The Butcher and the Wren(11)

“Well, at least Muller is stumped too.”

Leroux sighs and answers with a groan, “Looks like it is back to the drawing board. Thanks, man.”

“You got it.” Ben hangs up his end quickly.

Wren can barely be offended. They’ve all been working as hard as they can. Leroux really looks like hell. As he flicks his cigarette onto the pavement below and pulls out of the lot, Wren spots the dark circles beneath his eyes. She sighs and turns on her ignition. The sounds of the radio blare through the speakers at an uncomfortable volume that cuts through the silence of the mostly abandoned streets surrounding the morgue. She flicks off the sound and connects her phone to the car’s Bluetooth, choosing a podcast for her short drive home. But it brings her no distraction. She can’t stop thinking about the name on the library card. According to Leroux, Philip Trudeau was a red herring, but Wren can’t shake the familiar sound of his name.

How many Philip Trudeaus do you meet in a lifetime?

She pulls onto her street and wonders whether she should listen to this nagging sense of dread or if she should trust that Leroux and the other detectives did their due diligence in ruling out the man in Massachusetts. She swings her car into the driveway and walks up the steps to her old rickety porch. Her home definitely wears its age, but she loves its character and many quirks.

Sliding her keys onto the hook by the front door, she walks into her kitchen and drops her bags to the floor. Feeling exhausted but not ready to sleep, she peeks at the stove clock and brews a cup of coffee. Most of her friends take to a hearty chalice of red wine after a long day, but wine never suited Wren. To her, it tastes like chalky grape juice that has been sitting in the sun and only serves to give her a headache. The warm, welcoming smell of freshly brewed coffee puts her mind immediately at ease. She leans against the counter and listens to the spits and gurgles of her drink being made.

Philip Trudeau.

She repeats the name in her mind and then aloud, hoping for a long-forgotten memory to unearth itself spontaneously. She’s careful not to wake her husband, Richard, from his slumber upstairs. He works early, and Wren tries to keep her night-owl tendencies from disrupting his rest.

Cradling the coffee mug in her hands, she makes her way to the love seat in the sitting room and plops down onto its well-worn cushions. Richard has been champing at the bit to replace this particular piece with something new, but Wren can’t part with it. She likes that it knows her. New furniture always seems to have that lengthy introduction period when it fails to hug you the way you need. The stiffness of a new couch is something she simply doesn’t have the patience for, especially lately.

Even as she sips her coffee, she can’t just release her day enough even to consider sleep. Her mind keeps wandering back to the victim in her morgue. Her bloated, battered body a speed trap for Wren’s thoughts. Her killer is clever—intelligent enough to understand the frustration a previously refrigerated body would cause for someone tasked with determining the time of death. He got smarter with this one too. Took even more care to conceal his identity, which tells Wren that he is capable of learning and adapting. The method by which he takes their lives isn’t even consistent, like he is experimenting. He has a curious mind and a researcher’s meticulousness, a dangerous combination.

“Wren!”

“What? Hey. Hi, hun,” she responds abruptly, shaken from her thoughts by a familiar voice.

Richard yawns and makes his way to the comfortable chair across from her, where he plops down in a heap.

“You with us?” He grins, and she lets out a breathy chuckle.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you. I was just trying to wind down a bit before I came to bed.”

“Apparently, you wound yourself out of reality for a second there. I said your name twice before you snapped out of it.”

“It was a long night.”

She leans back and takes a sip of the coffee. He leans forward, putting his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Yeah, I had a feeling you would be in for the long haul tonight.”

He always understands. Sometimes she wonders how, but she never takes his understanding for granted.

“This one is just particularly frustrating, not to mention brutal,” she sighs, chewing on her lip. “I just want to find this guy.”

“Wren, that’s just it. You don’t have to find him. That’s the detective’s job. Just focus on what you do best. Work with the information that is presented to you.”

She knows he is right. But he doesn’t know about Philip Trudeau and the nagging sensation that there is a connection for her to find. Instead of debating this with him, she humors him and stands up from the love seat.

“You’re right, I know.”

“Let’s go to bed.”

Wren nods and makes her way to the sink as Richard shuffles toward the stairs. She dumps the slightly cold coffee left in her mug down the sink drain and catches her own reflection in the window above it. She is a sorry sight tonight.

She notices that her basil plant on the windowsill is on the cusp of wilting. She quickly refreshes it with some water from the faucet, knowing that it will have rejuvenated entirely in a few hours.

“Drink up, little one.”

She flicks off the light and makes her way up to the bedroom, wondering if this serial killer ever watered his plants.