Read Online Last Call by Sean Costello - Free Book Online
Authors: Sean Costello
Tags: Canada
Ads: Link
what can you tell me, Frank?”
“For starters, you’re dealing with an exceedingly bent piece of work here. This is one sick puppy.”
You’re supposed to tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Your perp did the dental work while the lady was still alive. Chainsawed her alive, too.” He indicated the slide on the scope. “I found microemboli in the lungs. Traces of machine oil and bits of sawdust. This can only happen if the heart is still beating.”
The doctor swiveled a computer monitor around to face the detective, then clicked on a tiny photograph, the shot enlarging now to fill the screen.
“And here. A one-and-a-half inch incision in the abdominal wall, also inflicted antemortem. Neatly done. Almost surgically precise.”
“Any signs of rape?”
“I suppose you could call it that,” the pathologist said. He tapped the screen with the tip of his pen, indicating the small incision. “Stated bluntly, Dan, the guy made a hole in her belly and fucked her in the guts.”
Dan Boland rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. In his nearly twenty years in Major Crimes, he’d witnessed more than his share of the twisted shit people dreamed up to do to each other, but this one ranked in the top five.
“Jesus,” he said.
* * *
At 4:00 P.M. on the button, Trish slipped in through the kitchen doors at the Radisson Hotel and fell in next to Stacey, the girl already busy wrapping utensils in burgundy napkins. She saw her mother on the phone in her glass-walled office, staring daggers at her now, and said, “Uh-oh.”
Stacey said, “Wouldn’t wanna be ya,” and Trish elbowed her in the ribs. She cut her eyes away from her mother’s death stare, picked up some utensils and got busy.
Sally strolled over a minute later and Trish thought how sharp she looked in her business-woman’s suit, the word SUPERVISOR embroidered in gold on the breast pocket. She said, “Hi, Mom,” but her mother kept walking, moving behind her now, leaning over to say in her ear, “That was close, little sister. Very close.”
Out of the corner of her eye Trish saw Stacey smirking and had to bite her tongue to stifle a giggle. Her mother slapped her on the fanny and Trish let out a squeal.
Strutting away, her mom said, “Next time wear your name tag,” and the girls lost it, their laughter peeling through the stainless steel kitchen.
* * *
An hour after her shift ended, Trish crawled into bed and leaned against the headboard, as exhausted as she’d ever been. Dean had called while she was still at work to tell her nothing had changed. At least her dad was still alive.
She took the band photo off the bedside table and viewed it in the lamplight, thinking, I finally found you . She prayed he’d make it through.
She tucked the photo in the night table drawer and switched off the lamp. “Nite, Dad,” she said in the dark of her room. “Sweet dreams.”
* * *
In his ICU bed at TGH Jim Gamble lay stock still in the dim light, the only sound the steady hiss and chuff of the ventilator that kept him alive.
5
––––––––
Monday, June 29
JIM GAMBLE OPENED his eyes.
His first perception was pain, his old companion, but on a scale beyond any he’d previously experienced; it was prodigious, apocalyptic, and his body braced against the enormity of it. This intense sensation did not reach his higher centers, however, for these were still beyond function; but on a primitive level, where the animal lived, billions of neurons discharged in tandem in a pyroclastic eruption of agony. It was centered in his belly, where the hunger waited, and the muscles of his core drew him into a bow, causing the jagged suture line to let go.
His gaze settled on the ceiling now, his eyes bulging in horror. The tiles up there were swarming with spiders, goliath black tarantulas, and they were losing their footing and falling, dozens of them landing on his face and chest and legs, skittering hordes of them covering the
“For starters, you’re dealing with an exceedingly bent piece of work here. This is one sick puppy.”
You’re supposed to tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Your perp did the dental work while the lady was still alive. Chainsawed her alive, too.” He indicated the slide on the scope. “I found microemboli in the lungs. Traces of machine oil and bits of sawdust. This can only happen if the heart is still beating.”
The doctor swiveled a computer monitor around to face the detective, then clicked on a tiny photograph, the shot enlarging now to fill the screen.
“And here. A one-and-a-half inch incision in the abdominal wall, also inflicted antemortem. Neatly done. Almost surgically precise.”
“Any signs of rape?”
“I suppose you could call it that,” the pathologist said. He tapped the screen with the tip of his pen, indicating the small incision. “Stated bluntly, Dan, the guy made a hole in her belly and fucked her in the guts.”
Dan Boland rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. In his nearly twenty years in Major Crimes, he’d witnessed more than his share of the twisted shit people dreamed up to do to each other, but this one ranked in the top five.
“Jesus,” he said.
* * *
At 4:00 P.M. on the button, Trish slipped in through the kitchen doors at the Radisson Hotel and fell in next to Stacey, the girl already busy wrapping utensils in burgundy napkins. She saw her mother on the phone in her glass-walled office, staring daggers at her now, and said, “Uh-oh.”
Stacey said, “Wouldn’t wanna be ya,” and Trish elbowed her in the ribs. She cut her eyes away from her mother’s death stare, picked up some utensils and got busy.
Sally strolled over a minute later and Trish thought how sharp she looked in her business-woman’s suit, the word SUPERVISOR embroidered in gold on the breast pocket. She said, “Hi, Mom,” but her mother kept walking, moving behind her now, leaning over to say in her ear, “That was close, little sister. Very close.”
Out of the corner of her eye Trish saw Stacey smirking and had to bite her tongue to stifle a giggle. Her mother slapped her on the fanny and Trish let out a squeal.
Strutting away, her mom said, “Next time wear your name tag,” and the girls lost it, their laughter peeling through the stainless steel kitchen.
* * *
An hour after her shift ended, Trish crawled into bed and leaned against the headboard, as exhausted as she’d ever been. Dean had called while she was still at work to tell her nothing had changed. At least her dad was still alive.
She took the band photo off the bedside table and viewed it in the lamplight, thinking, I finally found you . She prayed he’d make it through.
She tucked the photo in the night table drawer and switched off the lamp. “Nite, Dad,” she said in the dark of her room. “Sweet dreams.”
* * *
In his ICU bed at TGH Jim Gamble lay stock still in the dim light, the only sound the steady hiss and chuff of the ventilator that kept him alive.
5
––––––––
Monday, June 29
JIM GAMBLE OPENED his eyes.
His first perception was pain, his old companion, but on a scale beyond any he’d previously experienced; it was prodigious, apocalyptic, and his body braced against the enormity of it. This intense sensation did not reach his higher centers, however, for these were still beyond function; but on a primitive level, where the animal lived, billions of neurons discharged in tandem in a pyroclastic eruption of agony. It was centered in his belly, where the hunger waited, and the muscles of his core drew him into a bow, causing the jagged suture line to let go.
His gaze settled on the ceiling now, his eyes bulging in horror. The tiles up there were swarming with spiders, goliath black tarantulas, and they were losing their footing and falling, dozens of them landing on his face and chest and legs, skittering hordes of them covering the
Similar Books
