The Mephisto Club

that blood. Its brilliant gloss, its meaty smell. She’d reached into the open abdomen to grab a retractor, and the warmth that had soaked through the sleeves of her gown had felt as soothing as a bath. That day, in the operating room, Maura had seen the alarming spurt that even a weak arterial pressure can generate.
    Now, as she gazed at the walls of the bedroom, it was once again the blood that held her focus, that recorded the story of the victim’s final seconds.
When the first cut was made, the victim’s heart was still beating, still generating a blood pressure.
There, above the bed, was where the first machine-gun splatter hit, arcing high onto the wall. After a few vigorous pulses, the arcs began to decay. The body would try to compensate for the falling pressure, the arteries clamping down, the pulse quickening. But with every heartbeat, it would drain itself, accelerating its own demise. When at last the pressure faded and the heart stopped, there would be no more spurts, just a quiet trickle as the last blood seeped out. This was the death Maura saw recorded on these walls, and on this bed.
    Then her gaze halted, riveted on something she had almost missed among all the splatters. Something that made the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stand up. On one wall, drawn in blood, were three upside-down crosses. And beneath that, a series of cryptic symbols:

    “What does that mean?” said Maura softly.
    “We have no idea. We’ve been trying to figure it out.”
    Maura could not tear her gaze from the writing. She swallowed. “What the hell are we dealing with here?”
    “Wait till you see what comes next.” Jane circled around to the other side of the bed and pointed to the floor. “The victim’s right here. Most of her, anyway.”
    Only as Maura rounded the bed did the woman come into view. She was lying unclothed and on her back. Exsanguination had drained the skin to the color of alabaster, and Maura suddenly remembered her visit to a room in the British Museum, where dozens of fragmented Roman statues were on display. The wear of centuries had chipped at the marble, cracking off heads, breaking off arms, until they were little more than anonymous torsos. That’s what she saw now, staring down at the body.
A broken Venus. With no head.
    “It looks like he killed her there, on the bed,” said Jane. “That would explain the splatters on that particular wall and all the blood on the mattress. Then he pulled her onto the floor, maybe because he needed a firm surface to finish cutting.” Jane took a breath and turned away, as though she had suddenly reached her limit, and could not look at the corpse any longer.
    “You said the first cruiser took ten minutes to respond to that nine-one-one call,” said Maura.
    “That’s right.”
    “What was done here—these amputations, the removal of the head—that would have taken longer than ten minutes.”
    “We realize that. I don’t think it was the victim who made that call.”
    The creak of a footstep made them both turn, and they saw Barry Frost standing in the doorway, looking less than eager to enter the room.
    “Crime Scene Unit’s here,” he said.
    “Tell them to come on in.” Jane paused. “You don’t look so hot.”
    “I think I’m doing pretty good. Considering.”
    “How’s Kassovitz? She finished puking? We could use some help in here.”
    Frost shook his head. “She’s still sitting in her car. I don’t think her stomach’s ready for this one. I’ll go get CSU.”
    “Tell her to grow a spine, for God’s sake!” Jane called after him as he walked out of the room. “I hate it when a woman lets me down. Gives us all a bad name.”
    Maura’s gaze returned to the torso on the floor. “Have you found—”
    “The rest of her?” said Jane. “Yeah. You’ve already seen the left hand. The right arm’s sitting in the bathtub. And now I guess it’s time to show you the kitchen.”
    “What’s in there?”
    “More surprises.” Jane started across the room, toward the hallway.
    Turning to follow her, Maura caught a sudden glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror. Her reflection stared back at her with tired eyes, the black hair limp from melted snow. But it was not the image of her own face that made her freeze. “Jane,” she whispered. “Look at this.”
    “What?”
    “In the mirror. The symbols.” Maura turned and stared at the writing on the wall. “Do you see it? It’s a reverse image! Those aren’t