The Butcher and the Wren(13)

“Run,” he says quietly behind her.

She tries to sob, but nothing can form in her mouth, not even a breath. The room bends and bobs, and the heat begins overwhelming her.

“Run!” he says louder now, laughing as she visibly shudders.

She shakes her head, using one hand to pull herself away. Everything is hazy now, the white room turning into a heavy curtain before her eyes. As blackness begins to close around her field of vision like a camera lens, she hears one final, terrifying sound.

“Run!” he screams.

Wren sits up in bed as light pours into her room. Her breaths come out as ragged gasps, and she is covered in a layer of slick sweat. For a moment, she can’t tell if she is awake and safe from the horrific nightmare. She squints her eyes as she gazes around, trying to force her mind to acclimate. She feels her heart pounding in her chest and takes a moment to catch her breath.

“My god. That was the worst dream I have ever had,” she chokes the words out to the empty bedroom, swinging her legs over the side of her bed.

She has unintentionally preempted her alarm, and notices that the window on her side of the room is allowing sunlight to pour in. The shade is askew, snagged on the slightly peeling paint. Although it shouldn’t ring as significantly out of the ordinary, she can’t help the paranoia she feels in the back of her mind. These Jane Does follow her home, and she is always afraid their killers will too. She shakes her head, trying to fling the intrusive thoughts from her mind. It’s too early. She pulls the shade to its normal position and makes her way to the shower.

She brushes her teeth as the shower heats up, her mind wandering again. As she moves through each step of her routine, she keeps thinking about her next day off. She could really use some time away from this crop of connected bodies, discovered on every corner of her city. An entire twenty-four-hour period in which she wouldn’t have to peer inside a thoracic cavity is almost a fantasy at this point. She relishes the idea of just sitting somewhere with her husband and relaxing. Hell, Richard has made that “you look a lot like my wife” joke so many times this month that she has actually started finding it kind of funny again. She blinks herself back to reality and ends her shower with a squeak of the faucet. The spa treatment is over, and it’s time to get dressed for reality.

Wren waves her identification card at the sensor and pushes the heavy steel door open. A wall of slightly stale air hits her almost immediately, and she makes her way to her office.

She throws her keys down on the desk and notices the fresh stack of files taking up space in her “New Cases” bin. Sighing, she shakes her head. Typically, a heavy caseload doesn’t shake her. But with news of another body found in the area and the media starting to panic the community, she is already feeling the pressure. A stack of new cases was just short of worst-case scenario.

“Can you both pop in here really quick?” Wren calls out, plopping herself into her seat. Two reliable pathology assistants come jogging into the office almost immediately. One is still in the process of tying his shoes and almost trips headfirst into a bookshelf full of anatomy atlases. He catches himself at the last moment, and Wren can see the flush of crimson flash across his cheeks. He is always so nervous.

“Hey, Dr. Muller. What can we do for you?”

“Hey. I’m going to need you to fully prep a couple of cases for me this morning,” she instructs, opening the first two case files in her inbox. “It looks like we have a suspected overdose—twenty-three-year-old female found behind Tap Out. Let’s make sure we get as many samples as we can from her. There are some fresh tubes with anticoagulants on the left side of the hallway closet.”

The young assistant takes the file and nods. “You got it. Do you want the full organ block out?” He is already walking toward the door.

“Yes, have it prepped and out, please. I didn’t notice any outward signs of trauma, but if you come across any, call me in.”

Wren opens a second file and turns to the remaining pathology assistant at her door.

“For you, I have a fifty-six-year-old male. Looks like a straightforward suicide. Found in his home, gunshot wound to the roof of his mouth. No note, but you get the picture. A lefty, so make sure to test for GSR on that hand.”

After delegating her less-pressing cases, Wren rises from her seat and heads into the autopsy suite.

“I’m going to catch you today,” she declares out loud.

The hours in the lab fly by in a blink, and Wren is called to accompany Leroux back to the crime scene. Now she’s watching him walk along the curb. They have both absorbed the profoundly negative energy surrounding this place, determined to uncover some piece of revelatory evidence in the alley next to the bar. Wren’s second bachelor’s degree in criminology make her an asset to these kinds of cases, both inside and outside of the autopsy suite.

Wren thinks about how frequently traveled this area is. It is hard to imagine how the killer pulled it off without being seen. It’s an alley used by hundreds of people a night. It is both a quick shortcut to the streets behind the bar and a place to hide drug deals away from the bustle of the main road. But then again, no stumbling barfly with half a gallon of bourbon in their belly is going to truly take notice of their surroundings, especially when fighting their way through an alley en route to a bed. Perhaps the killer saw how simple this dump could be if he played it cool, and he did just that. Wren wants to understand the mind of mayhem. But she can see that Leroux doesn’t necessarily want to understand anymore. He just wants a name.