Greed

The next morning Somerset was in his office when the captain walked in.

"Have you heard?" the captain asked.

"Heard what?"

"Eli Gould was found murdered last night."

Gould was possibly the top criminal defense lawyer in the city. No criminal was too nasty for Gould to defend. If they could pay enough, he would do anything to defend them and help them escape punishment. It didn't matter how terrible their crime was.

"Someone broke into his office and killed him," the captain said. "They wrote the word 'greed' on the floor in his blood."

"Greed?" Somerset could think of worse things that could be said about Eli Gould.

"I'm putting Mills on the case. I told him he would soon have a case. I just wish it wasn't this."

Somerset went back to his typing. "I'm sure he'll do fine." The captain was shaking his head and looking doubtful. "You won't like it out there in the country. You know you're not really leaving. You only think you can leave."

"I can't live here anymore," said Somerset. "I don't understand this place anymore. People used to kill somebody for a purpose, even if it was a stupid purpose. Now they do it for the hell of it, just to see what will happen."

The captain let out a deep breath. "I hear what you're saying. It's just that I don't want to lose you. They don't make detectives like you anymore."

"You've got Mills. He'll be OK."

"But he won't be you."

Not if he knows what he's doing, Somerset thought.

"Oh, I almost forgot," said the captain, holding up ajar with the little blue pieces in it. "These were found in the fat man's stomach. The doctor thinks that the killer made him eat them. They're pieces of the floor."

***

Somerset went back to Eubanks's apartment. He wanted to find where the pieces of blue floor had come from. He looked everywhere, but couldn't find anything until he felt under the front of the refrigerator. Then he could see that was where they came from. The larger pieces in Somerset's jar fit the holes. Someone had moved the refrigerator and broken pieces of the floor cover.

Somerset managed to pull the refrigerator away from the wall so that he could see behind it. The dirt on the wall was cleaned off and the single word GLUTTONY was written there. A clean, white envelope was pinned to the wall.

Somerset's blood froze. He reached for the envelope, but it was a little too far away.

***

Later, in his now empty apartment, Somerset was thinking about what he'd found behind the fat man's refrigerator.

If he said nothing about it, there would be no link between the murders of Eubanks and Gould. Then it would be Mills's problem. But he couldn't do that... Mills wasn't ready for Mills. He thought he was, but he wasn't. It was still Somerset's problem. So now he had GLUTTONY and GREED.

***

Mills was excited when he saw the note Somerset had found behind the fat man's refrigerator. "So we have a link between the two killings," he said.

He read the note again. Long is the way; and hard, that out of hell leads up to the light

"But what does it mean? Is he trying to tell us something? It just seems crazy to me."

It was hard for Somerset to control himself. But instead of telling Mills he was a fool, he held up photos of the words GREED, in blood, and GLUTTONY.

"Have you ever heard of the seven deadly sins, Mills? Greed, gluttony, wrath, envy, sloth, pride, and lust."

Understanding slowly showed on Mills's face. "You think he's going to do one for each sin?"

"It seems so, doesn't it?"

"Oh, no..." Mills was shocked. "So we do have a link?"

Oh, no, is right, thought Somerset.

"You wanted the big time," he said. "Well now you've got it. There are going to be five more murders if we don't find the killer." With Mills leading the investigation after his retirement, Somerset had a feeling the killer would do them all, no trouble. It wasn't that Mills was no good. He just didn't know anything about this sort of stuff - about serial killers. This wasn't Springfield.

As much as Somerset wanted to leave, he couldn't. Not now. He couldn't just leave it with Mills. He had to go on with the investigation.

Mills looked at his notes as he walked around Gould's office. On the wall behind the desk, there was a big oil painting. It was a modern painting, just lines and shapes of color - red, green, and black. On the desk, there was a weighing machine with dried blood on it. The letters in blood on the floor had turned red-brown.

Mills wanted to find some evidence, something that they had all missed. He wanted to show that Somerset wasn't the only one who knew how to do detective work. Mills believed that the crime scene was the place to solve the crime. There had to be some evidence, some clue, something that would help them find the killer.

He picked up a photograph of a middle-aged woman. She had a false smile, too much make-up, and colored red hair. It was Mrs. Gould. On the glass over the photo, the killer had drawn circles around her eyes in blood.

Was this a clue? Mills wondered. Why had the killer drawn these circles? Was she the next victim? Had she seen something? Or did the killer want them to see something? He couldn't understand it. What was it he couldn't see? Was it something so big and obvious that they were looking at it but couldn't see it?

***

The next morning, Somerset was sitting at his desk working on the "fat man" case when Mills came in. Mills was carrying a pile of papers on the Gould case. He put it down on the desk and began studying photographs of Gould's office.

At first Somerset wanted to help him, but then he thought that Mills should learn to work by himself. He would learn finally, and Somerset was leaving in three more days.

In this case, though, people would probably die while Mills was learning. He needed some help, just to show him the right direction. Somerset put down his pen. "You know this is a serial killer we're looking for here," he said.

"You really think I'm a fool!" shouted Mills, angry at Somerset again.

"No, I didn't say that." Somerset was sorry he had said it the wrong way. "It's just that we haven't talked about that. I think we should."

"I don't."

"Why not?"

"Because as soon as we call him a serial killer, the FBI will take over the case. Then we'll be working for them."

"But..."

"No," said Mills. "I don't even want to talk about it."

Just then the phone rang. It was Tracy, Mills's wife. She wanted to talk to Somerset, but Somerset couldn't imagine why.

"Detective Somerset?" she said. "I wondered if you would like to come and have dinner with us tonight."

"Well, that's very nice of you." Somerset's voice was uncertain.

"I'm a very good cook," she said. "And I've heard a lot about you. I would like to meet you before you leave."

***

Later that evening, Mills seemed uncomfortable as he and Somerset walked up the stairs to Mills's apartment. Somerset knew that Mills didn't like the idea of dinner together, but he wasn't sure why.

In the dining room, the table was carefully prepared for three.

A young woman came out of the kitchen. "Hello, men," she said quietly.

Somerset thought that she had a pretty smile, "Hello, Tracy," he said. "Nice to meet you."

"Please sit down," Tracy said. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine just now." Somerset took off his jacket. He nodded toward the kitchen. "Smells good," he said.

Tracy was staring at Somerset's gun. He could see that it made her nervous. "I never wear a gun at the table," he said, taking it off "It isn't polite."

Tracy tried to laugh. "You know," she said, "no matter how often I see guns, they still make me nervous."

"Me too," said Somerset, putting his gun into his jacket pocket.

"I hear you two were friends at high school," Somerset said.

"Yes," said Tracy "I knew then that this was the man I was going to marry."

"So you're really an old married couple, if you count up the years," said Somerset.

"Yeah, I guess so," she laughed.

Tracy put a dish of lasagna on the table, and poured wine into their glasses. "Why aren't you married?" she asked as she sat down.

"I was married. Twice." Somerset looked thoughtful as he drank a little wine. "Somehow it didn't work, though."

"That surprises me," she said.

He laughed. "People soon find that I'm... not easy to be with," he said. "Just ask your husband."

Mills smiled. "He's right about that."

Later, with the table cleared and Tracy asleep, Mills and Somerset were studying the photos of Gould's office.

"I think I'm missing something," Somerset said. "How do you think Gould was murdered?"

"Well, the way I see it, the killer got into the office before the building was closed on Friday Gould's body was found on Tuesday morning. The building was closed all day on Monday, which means that the killer was probably with Gould all day Saturday, all Sunday, and even Monday."

Mills picked up a photo of Gould's body in the high-backed leather chair. "Gould was undressed and tied up," he went on. "But one arm was left free. Now, the weighing machine on the desk that didn't belong to Gould. The killer brought it in. He gave Gould a sharp knife and made him cut out a piece of his body and weigh it. There was this note," he picked up a photo and gave it to Somerset. "Look at this."

Somerset read the note: One pound of meat, no more, no less... His face was hard. "Saturday, Sunday, Monday. He wanted Gould to take his time. To sit there and think about it. What do you do when there's a gun in your face?"

"Right!" Mills picked up another photo. It showed the picture of Mrs. Gould with the eyes ringed with blood. "This is a photo of Mrs. Gould," he said. "If the killer's telling us she saw something, I don't know what it could be. She was out of town when it happened."

"What if it's not something she's seen, but something she could see, but she hasn't had the chance yet?"

"Yeah, but what is it she's supposed to see?"

Somerset shook his head. "Only one way to find out," he said.

***

Mrs. Gould was in a "safe house", guarded by the police.

When Mills and Somerset walked in, Mills thought that it looked like a place where someone might go to kill himself.

Mrs. Gould was sitting on the bed, crying. "I'm sorry to come here so late, Mrs. Gould," Mills said. "But..."

"It's all right. I haven't slept since..." She began to cry again, holding her hand over her mouth as if to stop herself.

Mills took out the photographs. "Mrs. Gould," he said. "I need you to look at these again, and tell me if there's anything that seems strange or in the wrong place. Anything at all"

But she wouldn't look. "I've looked at them a million times," she said. "I don't want to see them again... ever."

Mills hated to see women cry, but he knew he had to do this. "Please, Mrs. Gould. Anything at all. Take your time. Please..."

"There's nothing there," she said. She wouldn't look at the photos again.

"There's something there that we're not seeing," said Mills. "You're the only one who can help us now. We need your help if we're going to get the person who did this."

"All right," she said. She took the photos and started to look at them, but too quickly, Mills thought.

She stopped at one picture and looked again. "What do you see?" asked Mills. "The painting," she said.

The photo showed the desk with the big, modern oil painting on the wall behind it.

"What about the painting?" Mills asked.

She looked up at him as if he had done something wrong.

"Why is it upside down?" she asked.

Somerset took the photo from the woman's hand, and looked at it. "Upside down?" he said.

***

Mills and Somerset went straight to Gould's office. Somerset looked up at the painting. "You sure our people didn't move it?"

"Even if they did, the photos were taken first." Somerset took the painting off the wall, Mills thought there would be another message behind it, written in blood. But there was nothing. "I don't want to think about the sleep I'm missing because of this," he said. "There's nothing here. He's playing with us."

Somerset thought that Mills was probably right. "But there must be something here," he said. He was staring at the wall where the picture had been.

"What is it?" Mills asked.

"Quiet. I'm thinking."

This made Mills angry. Did Somerset think that he was really a fool?

Somerset took out a brush and a small box. Standing on a chair, he began to brush the wall with fingerprint dust.

"Do you know how to do that?" Mills was doubtful, but Somerset kept on working. Mills tried to be patient, but he wanted to see what Somerset had found. "What is it? What do you see? Nothing. Right?"

"Wait. Just wait," said Somerset, still working. Finally he moved away and Mills got a good look at what he had found.

Written in fingerprints, as clear as ink, was: HELP ME.

Mills couldn't believe what he saw. He looked at Somerset in surprise. This guy really is good! He thought.

by Bruno Anthony

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