An excerpt from a detective thriller «Porcelain Dolls» by Valerii Karibian immerses readers in the mysterious murders in Riverside County in 1979, which Detective Daggert, his assistant Flynn, and staff police psychologist Alice must investigate. The case takes an unexpected turn when the officers discover why the serial killer is doing «this» to the bodies of his victims.
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Their faces are smooth porcelain,
and their scarlet lips are tender.
Canvas
The master’s final brushstroke on sensual lips, frozen in a barely perceptible, serene smile, completed the filigree work on the first «canvas» of his life. The image he had never parted with for almost his entire adult life was embodied in the lifeless woman lying before him. Satisfaction and peace warmed the mind of the skilled «artist.» For the first time in many years, he seemed freed from the long-standing pain that constantly tormented his troubled mind and damaged soul.
The scent of paint, carefully ironed clothes, a clean body, and soft hair, carefully washed with peach gel, mingled with the warm spring air as he rolled the gurney out into the backyard to load the dead body into a black van. Before getting into the car and driving off, he stood over it for about a minute, looking so detached, as if only his corporeal shell remained on the earth, encased in a large, dimly lit shell, while his mind and body hovered somewhere beyond this world, observing the scene from a distance. Looking over his «masterpiece» with a tired gaze, the man in a plain jacket and dark jeans that matched his sneakers once again checked that he had performed all the manipulations without errors, carefully pulled the puller (the zipper began to make a distinctive, consistent sound, and the plastic rustled), and fully zipped the body bag with its rounded corners.
He pushed the gurney into the back of the van and quietly closed the windowless doors behind it.
Returning, he parked the car in the same backyard and went up to his home. After resting a bit, he changed his clothes: he put on a long fabric raincoat (dark blue, almost blending in with the night), changed his shoes, went out onto the porch, thoughtfully looked over the fence at the adjacent road with its continuous, perfectly shaped bushes along the sidewalk, and headed on foot through inconspicuous alleys to a homeless man whom he had been following for about a month.
The tramp was sleeping in his usual spot in a refrigerator box. He woke him with a kick of his bulging boot into his bony side, causing the elderly beggar to jump up abruptly and let out a short, pitiful groan, cowering against the shabby red brick wall.
Behind him, the abandoned roadside diner with boarded-up windows, once housed in this one-story building dating back to the Great Depression, had long since become covered in moss and mold in its most vulnerable spots. The poorly hidden shelter the tramp occupied alone exuded such a pungent odor of dampness, mixed with the stench of the withered, malnourished carcass of its permanent occupant, that the stench was so pungent that it assaulted one’s nostrils from a distance of ten feet. The stranger pulled a fifty-dollar bill from the pocket of his coat, the collar of which obscured half his face, already indistinguishable in the deserted twilight of the city outskirts, and handed it to the tramp. The homeless man looked in surprise at the unexpected guest’s gloomy silhouette, trying to make out his features, but the stranger’s hat pulled low allowed him to see only the dull whites of his eyes, which only increased his fear.
«You must call the police from the nearest payphone to report a body at an abandoned train yard a few miles north. You’ll get fifty if you do as I tell you.»
The tramp was taken aback, but quickly gathered his courage and asked why the man couldn’t notify the police himself. The stranger, in a calm and persuasive voice, replied that the best way to get fifty bucks right now was to not ask any unnecessary questions.
«Call me at dawn in the morning.» I stumbled upon a body by accident and just don’t want to deal with the cops. You’re fine—what the hell do they need you for?—and all this red tape could seriously mess things up for me. But we have to report the incident, right? Like law-abiding citizens…
The homeless man groaned as he rose to his feet and, with the words, «A fifty certainly wouldn’t hurt,» took the money with a shaking hand, clad in a woolen glove with chopped-off fingers. He stuffed the bill into the inside pocket of his tattered, vomit-stained jacket, as if they’d snatch it back any minute—and the hungry old man wouldn’t get the greasy burger and shot of whiskey that had been his main dream, ingrained in his thoughts for the past few days.
«Not before dawn,» the stranger reminded him, adjusting his cap, pulled down over his eyebrows. «Do as I say, and don’t you dare take any liberties,» he added menacingly, dropping a dime that jingled on the floor. «It’s for the pay phone.»
Holding his collar high and hanging his head low, the man in the raincoat hurriedly disappeared around the nearest corner across the street—slipping into the darkness between a huge elm tree and a «No Entry» sign.
He climbed up to his modest abode, collapsed heavily onto his bed, and stared at the ceiling for a long time, recalling his «today’s work» in minute detail. Trying to compare the images of the two women, he couldn’t clearly discern in his mind the one who had long since captivated his mind, haunting it like an eternal ghost—a reminder of a distant past…
The images changed chaotically, one after another, preventing him from concentrating on her face. Memory flashed back to his childhood, the swing on the huge tree, the barn, the loud bang; then a whirlwind of paintbrushes, a black van, a body in a sack, a depot and tracks; the sore face of the homeless man looming and receding, and a lone street lamp hunched in the darkest corner… Finally, with considerable mental effort, he was able to push the jumbled images aside, and she appeared before him against the bright light: beautiful, with a kind smile, her white hair blown in the breeze, her eyes sparkling like blue crystals. She would wave to him from afar, then suddenly appear beside him, hugging him tenderly, stroking his head and kissing him with warm, wet lips…
He reached under the pillow, pulled out a tattered notebook in a dark brown binding, a pen between the pages, and wrote in perfect calligraphy:
April 7, 1979.
Today, for the first time, I accomplished what I had planned. We were together again. She became as she had always been. There is no one in the whole world more flawless. Her face is smooth, her clothes are clean, and her hair is well-groomed… My pain is gone… Those shadows, those terrible figures, and those damned sounds… everything is gone, they no longer come and haunt me…
A week later, the euphoria gave way to a growing sense of anxiety. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly that he panicked. In his mind, the plunge back into his previous state, the one he’d had to live with and suffer through daily, shouldn’t have happened at all. He’d hoped for something completely different and hadn’t planned to do it again, just to escape the endless suffering.
Memories of the past flooded back with even greater force, causing acute mental pain. He was torn apart from within, his internal organs scorched by an uncontrollable fire. Unable to control himself, he began pacing the room, knocking objects off the furniture, hurling books onto the floor, and howling like a beast… Her mangled head, barely hanging on a blood-soaked neck, was reflected in the mirror by the door, and then a staggering figure in a light sundress appeared in the far corner of the room: first she wheezed, then stood there silently, terrifying him beyond words, her ruined mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
He pressed his cheek against the cold wall, punched the rough concrete surface several times with his fist, scraping the skin off his knuckles, turned his back to her, and slowly slid to the floor, desperately dropping his trembling hands to his hips. Anger and loneliness ate away at him. He clenched his teeth and stared into space with a heavy, under-browed gaze. His heart ached, his eyes bloodshot, his head grew heavy, the room swam—as if he’d been placed in an aquarium, and he couldn’t breathe without a sharp pain in his chest.
After a few minutes, he pulled himself together and calmed down. The terrifying images that had stirred his mind gradually faded, replaced by obsessive fantasies that had been ingrained in his mind since his youth, carefully hidden from others. He took several professional books from the shelf, from which he drew the knowledge he needed for his work, and immersed himself in reading, imagining how he would bring his «creative ideas» to life.
The figure in the corner soon disappeared.
June 6, 1979.
Finally, I decided to talk to her. She came to the office for the second time today. We have a lot in common. She recently lost her mother and is left completely alone. She needs my help. I can’t leave her alone with such a terrible problem and let the poor girl suffer. She doesn’t deserve it. Nobody deserves this…
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