulled into her driveway, wanting to go to her door, make up an excuse, anything, anything.

      Help me, Ema. I’m sick.

      It was as if he saw himself walking her drive with his face contorted in misery, his body reeking of itself as his nails scratched in agony at her door. But no, that couldn’t have happened. Because when Ema’s lights came on at the sound of a car, Gregory had panicked, cutting the steering wheel and flooring the accelerator, whipping into a U-turn across Ema’s yard and back into the street, his heart wild in his throat.

      What happened next?

      Home minutes later, Gregory had torn off his clothes – designer khakis, linen shirt, silk socks, Italian walking shoes – jamming everything inside a garbage bag, and another and another, until a dozen bags surrounded the disgraced clothes. He’d showered until the water ran cold.

      Gregory howled and kicked the pail again, sending it into a rack of rakes and brooms. They tumbled from the wall, clattering to the concrete.

      I will kill them both, Gregory thought, kicking aside the implements as he paced inside the hot and reeking garage, hands wet with shit-stained water. Cut out their eyes. Slash their bellies and pack them with starving rats . . . nail their ballsacks to a tree and snip their carotids with pruning shears …

      Harry and I were in early the next morning. I called Hernandez and filled him in on what we’d discovered. “Have you had any other instances of animal bodies lately?” I asked. “Tortured, I mean.”

      “None. Same for the rest of the folks in the department. I’m not including neglect, a kind of torture, but …”

      “Yeah. This was methodical and likely the highlight of this freak’s day.”

      “Could you stake out the bridge?” Hernandez asked.

      “We don’t have the manpower. And the pathologist is fairly certain the carcasses had been frozen. The perp probably froze the cats when he was, uh, finished with them. So he may well have driven across the bridge just the once.”

      “Uh, listen, Detective Ryder … I did some reading on the Internet. I’m sure you know that people who torment animals can a lot of times turn into, uh …”

      “Yep,” I said. “I know.”

      I hung up and heard a throat being cleared. I turned to see a pretty young woman three paces back wearing a light summer dress with a backpack slung over a bare shoulder. “Hello, Miz Holliday,” I said. Harry turned, his eyes lighting as always when he saw a lovely woman.

      “We’ve studied several of your cases, Detective Nautilus,” Holliday said after I’d made introductions. “Detective Ryder is always talking about you.”

      Harry raised an eyebrow my way.

      “It’s the other Harry Nautilus,” I said. “The pretty one.”

      Harry shot me a strange grin and stood. “I’m gonna pull some uniforms to canvass the block below Bienville,” he said, referring to a current case.

      “What brings you to HQ, Wendy?” I asked.

      “Our class in police administration heard lectures from administrators. Departmental structure, chain of command, work flow, efficiency analysis, public outreach—”

      “Did you manage to stay awake?”

      “Let’s just say I’ll take one of your classes any day.”

      “Very diplomatic. Chief Baggs … did he talk to the class?”

      “We saw his office. His secretary said he was busy.”

      I pressed my fingers to my temples and closed my eyes like a Las Vegas mentalist. “Something about the Mayor, right?” I divined.

      “How did you know?”

      I winked. “I’m a detective, Wendy. I detect. Where’s the rest of the class?”

      “Dismissed a few minutes ago.”

      “And up you snuck.”

      “I was just going to peek through the door. Then I saw you and Detective Nautilus. And, uh, sort of kept walking.”

      “Here’s the homicide floor. Peek away.”

      She turned to look across the room, a full floor of cubicle offices. I almost avoided lowering my eyes past the knee-top hem for a mental photograph of the long, sun-browned legs, the slight front bow of her shins perfectly complementing the swell of calf.

      “It seems kind of dark compared to the other floors,” she noted, turning my way as my head snapped up.

      “Good catch,” I said, hoping she hadn’t caught me ogling. “When the building was put up, before my time, the latest in high-intensity ceiling lights were installed. Within two weeks the dicks had removed the fluorescent bulbs and brought in floor and desk lamps, creating an atmosphere better suited to solving mortal crimes.”

      “Chiaroscuro,” Holliday said. “The juxtaposition of dark and light.”

      “Nice vocabulary, Wendy.”

      She blushed again and turned toward the door. “I guess I’ll see you in class, right?” she said over her shoulder.

      “Looking forward to it,” I nodded, fighting to keep my eyes level.

       Chapter 11

      Gregory was sleeping when his cell rang from the bedside table. He tried to ignore it until his eyes caught the clock: 10.17 a.m. He never slept past eight … why did I …

      The horrors of his night flooded into his head.

      You fart while you screw, little ones that leak out.

      The goddamn woman, the slut who’d insulted him. It was all her fault, making him need a whore, leading to getting stopped by the goddamn cops. Then the filth, shame, humiliation.

      Step out of the car please …

      The smell of shit was everywhere.

      Officer—

      … no not here no not now …

      What happened after that?

      GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR.

      My pants—

      Officer, please, I can’t—

      What happened next?

      It’s one of them pervert magazines, Horse. Something called Women in Agony.

      Gregory moaned. The phone rang a third time.

      If you jam rubber balls in their mouths, it doesn’t leave room for your dick.

      You stink like a sewage factory, poopy. Go home and learn how to use a toilet.

      What happened next? What happened next?

      The phone rang again. The answering machine came on. “Leave a number and I’ll get back to you.”

      “Gregory?” a voice said, worried. “Gregory? Are you all right?”

      Ema.