The Butcher and the Wren(14)

The ground where the victim had once lain is still stained like old coffee straight from the pot. It looks as if the earth below is trying to push answers to the surface. It isn’t often that Wren herself feels so helpless yet so captivated by a crime scene.

“He chose such hotel-art humans,” Leroux says this without looking up.

Wren raises an eyebrow, wanting to ask him what he means. Before she can, he continues.

“Forgettable, but not invisible. Fine, but not amazing or impressive,” he clarifies.

He is right. These victims were not particularly notable. They weren’t highly respected members of the community, but they also weren’t totally relegated to the margins of society either. No, he wasn’t taking the lives of drifters or sex workers, as serial murderers of the past may have. He knows that play is almost always met with a social justice response. By the same virtue, choosing high-profile humans would fix the spotlight on him from the first drip of swamp water. So, he brilliantly chooses people who are neither princes nor paupers.

Wren pulls her hair into a bun on top of her head, twisting a hair tie tightly and smoothing out the hairs that spring free.

“They are like trees falling in the forest. They fall. Some people will genuinely care, but most will just want to collect the free firewood and move on.” Leroux looks up at her. He takes a moment, pacing a little bit across the curb. He crouches down, staring at the stain on the ground before standing again.

“That would make him pretty intelligent. Malice aforethought on a whole other level,” Wren responds.

Leroux nods. “Exactly. And I think it only gets worse from here.”

Wren silently agrees. It’s clear to them both that the killer’s actions thus far are no accident. The scene in front of them is the product of careful research, planning, and complex abstract thought.

As they turn to leave, empty-handed and enveloped in the heaviness of the crime scene, something catches Leroux’s eye. It’s wedged between a deep crack in the curb, where the sidewalk meets the street. He crouches down and pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket. Using it as a makeshift glove, he carefully picks a bright white business card from its place in the cement. As he lifts it to look at the front, Wren notices his face go pale. The business card is from the front desk of the medical examiner’s office. Under the official seal is Wren’s full name and title. Her professional contact information is across the bottom.

Wren takes a step forward, reaching a gloved hand out to hold the card herself. Leroux hands it over, a look of confusion painted across his face. She smooths her fingers over the raised OFFICE OF THE MEDICAL EXAMINER seal in the right corner. This is an old card design—Wren had painstakingly redesigned them herself about six months ago—but it’s definitely hers. This card is clean, so clean that it was likely placed here recently, and intentionally. Whoever left it here did so after the victim’s body was removed, and the crime scene tape was hauled away. It wasn’t there when they initially arrived at the scene. They’d have noticed. Someone did this to send a message.

Wren shakes her head. “I don’t like this, John. I mean it. This makes me want to run for the hills.”

“Trust me, Muller, you don’t have to dive off the grid just yet. We will make sure you get a security detail since it’s your name is on here, but, honestly, it may just be that he thinks it’s clever to show us he knows how our investigations work,” he reassures her, taking out an evidence bag from his pocket. He removes the card from her fingers. “And it’s pretty clear he likes to scare people, specifically women.”

“Ugh, John. Catch this guy so I can stop feeling so paranoid, please.”

Leroux smooths out his pants and grips Wren’s upper arm.

“I promise I will,” he says confidently.

“I think I actually believe you.”

“I’m flattered.” He winks and brushes past her toward the waiting car. “Let’s get this back into evidence and get away from this shit.”

She nods, squeezing her eyes shut and sucking in a deep breath, just to let it out slowly before turning around to face him. “Right behind you.”





CHAPTER 11





JEREMY SITS IN THE CROWDED auditorium and watches her. Emily is paying close attention to the Biology lecture, taking impeccably detailed notes. Her hand never once stops moving over her notebook, and the bracelet that is almost always around her wrist jingles just slightly. The tiny, silver anatomical heart charm bounces with each pencil stroke. He imagines he is the only one who hears it. Every now and then, she nods and tips her pencil slightly forward in agreement with a particular theory. As he observes her, he feels the bubbling of anticipation again. Seeing Emily utterly oblivious to what will soon happen to her is completely tantalizing.

After three hours of lecture, it is 7:30 p.m., and he realizes that his own pen has never once touched the page. He had retreated so far into his own mind that the three hours passed like minutes. He stands up slowly, never taking his eyes off her as she gathers her things and makes her way down the row of seats to the aisle. Cracking each knuckle by his side, he steps out in front of her, plastering a friendly smile across his face. She doesn’t immediately notice him in her path until he softly says her name.

“Miss Emily Maloney,” he whispers, leaning close to her ear before she passes him.