turned gold, they were overpowering, as was the mighty monarch’s sheer weight. King
Usbeecee could step on the Charlotte Observer, the entire police department, all of the
LEC
and City Hall. He could crush the entire force of armed officers, and their chief and deputy chiefs, the mayor, the newspaper’s publisher, reducing all to precast dust.
Vy Hammer got out of her car and wasted no time striding through her detectives and
uniformed police. She ducked under the tape with its bright yellow warning that always
made her ache and fear, no matter where she saw it. Hammer was not in the form she
would have liked, having even more on her mind than usual. Since her ultimatum to
Seth, her quality of life had radically disintegrated. He had not gotten up this morning,
and was mumbling about Dr. Kevorkian, living wills, and the Hemlock Society. Seth had
pontificated about the silliness of assuming that suicide was selfish, for every adult had
the right to be absent.
“Oh for God’s sake,” his wife had said.
“Get up and go for a walk.”
“No. You can’t make me. I don’t have to be in this life if I don’t want to be.”
This had prompted her to remove all firearms from their usual spots.
Hammer had collected many over the years and had strategically tucked them in various
places around the house. Still at large when West had called was Hammer’s old faithful
Smith & Wesson stainless steel five-shot . 38 special with Pachmeyer grips. Hammer
was fairly certain it was supposed to be in the drawer of her vanity in her bathroom. She
was almost positive this was where it had been last time she had rounded up weapons and
locked them in the safe before the grand babies came to town.
Hammer had many concerns. She was depressed and coping the best she could as
anxieties from her press conference, which had involved national media, continued to
pluck at her. Politics were what she hated most. They, honestly, were the bane of her
existence. A hundred and five percent clearance rate.
She wished Cahoon could be here in this Godawful place. This was what he needed to
see. The Cahoons of the world lose it, wouldn’t be able to handle it, would pale and flee.
This gory dead businessman was not about appearances or economic development or the
tourist industry.
This overgrown, creepy thicket flickering with fireflies near railroad tracks, this Thrifty
rental car, open and dinging, was about reality.
Hammer spoke to no one as she approached tragedy, and blue and red lights lit up her
hard, distressed face. She joined West and Brazil near the Maxima as Dr. Odom arranged
another black pouch around another body. The medical examiner’s gloved hands were
bloody, and sweat dripped in his eyes as his heart beat slow and with force. He had dealt
with the savagery of sexual homicide most of his life, but nothing like this. Dr. Odom
was a compassionate man, but he was tough.
He had learned long ago to keep himself in check and not relate too closely. It was sad
but true that it was easier for him to be clinical when the victims were women or obvious
gays not getting along or, in some cases, foreigners. It had been comfortable for him to
categorize.
Dr. Odom was feeling increasingly shaky about his homosexual serial-killing theory.
This victim happened to be fifty-four-year-old state senator Ken Butler from Raleigh.
The last thing Dr. Odom intended to imply, in any form or fashion, was that the much-
beloved black leader was something less than mainstream. Dr. Odom also knew, from
his vast experience, that homosexual politicians didn’t cruise downtown streets looking
for boys. They went to public parks and men’s
rooms, where they could always swear they were neither exposing them selves nor
offering an invitation. They were urinating.
Dr. Odom zipped the pouch over blood and naked flesh, covering the blaze-orange
hourglass. He looked up at Hammer, and shook his head as he stood. His back was
killing him. Brazil was staring into the Maxima, hands in his pockets to make sure he
didn’t inadvertently touch anything and leave his prints. That would be the end of his