“Alex? What are you doing…?”

“Just something to relax you, Doctor.”

Dr. Morton’s mouth opens. He’s shocked. He isn’t used to surprises. He’s used to being in control. Alex can read it in his face.

The doctor grabs for the door, but Alex has disabled the handle. He pulls four or five times, but it doesn’t open.

“Sorry, Doc.” Alex grins.

“Let me out of here, Alex.”

“I can’t do that, Doc. You’re a loose end. I told you too much, and now I have to take care of you.”

“Take care of me?” His words are beginning to slur.

“I’m going to cut a small slit in your belly, right under your navel. And then I’ll stick some tongs in there, and pull your intestines out through the hole. Then you’re going to eat them.”

Dr. Morton’s eyes get comically wide. He gropes for the gun and pulls it out.

“Do you know how to work a semiautomatic, Doctor? That one has a safety on it.”

The doctor obviously doesn’t know. His hands are shaking, and he’s trying to pull the trigger. Alex reaches over, flips off the safety for him.

Dr. Morton doesn’t hesitate. He points the gun at Alex’s head and fires. There’s a clicking sound, and the slide goes back.

No bullets.

“I’m disappointed, Doctor. Is that how you deal with the mentally ill? By trying to shoot them in the head? I’m surprised you have any patients left at all.”

The doctor raises the gun, tries to hit Alex with it.

Alex laughs, easily blocking the blow, then pops Dr. Morton in the nose, causing a minor explosion of blood.

“Don’t bother trying to fight, Doctor. I’m stronger than you are.”

Dr. Morton doesn’t listen. He again tries to club Alex with the gun. Alex slips the blow and takes the gun away.

“Enough. It’s nighty-night time.”

“Please.” Dr. Morton’s head lolls to the side. He’s almost out.

Alex pats him on the head.

“You’ll have plenty of time for begging tomorrow, Dr. Morton. I promise.”

WHEN THE DOCTOR came into the waiting room to talk to me, he looked ashen. I put him at about my age, five-ten, graying temples, nurturing a pot belly on an otherwise skinny body. His name tag read Murphy.

“How’s Kork doing?”

“The patient has a linear skull fracture, a third-degree concussion, and a broken nose. I also put six stitches in his scalp. You said this was self-induced?”

“He banged his head into the floor.”

He pursed his lips. “That makes sense, considering the overall shape he’s in.”

“You’ve obviously seen his chest.”

“The chest is child’s play compared to some of the other things I found. He has no relatives?”

“None.” I stood up, stretching my back, my vertebra popping like a cellophane bag. I’d been cramped in the little plastic chair for over three hours.

For the second time this week I sported the latest borrowed hospital fashion: baggy jeans, a Pacers shirt, and sandals. The clothes I’d put on this morning, including my Dior flats, were double-bagged in plastic. I doubted I’d ever get the stench out of them.

The hospital had been kind enough to let me use the residents’ shower, and I scrubbed myself pink with industrial strength antibacterial soap. It still hadn’t been enough to get the stink of rot out of my hair and skin. The stench lingered like a perfume I’d put on. Eau de Decay.

“I’d like to see him, Dr. Murphy.”

“He isn’t conscious yet. Might not be for a while.”

“I want you to show me the other things you just mentioned.”

The doctor hesitated. I had no authority there, but I pressed anyway.

“He’s a mass murderer. They’ve pulled eleven bodies out of his basement already, and more are on the way. Let me see him. It may help save some lives.”

Dr. Murphy relented, and ushered me down a brightly lit hospital corridor to a room in the ICU. A uniform from the Gary PD stood guard by the doorway, young enough to still have acne.

“Just pulled out number twelve.” He tapped his radio and gave me a respectful nod. “You did Indiana a huge favor.”

“Let’s hope your district attorney thinks so.”

Though Herb and I went by the book, there might be prosecution problems because this wasn’t our jurisdiction. But I had more immediate concerns.

Bud Kork lay on a hospital cot, handcuffs locking him to the bed frame. White gauze swaddled his head like a turban. Cotton packed his nose, and a piece of tape stretched across the bridge. Two shiners encircled his eyes, and his mouth hung open, revealing decades of dental neglect in muted browns and yellows.

Dr. Murphy pulled back the sheet and the hospital gown, exposing the marks on Kork’s pale, sunken chest. The scars were in the shape of three-inch letters, forming the word sinner. The word was repeated eight times on his chest and abdomen in raised pink skin.

“I’m guessing this came from branding.”

“It was. We found the branding iron back at his house.”

That wasn’t all we found, so I had an idea of what to expect as the examination continued.

“Help me turn him over, Lieutenant.”

He pushed Kork’s shoulders, and I pushed at the hip. Kork flounced onto his belly. His back was a road map of pain. There wasn’t a single patch of unmarked skin from his collar down to the backs of his knees. It looked like a buffet of chopped, congealed lunch meat, knotted and discolored.

“Most of these marks appear to be self-inflicted.” Displeasure bunched up Dr. Murphy’s face. “Some kind of many-tailed whip with barbs on the end.”

In Kork’s bedroom closet we’d found an old toolbox full of implements. These scars would match the cat-o’-nine-tails he owned.

“Down here, along the thighs, the pattern is different.”

The rusty wire brush, used for stripping paint.

“These X’s here, here, here, and here are burn marks.”

Another branding iron, in the shape of a cross.

“And these puncture marks appear to be from nails.”

We hadn’t found any nails in his mutilation kit, but they’d probably turn up.

“Let’s put him on his back again. There’s more.”

We flipped Kork over and his head lolled to the side. He snored softly.

“Brace yourself for this, Lieutenant. I’ve been an MD for sixteen years, never saw anything like it.”

He pulled down the sheet, exposing Kork’s groin. I winced.

Bud Kork had no genitalia. His penis and testicles were missing. A small brownish nub of scar tissue poked out of the nest of gray pubic hair.

The doctor dropped the sheet. “It gets worse. When I saw the mutilation to the genitals, I ordered a pelvic X-ray.” He pulled out the chart at the foot of the bed. “Take a look.”

I stared at the X-ray of Kork’s pelvis and thighs. It appeared to be covered with white scratches.

“See all of those lines? Between two and four centimeters long? There are forty-three of them.”

“What are they?”

“Needles.”

I stared at Kork in disbelief.

“He’s got over forty needles embedded in his groin, rectum, buttocks, and thighs. See the dotted lines here? Those are ones that have been in him for so long, his body is breaking them down. The pain must be unimaginable.”

I recalled how Bud Kork walked, like every step hurt.

“Any idea when he’ll wake up?”

“Could be in ten minutes. Could be next year.”

I gave the doctor my card. “It’s very important you call me if there’s any change. Or when he regains consciousness. Besides all those dead kids we found in his cellar, he’s a prime suspect in a current homicide investigation.”

“When he wakes up, he might not remember where he is or what happened. Head injuries are fickle.”

I offered a grim smile and shook the man’s hand. “I’ve dealt with something similar before. Thanks, Doctor.”

I stepped out of the room and asked the officer to contact the team at Kork’s house and put me in touch with Sergeant Herb Benedict. After a burst of static and some chatter, Herb came on.