Strings

II

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. George was insolent, but he was right. Standing in the relentless cold, examining the mutilated remains over and over, it wouldn't help solve anything. On that topic, what was there to solve, besides the question of motive? We had all the killers, and all that was left of the bodies. Without any clues from the drunk, the purpose behind these dastardly events would remain no more than a Minnesota mystery for all time.

That's when I figured I'd take another whack at cracking the man in custody. He was with the coroner; maybe faced with what he'd done he'd have a little more to say. I hopped back into my cruiser, and puttered off. A minute or two down the road, my radio crackled.

"Backup needed at 85 Brookline."

The morgue. Black-ice be damned- I lowered my lead foot and sped down the empty streets. When I finally screeched into a parking spot, I leapt from my vehicle and booked it toward the lower level of 85 Brookline, relying on my long legs in a way I hadn't in years. Shoving open the doors, I erupted into the building with chaotic flair.

But I was still too late. Being hauled up the stairs I was about to go down, was the gangly assistant I had intimidated earlier- cuffed, wild-eyed, bathed in fresh blood. Only one side of his body was struggling against the officer's hold, or more precisely, only his left hand. That had been the hand with which he held the scalpel, they told me: the scalpel that shredded the drunk. I didn't think the boy had it in him.

Then again, there didn't seem to be much of the boy in him, either. His blonde hair was stained pink with platelets, along with his lab coat. He had gripped the knife so tight, he sliced the palm of his own hand- and droplets of blood dripped from his wound as if they were slipping down strands of a spider's web. It was unclear whether the red in his teeth was from the spatter hitting his smile, or whether he had bitten himself in manic concentration over the work of ripping apart another human being.

He stole my vision as he was led past. With a sour grin he giggled. "I had to... the pulling... I needed to... can't you see?" In his crazed state, saliva and blood foamed together from his mouth, dribbling down his chin. His head lolled over as he reached the top of the steps, and by rolling his eyes all the way back, he still managed to hold my stare. It almost seemed like he took pride in that.

I didn't bother going downstairs. Another officer heading in my direction told me what had happened- the assistant went insane when he was alone with the drunk during examination- and I was certain what I would see: another unspeakable, despicable, tableau of gore; though I suppose this time the dead would look more like a man than the mounds of meat I had met earlier. I would be handed pictures later, anyway. At that point in the demonic day, I cared far more about following the new killer back to the precinct.

Questions of motive tapped their jagged fingernails against my driver side window as I drove in a three-car perpetrator parade back to the department. I'd never seen so much clear physical evidence pointing to each killer. Conviction of the assistant would be easy- that is, if this one lasts. The drunk's prophecy had come true, he was next. What at first seemed like one unhinged man murdering another, possibly unhinged, murdering man- now involved a drastic personality change in a boy who just an hour ago seemed nearly normal.

Coercion? The kid made it sound like he was forced- that he had to- however he didn't seem too upset about it. Latent mental illness? A voice in his head? No, too much of a coincidence.

As I strained to think, my fingers tightened on the steering wheel, causing more flakes of fading pleather to fall to the floor. The heat still hadn't come on in the cruiser, and lukewarm air was being hacked up from the vents at random intervals, a pitiful and frustrating situation so unique to small northern towns, where everything and everyone remains locked thirty years in the past. I listened to the low rumble of the cracking ice below me, a sound that was so natural and unnatural at the same time, and tried to concentrate. Was there another element here I was missing? Something that could connect the boy and the drunk, besides slaughter?

I had exhausted myself by the time I came to a puffing halt. I felt as off as today's events as I stumbled out of the car like a newborn foal over his own legs. I caught myself on the railing by the steps, and put all my effort into not straying past where sand and salt had been spread. For the second time that day, George was the only witness to my unbecoming state.

The man stood on the stoop- as sturdy as a smokestack and just as ashy- and shouted down to me. "Why don't you head home, Nick?" I had been eyeing the splintering ice underfoot, but at those words my head whipped up, and following it, a twitch. My tick seemed to be particularly excited today.

"Why?" My vocal cords churned out a hoarse objection.

George sniffed up some snot, his left hand gesturing to me, and his right jolting toward the door behind his back. "Look at you." He threw me a stiff glare. "I know you don't want to hear it, but you need a break. I've got the kid. I know you're worried that somethin'll happen, but I won't let anyone besides myself be alone with him."

I secretly despised every time George's reasoning was right over mine. But being stubborn right now wouldn't do me any good, and it appeared that staying here wouldn't do much good either. While he didn't have any experience outside town, my detective had technically been on the force longer than I. He could handle things here. Maybe I'd find better realizations waiting for me at home. Glancing at George one last time, I straightened myself up, and began my walk.

The trek was similar to the one that morning, it was only my convulsing mind that made it ominous. In every snowbank I thought I saw specks of crimson. Behind me I could swear there was another set of footfalls, but turning I always discovered myself to be alone with the cold. I refused to hurry, I wouldn't be pressured by minor hallucinations. I kept my same steady, plodding rhythm as I forced my way through the unrelenting winter, placing all my ponderings on pause until I reached my apartment.

I resided on the ground floor of a house split in half horizontally- "two family home"- it was supposed to be. In truth, all it was was one single cop below, and broken windows and bats above. It was on the edge of town, and used to be painted gray, or perhaps purple. By the time I got there and snagged it for the price it absolutely deserved, the faded colors were undecipherable. Though the distance between it and the precinct was significant, I had started walking to work every day over ten years ago- back down South when the world was warm- and I wasn't about to stop now, despite the ever worsening winters.

My feet burrowed deep into the damp soles of my boots as I climbed the steps. Crystals of snow fluttered off the deck and the gutter with every hit of my heel, and to some it would've been whimsical. As for me - I didn't know the meaning of the word whimsy anymore. Listless, I ducked inside.

The house always had a draft like someone had left a window open. Poor insulation- I managed to get that much honestly out of the realtor. Back then I was young and attractive enough to do those sorts of things: the new man in town with the subtle tan and mysterious air. The women, however, soon learned the Sheriff wasn't a gentle, loving man beneath the surface, just waiting for the right girl to tease him out. Nick Carter was stone, through and through.

I hung there in my entryway, self-absorbed, until a hesitant rapping growing gradually more confident appeared at my back. I spun on my heel, and though the events of today had taken their sickening effect on me, for some reason, I wasn't nervous. Peering through the peep-hole, I saw a feminine form that prompted me to throw open the door without further delay.