At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(26)
The man chuckled and smiled at Maclean lasciviously. “It’s a Fijian cannibal fork. It was the personal property of chief Ratu Udre Udre. He was the greatest of the Fijian rulers, the most prolific cannibal in the history of the islands, and the last one to consume human flesh. At least officially. According to the Guinness Book of World Records, he devoured eight hundred and seventy-two men. That’s the very fork with which he held the remains of his last victim, a rival chieftain named Lahelahe.”
“How much is it?”
“Oh, it’s not for sale. But I do bring it out for what you might call ‘private ceremonial occasions.’ Is there something in particular that you’re looking for?”
He leaned in uncomfortably close until she could feel his breath and smell some sort of industrial cleaner or disinfectant on him.
“I’m just browsing, really.”
“Well, if you need any help, I’ll be at the counter. Just got a new shipment of Peruvian shrunken heads in that I need to sort through. The exporters will try to pass off capuchins as Aguarana tribesmen if you don’t keep your eye on them.”
He stood close to her a moment longer than necessary, then slipped back behind the counter. There, he perched on a stool and began extracting shrunken heads from a wooden crate.
Maclean spotted a windowless door at the back of the shop. She moved toward it slowly, continuing to peruse the aisles, feigning interest in a rack of Victorian erotic postcards. In one sepia-toned picture, a pair of women were naked except for the horseheads they wore over their own heads and the harnesses around their necks and waists. Another featured a staged variation on an Upstairs, Downstairs–type discipline scenario. In it, a stern-faced house steward in a tuxedo was meting out corporal punishment to three contrite-looking maids. They knelt before him, their long skirts pulled up to their waists to bare their impossibly white buttocks, which received the steward’s wrath in the form of a spanking with a twig broom. In another postcard, a bare-chested brute in boots, wrestling tights, and a black executioner’s hood was strangling a young woman dressed like a pre-Raphaelite water nymph. The nymph’s eyes bugged out in alarm and her mouth was open wide like a koi gasping for air. Her petite arms pulled ineffectually at the garrote that was wrapped tightly around her throat by her attacker, his huge, hairy biceps bulging. The photograph had one of those explanatory titles that Victorian pornographers felt a compulsion to use, as if it somehow elevated their prurient wares to the level of high art. “The Death of Innocence at the Hands of Lust.” Maclean thought about Verraday’s description of the killer’s climactic moment and the ligature marks on both Rachel Friesen’s and Alana Carmichael’s necks. Despite the slightly curled edges of the paper and its patina of age, Maclean found the photo extremely disturbing. She wondered what sort of depraved mind would have any interest in it, in this or any other era.
The phone rang. The man with the topknot answered. Maclean saw her chance and crept up toward the handle of the door to the back room, checking over her shoulder to make sure Whitney wasn’t watching. She saw that he was now completely engrossed in his phone conversation, which seemed to be about a lost shipment. She opened the door a crack and peered in.
The room was dimly lit, but she could see a loading dock door at the far end. Between her and the dock was an array of antique furniture. It didn’t look like it was in storage, but rather that it was arranged to some purpose. As Maclean’s eyes adjusted to the light, she realized it was some sort of erotic dungeon. In its center was a device that looked like a massage table with leather restraining straps and sections cut out of it in places that Maclean supposed corresponded to strategic points of human anatomy. A few feet away from it was another device featuring diagonal wooden crossbars the approximate length of an adult human. It too was heavily padded and had restraints placed at various points around it. In a wooden rack located within easy reach of all these devices was an array of whips, paddles, and floggers. If there was anything that Whitney didn’t have in the way of bondage and discipline paraphernalia, Maclean literally would have had no idea what it was. To one side of the room was an area hidden behind crimson velvet drapes that hung like a stage curtain. She took one last look to make sure that Whitney wasn’t coming, then stealthily moved across the room. She pushed the heavy drapes aside and felt a surge of adrenaline. There, immediately in front of her, was a six-foot-long stainless steel industrial basin. In the bottom of it was an assortment of unidentifiable bones and skulls, bathing in what smelled like a bleach solution that stung the inside of her nose.
She spotted rubber gloves, scrub brushes, and a hazmat suit hanging up nearby. A pair of industrial grade rubber boots stood on a bench a few feet away. She reached into her jacket, pulled out her handheld radio, and called the uniformed officer waiting outside.
“Move in. We’ve got our suspect.”
CHAPTER 13
Verraday had been distracted throughout his lecture. He was excited by Maclean’s news and a bit resentful at having to stay behind while she went out to investigate the suspect. As soon as the last student exited the hall, he called Maclean. Her cell immediately went to voice mail. Verraday left the lecture hall and decided to head home to do some work on the midterm exam while he was waiting to hear back from Maclean.
When he arrived at his house, Verraday checked his messages. Maclean hadn’t called his landline, but there was a new message from his sister. He played it back.