The Colour of Death by Michael Cordy Page A

“they might not be hallucinations.  Strictly speaking, hallucinations are perceptions in the absence of external stimuli.  But if the theory in here is valid, then there could be some external stimuli present.”
    She craned her head to read the title page, expecting it to be on psychiatry or neurology, but the first words she saw told her otherwise.  “ The Echo of History ?”
    “Like I said, this is getting out of my area of expertise.  I’d like to sleep on it and discuss this with the author tomorrow.  Do I have your permission to talk about your case?”
    “Can I come with you?”
    He considered for a second.  “If you like.  We’ve got to do it quickly, though.  Your face is all over the news at the moment and the last thing we want is for the media to get any more curious about you.”
    She indicated the document.  “Can we trust the author to be discreet?”
    “Oh, yes.”  He smiled at the question.  “I trust the author with my life.”

 
    Chapter 15
     
    As the setting sun turned the Willamette River to molten bronze, Karl Jordache stood in a disused warehouse in Old Town, studying the corpse at his feet.  He wasn’t as shocked by the sight of the second homicide as he was by its speed.  According to the pathologist, time of death was only a few hours ago, a day after Vega’s murder a few blocks from here.
    The gray-haired corpse lay on the floor, legs splayed apart, arms tied behind its back.  The dead man was wearing a woman’s blue silk dress and had four stab wounds in his chest.  “The vic’s name is Josh Kovacs,” said Kostakis, scratching his bald, spherical head.  “Back in the day, he used to be a bit player in prostitution and drugs, before he took too much of his own product.  For the past few years he’s been nothing more than a wino and a junkie, hanging around the alleys off Burnside.  The MO’s different from the first killing but the signature’s the same.  Both victims were stripped of their regular clothes then dressed in women’s clothing, and their bodies were bound and staged.  Vince Vega was found in women’s underwear and had his throat slit with a heavy-duty hunting knife.  Kovacs was found in a woman’s gown and stabbed four times.  The knife was probably the same as that used to cut Vega’s throat.  Unlike Vega, there was no ketamine in Kovac’s blood but enough downers and booze to mean the killer probably didn’t need to sedate him.”  Kostakis pointed down at the sheet of paper stapled to Kovacs’ forehead.  “And that, of course.”
    Jordache read the message, each capital letter written in a different color.  The wording and lack of punctuation was identical to that stapled to the first victim:
    SERVE THE DEMON
SAVE THE ANGEL
    “What’s the connection between the victims?”
    “Both were scumbags with a history of narcotics and vice and may have moved in the same circles back in the day.  Otherwise there’s no obvious link.”
    “What about the gown, and the underwear found on Vega?  Do we know where the killer got them?”
    “The women’s clothes weren’t from a regular store.  They were factory rejects, with the brand labels cut off.”  Kostakis checked his notes.  “It’s hard to trace clothes like this but we do have one lead.  Two days ago one of the storekeepers in a thrift market on the border of Old Town and the Pearl sold items that matched the fancy lingerie and gown.  She remembers the customer because most of her clientele are women.  He wanted the biggest size and was pretty specific about color and type of clothing.  Like he was buying it for a particular reason.  She didn’t get a great look at his face because he wore a broad-rimmed hat, but she says he was large, had creepy pale eyes and smelt funny.”
    “Get one of our artists down there and get a likeness of this guy.  What did she say he smelt like?”
    “Weird, dead, like decaying meat.”  Kostakis indicated the victim’s