Flayed

            by Anthony Granados

 

It was an early night in late December and there was a wind blowing outside cold enough to freeze the balls off a penguin. Damn good thing I wasn’t a penguin. But the rain had stopped a few days ago, and the weather guy said we were looking clear till Christmas. Then again, what the hell did the weather guy know. I shook my head and reached for my fourth shot of bourbon when somebody knocked on the door. Three sharp taps. Not anybody I knew, and too soft and anxious to be a man. I set down the bourbon and walked over to the door without bothering to flip the safety on my nine.

Sure enough, standing in the hall was a nervous looking woman wearing a business skirt and top underneath her coat. About 5’4’’ with faintly Jewish features. Mid forties. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and looked like the kind of girl who normally did. Probably just had a bad breakup, or got divorced. Maybe why she was here.

“Hi. I’m, uh, looking for Tracer, the, uh – “

“Private investigator, yeah lady, I know what my job is.”

“Oh… oh yes, of course.”

I turned and walked back to my desk and my bourbon.

“So what’s your story, eh? Cheating husband? Or did you just come for the company?”

“No, no, it is about my husband, but not… not like that.” She trailed off and began crying quietly into her sleeve. I pulled up a chair for her and handed her the glass with the bourbon. She sat, drank, and choked, coughing as she set the empty glass down on my desk. Not a drinker.

“I’m sorry, it’s just been hard, the past few days, not having him.” She stopped again and took a deep shuddering breath. If she kept this up I was going to need some tissues and a violin.

“You see, somebody killed my husband, Darren, a few nights ago. And the police – “

“A few nights ago? Can you be a little more specific?”

“Oh, uh, five. On Friday.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, you see, the police looked into it for a few days, and they really tried, I know, but they came up with nothing. No prints, no weapon, not – “

“Excuse me, but just how did your husband die?”

“He… they… he was killed with a knife. But it wasn’t… it was brutal, brutal and viscous. They sliced his back to shreds and…” I waited while she calmed herself down some. Considered pouring her some more bourbon, but thought better of it. Didn’t want her choking to death in my office.

“I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes, “The police said that he was assaulted on Friday night while walking home from work. He works up at Cal and usually walks, since we live close by. Some students were heading through campus and one of them saw something in the trees and called the police. The students shouted and told the police that they saw somebody run away. The police found Darren in the trees, and he was all… all cut up and bleeding. They told me he was already dead by the time they found him. The only thing is, it was much too violent to just be a mugger. It was murder, but the police don’t have the faintest idea who did it, or even why. Darren was sweet. People liked him. He… he…” She started crying again. I wondered whether you could get dehydrated from crying. I got up and patted her on the shoulder while she sobbed.

“Listen, give me your name and a number I can reach you at, and I promise I’ll look into this for you. When I have some idea of the case, I’ll give you a call.” She nodded and gave me her card: Julia Rockwell, interior designer.

 

When Julia had gone I gave my friend Frank a call. In my line of work, it really pays to be chummy with a cop or two. Told old Frank that I had a bottle of 1971 Scotch in my cabinet with his name on it if he could find it in his heart to fax me Darren Rockwell’s file. He found it in his heart. Even sent me the pictures from the crime scene.

I passed the rest of that cold Wednesday night listening to the angry wind and learning about my new friend Darren: Darren Rockwell, born 1960 the only son of Joe and Mary Rockwell. Graduated from New Dale High in 1978 and found work in construction. Joined the military five years later and served active duty in Afghanistan and Iraq. Came home in 1990 and moved out to California. Found work as a machinist up at the UC Berkeley Lab. Married a year later to one Julia Darby. Three kids, two in high school. Found dead Friday, Dec 18^th in the Eucalyptus grove on the West side of Cal campus. Presumed cause of death: loss of blood. No murder weapon found. No prints found. No leads. Pictures from the crime scene showed a man lying face down in the mud and leaves. Strange thing was, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Julia had been right about one thing, though. Darren’s back was sliced up so bad that shreds of him were trailing in the mud. Looked like somebody had tried to skin him with a cheese grater. This thing about the shirt was odd, though. It had been raining on Friday night, only stopped around ten. It would have been cold and wet, and any normal person should have had a decent jacket on, let alone a shirt. Told me at least one thing: Darren was unconscious when his attacker started cutting him. Question is, how did he get unconscious in the first place, then? I shook my head and kept flipping through the file.

And there it was.

Old Darren boy had a war crimes record.

Seems like Darren got into some trouble in Afghanistan on an urban patrol mission. A car bomb went off in the street and a handful of our guys, Darren amongst, saw a man running from the scene. They chased him into a house where he opened fire with an M16 assault rifle. Darren’s good friend was shot through the head and killed instantly. The way the report reads, Darren went berserk and charged at the guy, smashed him in the face with the butt of his rifle. I read the next sentence twice. I’m amazed almost every time at just how daft the police can be. Right there on the page, the report read:

“Private Darren Rockwell proceeded to draw his Black Bear Classic combat knife and assault the victim with it, slashing and stabbing him multiple times in the back. The other soldiers present were unable to verify whether the victim was unconscious at the time, but regardless…”

It went on about the court marshalling and how, without knowing that the man had not died from the butt of the gun, prison time could not be given. Instead, Darren was fined and discharged from service. Of course, back then the courts went pretty easy on such cases. And friends didn’t tell. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the poor guy was kicking and screaming the whole time. So, Darren flays some guy alive in Afghanistan and almost 20 years later he winds up dead with his back in tatters. Yeah, no leads. Definitely no connection here. Shit, I know some hamsters smarter than the cop assigned to this case. I finished what was left of the bourbon and grabbed my coat and hat. Time to go home; long day tomorrow.

 

It was brisk and dry in the morning, and the light wind flipped the leaves around on the dirt. The Eucalyptus grove was a couple hundred feet to a side, bordered west and south by a creek. An asphalt footpath ran along the east side and the street was to the north. There were a good number of trees in the grove, and a strong smell from the leaves and bark. The trees tended to be around four feet wide. I walked over to one and leaned against in. Complete concealment. Somebody standing on the other side couldn’t have seen me in broad daylight if I was holding a dozen flares, never mind in the dark on a rainy night.

I walked over to place where they had found the body. There was still in imprint in the ground where the mud had dried out. Actually, there was more than that. Right around where Darren’s feet would have been there were two shallow furrows gouged into the mud. The furrows ran all the way to the asphalt path. I walked down to the path, following the trail in the dried mud, and then turned and went back to the rough imprint of the body. How did they not notice this stuff? I almost laughed, picturing the overweight cop standing out here in the cold and wind, complaining and thinking about jelly filled doughnuts. They’d probably only come out here once and then left the rest to the medical boys. Glancing down again at the mud I spotted something that confirmed my guess. Shoved into the ground, so that only a grimy inch protruded, was a piece of steel. I squatted down and pried it out. No murder weapon found, eh? In my hand was the dirtiest, most crudely fashioned knife I had ever scene. It looked like somebody had taken eight inches of steel rebar and just hammered one end into a blade. Not a real point either. This thing would have had trouble cutting through packing tape, not to mention a person. I turned it over in my palm a few times before I noticed the number stamped into the metal. 71198149. Looked to me like an item number. I put the knife in my coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette. I had a lead.

 

The internet is a wonderful thing. I don’t own a computer myself, but public libraries are also wonderful things. It took about five minutes to find out where the piece of rebar with item number 71198149 was from. A local crafts place called the Crucible ordered a shipment of rebar from a steel factory in Wisconsin. Just a guess, but I’m going to say the guy who made the knife didn’t hail from Wisconsin. It took me another twenty minutes or so of searching through the Crucible’s class listing to find the names of the people who had just finished taking the Introduction To Blacksmithing (judging by the knife, I figure this guy never bothered to take the Advanced course). There were only a dozen people on the list.

James Ohlen

Kevin Martens

Dave Gaider

Brent Knowles

Luke Kristjanson

Rashad al Rassan

Ross Gardener

Kevin Craig

Rob Bartel

John Gallagher

Nathan Plews

Ben Smedstad

I knew I was playing it a little loose with this one, but I wrote down the name Rashad al Rassan on a scrap of paper. The war crimes report was buzzing in the back of my head and it’s not like nice American moms go and name their kids Rashad. The guy was definitely Middle Eastern, and maybe there was a connection.

 

I got back to the office and there was a message from Julia, obviously agitated. I gave her a ring and calmed her down a bit, told her I’d made a lot of progress. Didn’t tell her about the knife, though. She had better things to be thinking about.

I got off the phone with Julia and gave old Frank another call. I probably owed him another bottle of Scotch for this, but within minutes my fax machine was humming and I was looking at everything that the U.S. of A. knew about Rashad al Rassan. Not much. He immigrated here in 1991 to complete his education. Spent eight years in med school and graduated in 2000 with a degree from Stanford. Found a job at UCSF Medical center and worked his way up for a few years. Promoted to head surgeon last year. This guy was so straightedge you could shave with him. I had nothing solid to go on, so I decided to hit my last stop and see if anything turned up.

 

Suzie threw herself on me when I walked in.

“Tracer! Jesus it’s been a while. How’re you doing these days?” She glanced up to my face. Suzie had been a good girl back in the days when I didn’t care if the girls were good. These days I found my shot glass to be the best company around.

“Well, I can’t complain. I just stopped by to take a look at one of your boys. You mind?”

“Not at all. I’ll go pull him out. I’m guessing he’s the stiff who got a backrub from Edward Scissorhands, right?” She went over to one of the compartments and rolled out Darren’s body.

“Funny thing though,” Suzie pulled off the cover. “The brass took one look at this guy and said death from blood loss, but I checked him out. None of the knife wounds are severe; all slash and no puncture, you know. So I poked around, and guess what? Guy had a swimming pool in his lungs. Died from drowning.”

“Does seem odd,” I examined the body for a minute, looking for anything that would indicate why Darren had been unconscious before the knife got anywhere near him. “Suzie, did this guy have any head wounds when he came in? Skull fractures or something?”

“None. Why?”

“Just a thought.” Ockham’s razor, then, “Would you mind running some blood tests on this guy, see if you can hunt down anything odd.”

“Sure thing Tracer, but you have to promise me you’ll come back and visit sometime. The company around here’s not much for conversation.”

“Alright Suzie, I’ll visit. Just give me a call on my cell if you find something.”

 

I stopped by the office and got out two bottles of good Scotch from the cabinet before heading downtown. Frank didn’t look thrilled to see me, but when I put the bottles on his desk and asked if he wanted to head on over to the hospital with me, he said he was heading that way anyways. Cops.

It took us about twenty minutes to find Doctor Rassan and pull him aside for a chat.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” He had only the faintest accent, but his features were strongly Arabic.

“Yeah, I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions. Just for a minute or two.” Frank just stood by my side quietly while Rashad pulled off his latex gloves and tossed them in a trash bin.

“Of course. Please” He motioned for us to ask away.

“You have any siblings, Rashad? An older brother, maybe?” He looked nonplussed.

“Actually, I did have an older brother once. Yes.”

“Interesting. I take it he died, then. Care to tell us how?”

“He was… killed… by an American soldier.”

“Huh, and was he killed in the U.S. or in… excuse me, but where are you from again? I always get those Middle Eastern countries mixed up. You know how it is.”

“Afghanistan. He was killed in Afghanistan, where we were born.” He was getting that cold and insulted look in his face now, “Now gentlemen, I must ask you what all of this is about. Why are you here?”

I ignored his question.

“One last thing. Were you there when your brother died? I mean, did you see him die?”

Rashad’s eyes were glacial.

“No. I wasn’t there. I was in school that day.”

I tried to be cheerful as we said goodbye and left. Walking down to the parking lot, I asked Frank what he thought.

“Lying. He was there when his brother got it. You could see it in the way he looked at you when you asked.” Frank paused for a minute as his brain caught up, “Hey, how’d you know to ask all those things anyways?”

I was spared having to answer him by my cell phone going off. Suzie.

“Hey Tracer, you were right. The blood showed strong traces of a nervous paralytic called something. Think muscle relaxant on crack. They use this stuff in hospitals on people who go into seizures during surgery.”

“Thanks Suzie. Now can you do me one last favor? Look at the back of Darren’s neck and tell me if you can find a tiny puncture, like where a needle might’ve gone in.”

Frank and I waited in the hospital lobby while Suzie hunted.

“You passed GO, Tracer.”

“Suzie doll, I owe you dinner.”

“I won’t let you forget. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I hung up and turned to Frank.

“Lets go. We have a doctor to arrest.” Frank looked confused, “I’ll explain in the elevator.”

Frank nodded and I began telling him about the war crimes file.

“See, here’s how I figure it. Darren rips this guy to shreds over in Afghanistan, right? Well I’d be willing to bet that our buddy Rashad was hiding in the room when it happened, and that the guy Darren killed was his brother. So what does Rashad do? Comes over to the U.S. and gets an education. He becomes a doctor, a surgeon. Then he finds work near where Darren lives. He takes this class in blacksmithing and makes himself a knife.” Here Frank interrupts me.

“Okay, but why go through all the trouble of making your own knife? Why not just buy a knife or something?”

“That part’s got me stumped. Maybe because he thought it would be harder to trace, no record of him buying any weapons. Maybe he just wanted to make it that much more personal. Maybe both. I can’t give you a straight answer on that one.” Frank nodded. I went on.

“So as soon as he’s got his knife, he takes a syringe full of this stuff Suzie was telling me about and puts on some latex gloves. That’s why you guys didn’t find any prints. Then he just sits behind one of those big Eucalyptus trees and waits for Darren to come by. It’s late at night and darker than Malcolm X dipped in a tar pit, so he doesn’t have any trouble sneaking up on Darren and stabbing him with the syringe. Darren goes limp as a wet noodle and Rashad drags him out into the trees. My bet is that Darren was wearing a leather jacket, and Rashad had to take off the jacket and the shirt before he could do anything with his homemade little knife. That thing would’ve had trouble cutting warm butter. So he goes to work on Darren, but these college kids interrupt him. He starts, drops the knife, and runs. Darren’s lying face down in the mud and it’s raining. He drowned in maybe 3 minutes.”

Frank just shook his head. “You think he felt what that guy was doing with the knife? Shit that must’ve hurt.”

“Yeah, like brushing with barbed wire. The paralytic only made his muscles loose, made him all wobbly. It wasn’t morphine. He felt every second of it.”

“Fuck, man.” Frank shook his head again.

“Our floor,” I said, and the elevator doors opened.