The Hundredth Man by Jack Kerley Read Free Book Online Page A

zero.
    â€œSlicing and dicing, Carson. Fifty stab wounds. Eighty. Or more hammering than John Henry. I saw a shooting where the shooter emptied a clip, reloaded, and start shooting again.”
    â€œRight. The anger floods out. This one was neater than a show home.”
    â€œThe body was neat, Cars. What’s the head doing now? My guess is target practice. Or taking a good hammering.”
    A semitractor rig pulled beside us at a light. The driver glanced down from his high perch, startled at seeing a guy in a sport jacket and tie reclining across the backseat of a Taurus. I winked and he turned away. I said, “The head taking the punishment . . . the face symbolizing the whole. It works, I guess. Where we at?”
    â€œAirport Road by University. So how come you don’t sound convinced?”
    â€œIf that’s what the killer wanted, the head, why not break for the end zone soon as it was in his hands? Do a victory mambo. Spike it, whatever. Just like you were thinking. But he hung around and wrote on the body. I’m guessing that’s why he pulled it into the light.”
    Harry said, “Maybe the writing got him juiced. He had to write.”
    â€œIf he’s got the head to hammer his statement into, why make a speech on the body?”
    â€œGood point. Doing a Farley, maybe?”
    Farley Traynor was a bitterly angry accountant who cut words into victims he’d never known, telling them how much he hated what they’d done to him. In a curious bit of deranged perception, Traynor figured since the dead were in their bodies looking out, he’d write backward so they could read it easier.
    â€œJust doesn’t click if the head’s where he thinks the personality resides. Did you just hit a pedestrian?”
    â€œTraffic barrel. Maybe it’s a note to us, cops. Whores and rats? Not everybody loves us like we do.”
    I couldn’t buy in yet. “But the tiny writing wouldn’t be around long, or at least not visible. Not in this heat. I bet even slight decomposition would obscure it. And if the words are important, scream them: black marker, big letters.”
    â€œYou’re overanalyzing, Cars. I hate to agree with Squill, but I think it’s revenge.”
    â€œRevenge is anger. If the killer was angry, he or she’s got anger as tidy as doilies.”
    I was balancing my thoughts between fastidious anger and my unimpressive debut with Dr. Davanelle when the car turned hard and bumped upward, pulling into a drive. Harry said, “We’re here, bro. Not what I expected either.”
C HAPTER 5
    T erri Losidor’s apartment complex boasted several Beamers beneath the carports, plus other young-executive-type wheels. The grounds were dappled with crepe myrtles, palmettos, azaleas, here and there a tall loblolly pine. A pool featured several tanned and lounging bodies. Not a child in sight.
    â€œTrailer park to yupster singlesville,” Harry said. “Darwin at work.”
    Terri opened her door without chain intervention or asking for ID, either trusting us or expecting us. She had a broad plain face and green, darting eyes. Moderately overweight, she carried it well and moved lithely, gesturing us to sit on a plump orange couch as she lit a cigarette and sat across from us. She remote-muted one of what Harry calls “chromosomal defect shows,” Springer or whatnot. Despite her calm exterior I detected a nervous undercurrent, not unexpected when cops come a-calling. Her apartment was clean, with inexpensive but matched furniture, and beneath the cigarette smoke smelled of lemon air freshener and a recent shower. There was a cat-box somewhere.
    She said, “This is about Jerrold, isn’t it?”
    Harry nodded and Terri Losidor picked up a throw pillow and clutched it to her breast. Harry started with easy questions to let herget used to answering. She was thirty-three and worked as an accountant at a local