The Butcher and the Wren(7)
Meghan was a sad, desperate creature whom Jeremy convinced to leave the bar with him last Thursday. She was loud, boisterous, and arrogant, irritating him from the moment she opened her mouth. At one point, she screamed up from the basement, calling him a “mama’s boy” and igniting in him a rage that he knew would cloud careful, rational thought. Had he given in to the anger, he may have made a crucial error, and he deeply resented Meghan for almost making him lose his cool, and with it, his freedom.
He spent a few days trying to break her. He tracked her psychological state as she wondered what day, what hour, and what minute would be her last. And after a few days of playing, he walked down to the basement in silence. His sudden lack of interaction should have been an omen, but she still didn’t see it coming when he plunged a knife directly into her stomach. He dragged it across her abdomen with great force and watched as she writhed in pain on the concrete basement floor. He chose this end deliberately. Stomach wounds are truly harrowing. Bile and acid pour into the wound, slowly poisoning the victim with their own bodily fluids.
That was Sunday night, one day after Katie and Matt arrived. Meghan’s body had been found this morning. He heard about it briefly on the radio, but they weren’t releasing any details to the public yet. He isn’t nervous. He always takes great care not to leave a trace anywhere on the body. He had even discarded the lengths of fishing line and electrical cord that he used to strangle Meghan in one of their little games, just to be safe.
Although Jeremy didn’t initially set out to have a modus operandi, he usually targeted people in their twenties and thirties outside of bars and nightclubs. But he always changed up his method of murder, following his curiosities wherever they led. And, of course, there’s the swamp water. After victim four turned up, he was given a name by the press due to his penchant for leaving the bodies bathed in filthy swamp water and in plain sight. They called him the Bayou Butcher, which at first he didn’t mind but now found tedious. Lately, he has become bored with this stagnant routine. Moreover, if he’s becoming predictable, he’s edging closer to getting caught. He is ready to serve up a new dish.
Jeremy snaps from his reverie and swivels around in his chair to look up at Corey.
“You think?” Jeremy asks.
Corey chuckles, stretching his hand out to gesture to the part of the article that details the current length of Katie and Matt’s disappearance.
“Oh yeah. These two idiots have been missing for almost a full week. They are done. Drench ’em in swamp muck and call it what it is.”
Jeremy can’t help but grin at Corey’s candor. It’s refreshing to hear him express as much disdain for Jeremy’s houseguests as Jeremy feels for them himself.
“You might be right, man. And hey, at least if they turn up it’ll put an end to all those candles and prayers. I can’t take much more of these fame whores, desperate for a camera crew’s attention,” Jeremy offers, testing the limits of Corey’s apathy.
Corey belts out a laugh, lurching forward slightly and nodding his head. “You got that right!” he exclaims. “I’m calling it. They’ll be worm food by the weekend.”
He is almost dead right, which leaves Jeremy a bit disappointed.
“Anyways, I’m getting the eyes, so I better start earning my paycheck,” Corey says, rolling his eyes. Jeremy notices their manager peering over at them, basking in the scant amount of power he holds over his cubicle kingdom. Corey knocks the cube wall lightly with his fist, adding, “I almost forgot, I have an open mic spot Saturday night at the Tap. Stop by if you’re free. I need all the attendance I can get.”
Jeremy nods. “Yeah, man, I will try to stop by. Good luck.”
With that, Corey hurries away to his own cube, and Jeremy gets to work.
CHAPTER 6
WREN IS FRUSTRATED. UNIDENTIFIED BODIES in her morgue irritate her endlessly. Mostly, it’s due to her own neurotic need to finish what she starts and clear items from her to-do lists. She doesn’t like having unfinished business, and especially not when she’s reminded of it every time she opens the freezer door. And beyond administrative irritations, these Jane Does bring with them a heavy sadness. She sees them at night when she closes her eyes. She hears them asking her to give them a name, to give them epilogues to their stories. She can’t shake the dread that comes with knowing that someone’s loved one is lying unclaimed in a cold body bag. The loneliness of the Does haunts her. Nothing is worse than being forgotten. She has made it her mission to never let her Does remain that way for long.
Leroux runs his gloved hand along the pink lividity on the Doe’s right arm and looks up at Wren.
“So, he’s trying to fuck with your time of death estimate,” he states rather than asking.
Wren doesn’t take her gaze off the woman.
“Trying … succeeding,” she replies, shaking her head absentmindedly before turning around to click a new blade onto the scalpel handle.
“That’s such a weirdly specific thing to do, ya know? How many of these idiots out there even know you can do that?”
Wren doesn’t answer and instead makes a cut to begin the evisceration. She angrily shakes her head. Leroux snickers, stepping back and readjusting the mask on his face.
“I bet it was done with the sole intention of grinding the gears of the county medical examiner,” he jokes and tilts his head to the side. “You’re giving this guy a lot of credit here. From my experience, they’re idiots in wolf’s clothing.”