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. Since the text was translated by Google, the author apologizes in advance for any possible deviations.
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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 his first «canvas.» 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, stepped out onto the porch, thoughtfully surveyed the adjacent road with its endless, perfectly formed bushes lining the sidewalk over the fence, and then walked through inconspicuous alleys toward a homeless man he’d been following for about a month.
The homeless man 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, pressing himself fearfully against the shabby red brick wall.
Behind him, the abandoned roadside diner with boarded-up windows, once located 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 flophouse, occupied by a tramp alone, exuded such a pungent odor of dampness, mixed with the stench of the withered, malnourished carcass of its permanent occupant, that the stench 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 under the stranger’s low-pulled hat, he could only discern the dull whites of his eyes, which made him even more frightened.
«You must call the police from the nearest payphone and report a body in an abandoned depot 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 cops himself. The stranger, in a calm and convincing voice, replied that the best way to get fifty bucks right now was to not ask any unnecessary questions.
«Call them at dawn. 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?—but all this red tape could seriously ruin my life. But we have to report the incident, right? As law-abiding citizens…»
The homeless man groaned as he rose to his feet and, saying, «Fifty bucks certainly wouldn’t hurt,» took the money with a shaking hand in a woolen glove with chopped-off fingers. He stuffed the bill into the inside pocket of his tattered, vomit-stained jacket so quickly, as if it would be snatched back—and the hungry old man would never see the greasy burger and sip of whiskey that had been his greatest dream, ingrained in his thoughts for the past few days.
«Not before dawn,» the stranger reminded him, adjusting his cap pulled low over his eyebrows. «Do as I say, and don’t you dare take any liberties,» he added menacingly, throwing the dime to the floor with a jingle. «It’s for the pay phone.»
Holding his collar high and keeping his head bowed, the man in the raincoat hurried around the nearest corner across the road—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 «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 and firmly captured his mind, living there like an eternal ghost—a painful reminder of the past.
The images changed chaotically, one after another, preventing him from focusing on her face. Childhood memories flashed through his mind: a swing on a huge tree, a barn, a loud bang; then, like a whirlwind, came brushes with paint, a black van, a body in a sack, a depot, and rails; The homeless man’s ulcer-covered face loomed closer and further away, while a lone streetlamp hunched in the darkest corner… Finally, with considerable mental effort, he was able to push aside the jumbled images, and she appeared before him against the bright light: beautiful, with a kind smile, her white hair tugged by the gentle breeze, her eyes sparkling like blue crystals. She would wave to him from afar, then suddenly appear beside him and tenderly embrace him, stroking his head with a soft palm and kissing him with warm, moist 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 like before. There is no one in the whole world more flawless. She has a smooth face, clean clothes, and well-groomed hair… My pain is gone… Those shadows, those terrifying 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 opinion, the plunge back into the previous state, which he had to live with and suffer daily, should never have happened. He had hoped for something completely different and had no intention of doing 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 burned with an uncontrollable fire. Unable to control himself, he began pacing the room, throwing objects off the furniture, hurling books onto the floor, and howling like a beast. Her mangled head, barely hanging on her blood-soaked neck, was reflected in the mirror by the door, after which a figure in a light sundress appeared in the far corner of the room. At first, she wheezed, then stood there silently, filling him with indescribable horror, 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. Anger and loneliness gnawed 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 were in an aquarium, and it was impossible to take a breath without a sharp pain in his chest.
After a while, he was able to calm 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.
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