House of Skin by Tim Curran Read Free Book Online Page A

admitted. “I never thought I would actually take it upon myself to track him down.”
    “And why are you?”
    “Guilt, I guess. It wasn’t my decision to release him. I was just a junior member of staff there. I had very little say. But I got to know him and what I knew I didn’t like. He’s a time bomb waiting to go off. I only hope it’s not too late.” She sipped her coffee. “You see, Eddy fooled the other doctors. Literally. He was a clever liar. They thought he was safe, so they let him go.”
    “But you never agreed?”
    “Not at all. I spent three years at Coalinga and the entire time, my opinions were overlooked. Maybe because I was fresh out of school, maybe because I was a woman. Maybe both. I don’t know. But the thing with Eddy was the worst. I never could stop thinking about him. Finally, I quit and took a job as a prison psychiatrist.”
    “Which joint?”
    “Chowchilla. Central California Women’s Facility.”
    Fenn wrinkled his nose. “Hell of a job, if you ask me.”
    “But I was needed there. My advice was respected.”
    He shrugged as if he found that hard to believe. “Are you still working there?”
    “No, I quit over a year ago now. Other things to do.”
    A waitress sauntered over and refilled their cups. Fenn ordered a donut.
    “So you think Eddy’s here in my town?”
    “He was. I hired a private investigator to find him. It wasn’t that difficult. He was living here off and on for the past two years.”
    “And you know where?”
    “No, not now. I stopped the investigation six months ago. It was costly.”
    “What did this guy do to be put into a mental hospital in the first place?”
    “I’ll get to that. Look at these first.”
    She handed him an envelope. One of several on the table before her. Her hand shook. “These are the most recent photographs I have of him. They were taken two years ago. His mother gave them to me. She’s since passed on.”
    Fenn looked them over. They appeared to be Christmas photos. Eddy Zero was a gaunt man with a skeletal face and haunted, dark eyes. It wasn’t the sort of face you’d forget after having seen it. Not particularly handsome, but attractive as all men who harbor tortured souls. The face of someone who had realized that his body was not a host but a prison, a machine that kept him in bondage.
    Fenn almost felt as if he’d seen it before somewhere.
    “Where was he living?”
    She handed him a slip of paper. He looked over the addresses. They were all bad locations in a city full of them.
    “You want me to check these out?”
    “No, I already have. He hasn’t been to any of them in some time,” she explained. “As I said, I stopped the investigation six months ago, but I think he’s still around.”
    “Why?”
    “I’ll get to that.”
    Fenn’s donut came, but he didn’t eat it. “I don’t want to sound rude, Doc. But just what is it you want from me?”
    “I want you to look at these,” she told him, handing over a larger envelope. “Just look at them. I’m afraid they’re rather unpleasant.”
    Fenn did as she asked. They were murder scene photographs. Not very pretty indeed. Taken by the police, no doubt. The lack of artistry and poor focus usually gave such things away.
    “Look at them. Look at all of them.”
    “Murders.”
    “Yes,” she said grimly. “But not just any.”
    And it was true. These were no ordinary crimes of slashing mania, the butchery here was precise, methodical. The work of a very demented, yet precise mind. The clothing and personal effects were arranged just so next to the bodies. The photos were all the same, the corpses different, but the methodology exact down to the smallest detail. The bodies had been eviscerated, the internals removed and cleansed of blood and then set alongside the cadavers in proper anatomical order and relation. The lips had been slit off, the eyes plucked free, the tongues severed. And again, whatever was removed was arranged in its proper sequence