The Delilah Complex

Sixty-Six

Officer Butler carried the enlargements of the fifth victim’s right thigh, and as she walked she flipped through them, watching as the area in question got larger and larger and larger until it filled the whole sheet.

Her mouth opened in astonishment just as she crossed the threshold into the room where Jordain and Perez were waiting.

“You are not going to believe this. It’s like he’s got a splotch of living flesh here. Is it possible the rest of him could be painted?” She looked up. Neither detective had even heard her.

Jordain and Perez were on the speakerphone, listening and struggling into their jackets as the conversation hurried on.

“Yes, yes, he has the number 1 written on both feet” came the disembodied male voice.

“Okay. We’re on our way,” Jordain started for the door.

“Greenwich Hospital, that’s what exit?” Perez shouted.

“Exit three on I-95.”

Butler hurried along with them, getting the story as they rushed through the halls, out of the station house and into Jordain’s car.

“A man was brought to the emergency room at Greenwich Hospital about thirty minutes ago. Heart attack. Naked. And, like you heard, with red numbers on the bottoms of his feet.”

“Have they confirmed it’s Philip Maur?”

“He’s conscious. Says that’s who he is. Wife is on her way up there, too.”

Jordain pulled the car out of the parking spot.

“There’s one odd thing,” Perez told Butler. “The doctors found streaks of grayish white paint on his legs.”

“I know,” Butler said, handing him the photographs.