Show of Evil

there to do his dirty work.'

They walked past a living room that was cluttered with kewpie dolls, embroidered pillows, and dozens of photographs. The furniture was covered with plastic sheets. Flaherty smelled the acid-sweet odour of blood and death.

The death room was a small den with a fireplace. Sliding glass doors led from the room to an enclosed porch on the side of the house. Another door led into the kitchen, which dominated the rear of the place. There was blood everywhere: on the walls, the ceiling, the carpet. Flaherty found a full-length shot of the corpse. Lincoln lay on his side, his head askew. A terrible wound had almost severed his head. His mouth gaped open like that of a dead fish. The wounds were numerous and awesome. Lincoln's pants were pulled down around his knees and he had been emasculated. The results of the brutal amputation had been stuffed in his mouth.

Flaherty flipped through the pictures, found a close-up of the rear of Lincoln's head.

There it was: 'R41.102.' Flaherty showed no emotion. He kept flipping the photographs.

'How'd he get in? The killer, I mean?' he asked.

'Broke a window in back,' Jensen said. 'The way we figure it, he cased the place very carefully. Knew the back road to the lake would be abandoned this time of year; particularly after dark. He came in the back way, pulled on down to the house, and broke in through the sliding glass door leading from the little deck in the back. Here's what's interesting. It rained the night before, but there were no footprints in the house and the porch was hosed down so there were no footprints out there either. What I think, the perp took off his shoes when he came in. Then when he left he hosed off the deck so there weren't any out there, either. Probably used the hose to wash off the victim's blood, too. I mean, you look at the pictures of Lincoln, the perp had to be covered with blood.'

'Yeah, somebody did some homework on this,' Flaherty said, still flipping through the photographs. 'Whoever set up the victim knew Spier and his wife were away. Little town like this - '

'Was in the Post-Dispatch,' said Nicholson.

'What was?'

'About Spier and his wife going out to Vegas. A story in the people section. He drives a semi, won a trip for ten years' service without a citation or mishap.'

'How about the package?'

'Mailed from over in East St Louis, one of those wrap-and-send places,' Jensen offered. 'During lunch hour. Place was jammed, nobody remembers a damn thing about who posted it. Return name and address is a phony.'

Flaherty looked at the receipt slip. On the line that read 'sender' was the name M. Lafferty.

'Know an M. Lafferty?' the detective asked.

'Nope,' Flaherty said. ' The victim picked it up himself, huh?'

'Yeah. Was bellyaching about having to run over there after working hours and then drive down here and back after dark.'

'What about this… Lex Lincoln? Anything on him?'

'Young guy, twenty-six, been workin' at UPD since he moved here from Minneapolis two years ago.'

'Minneapolis? Anything there?'

'Nothing on him. No sheet. His boss - fellow named Josh Pringle - says he's a good worker, always on time, kind of a joker. No enemies we've uncovered so far. Big with the ladies - had two dates the night he was killed.'

'Maybe they ganged up on him,' Flaherty said with a smile.

The old pro laughed. 'Way I heard it, they were both really torn up over it.'

 'Was anything taken?' Flaherty asked.

 'Nothing from the house that we can determine,' Jensen answered. 'The Spiers will be able to tell us, but I think we can rule out robbery. This was an ambush. The only thing we know was taken was Lincoln's belt buckle.'

 'His belt buckle?'

'Yes. One of a kind - an American flag, embossed on brass,' said Nicholson. 'It was cut off his belt. There's one other thing. Look here at this photo, on the back of Lincoln's head, it's written in blood. R41.102. That mean anything to you?'

Before he could answer, Gilanti came back in the house, shaking rain off his coat. He stomped down the hall, his face bunched up in a scowl, talking aloud to himself as he approached Flaherty, Jensen, and Nicholson.