Catch Your Death

by Kierney Scott

  “Jessie, you okay?” Jamison called from the door.

  Relief washed over her when she looked up at him. She always felt safe when he was around. It was an illusion but her body believed it just the same. “Yeah, I’m fine. Officers are upstairs checking it out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me someone had broken into your apartment before?”

  She didn’t answer. She opened the fire door and headed for the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Tibor asked.

  “I want to see what’s going on in my apartment.” She took the stairs two at a time.

  When they got to top, Tibor was red-faced and breathing heavily but he coughed to cover it up.

  The door to her apartment was now wide open and the lights on. “Private Eyes” was still playing, which meant someone had set her Sonos to play the song on repeat. She’d never liked the song but now it made her skin crawl.

  “Someone is trying to send you a message,” Jamison said.

  “Yeah, the real curator.”

  The first officer Jess had spoken to came out. His face was red. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and down his cheek like a tear. He looked everywhere but at her. “The place is clear but… uh…” He bit into his lip as he considered what to say. “There are some… um… unusual decorations in there. I need to know if they’re… ah… yours.”

  “What?” The only pictures in her house were in frames on her bookshelf. “What kind of pictures?”

  “Maybe you should have a look,” the officer said, clearly feeling uncomfortable.

  Stan pulled away from her grip, ran into the apartment, and went straight for the kitchen.

  The officer stepped to the side so she could enter her apartment. She gasped when she saw the walls. Her heart stopped mid-beat and then faltered as it tried to start again. Every inch of wall space was covered in black-and-white eight-by-ten photos.

  “They appear to be crime scene photos,” one of the officers said.

  Her gaze darted around the room, taking in each shiny picture. “They’re not crime scenes.” She tried to say more but her voice came out in a whisper. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat constricted, not allowing any air through no matter how hard she gasped.

  The officer pointed at the picture of a decapitated boy, his tiny body positioned at the gates of an elementary school. “If this isn’t a crime scene, what is it?”

  The room flashed bright as someone took a picture to document the scene.

  “Turn that music off,” Jamison growled.

  “I-I d-don’t,” she stammered. The room spun, whirling faster and faster as all the pictures blurred together into a macabre tribute to evil. Her knees gave way and her legs went slack.

  “Jessie.” Jamison put his hand on the small of her back, catching her just before she fell. “Are you going to be okay?” His lips brushed against her ear as he spoke.

  She tried to speak but her mouth was too dry and the words would not come.

  “Dispatch said you’re an FBI agent. Are these your cases?”

  “No,” Jamison answered for her.

  Jess closed her eyes. She needed to get her shit together. She squeezed her hand as hard as she could until the scar tissue pulled taut, threatening to tear away from the healthy flesh. Searing pain jolted through her hand and up her wrist, deep into her arm. The excruciating sensation focused her, pushed away the horror, and replaced the emotion with something tangible she could deal with. She pulled away from Jamison’s embrace. She wouldn’t let herself pretend that she wasn’t alone. “That’s not one of my cases. That photo is of The Headmaster’s ninth victim. The picture was taken near the American military base in Frankfurt, Germany.”

  “The Headmaster? You mean the serial killer who raped and murdered little boys? Why would someone put that picture on your wall?” The officer’s dark brow knitted together in confusion.

  A wave of nausea hit her. She was going to be sick. “Because he is my father.”

  A shocked silence descended on the room.

  Jamison tried to reach for her arm but she pulled away. A familiar pressure built behind her eyes but she wouldn’t let herself cry, not now, not ever again.

  “Wow. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. So, did you put them up?” the officer asked awkwardly.

  “No. No, I didn’t put them up.” She wanted to scream but she knew that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

  “Well then it appears the break-in wasn’t random. I think you might have been targeted. Do you know anyone who would have done this?”

  The number of times she’d asked a victim that question and the answer was always no, or the person could name one maybe two people. But she had an almost inexhaustible list of potential suspects. It was most likely this had something to do with the suicide game but it could also be any number of people from her past. Her dad had brutally murdered and decapitated thirteen boys. Any of their families would have motive. There were also the hundreds of people she had put away in her career, and then of course there were the people she managed to piss off on a daily basis just by being her awkward self. Potential suspects were not in short supply but she didn’t want to get into all of that right now so she just shrugged and said, “I don’t know.”

  “What about this picture?” the officer asked.

  She stared directly at the autopsy photo. It was the only one she didn’t mind looking at. “I killed him. He attacked me and I fought back.”

  The officer’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh,” was all he managed to say on the subject. “What about this picture? I thought The Headmaster only killed little boys.” The officer pointed to a photo taped to the center of the wall. “It looks like another autopsy photo.”

  Her chest ached with the sadness she could never fully shake. “That’s my best friend Lindsay Dixon. She was murdered last month.” She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see Lindsay’s body lying naked on a metal slab, or the crudely sewn incisions that fanned out from her sternum. That’s not the way she wanted to remember her.

  “Did they find the guy who killed her? Maybe he—”

  “No. This isn’t about her. It’s about me. All the pictures have something to do with me. My past.”

  Another officer rounded the corner from the bedroom. “There are more pictures in here. And the bath has been run and candles are lit. The water is still hot. Did you do that?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t run a bath and light some candles before I decided to call nine-one-one and report the break-in. I called it in as soon as I saw the door was open.”

  “You don’t have to be rude,” he snapped.

  “You don’t have to ask stupid questions either, yet here we are,” Jamison said.

  The officer didn’t challenge Jamison; no one ever did. “The pictures in here are of a more personal nature,” he said.

  The muscles along her spine tensed at the word “personal.” This already felt pretty damn personal. How much more personal could it get?

  They followed the officer to the bedroom. The sheets had been pulled off the bed and dozens of condoms had been tossed on the bare mattress. She recognized the black logo on the silver packets. They were the brand she used. They were the safest on the market and she never left the house without a few in her bag.

  “The pictures are in the bathroom.”

  Jess took a deep breath, unsure if she wanted to see any more. This already felt like an intimate invasion but she bit back her feelings. She would deal with the emotion later, the way she always did. She would find a stranger to make a bad life choice with and then she would tell herself it was the last time.

  She and Jamison followed him into the bathroom. Like the living room, one entire wall was covered in pictures, but these weren’t of crime scenes. They were pictures of her having sex: her back was against an external brick wall, her pants around her ankles.

  “Fuck,” she whispered. Mortification burned on her cheeks. She closed her eyes ti
ght to block it out.

  She sensed another person come into the room. She didn’t even know any of their names and they were looking at pictures of her fucking a stranger in public.

  She needed to get away. Her skin was on fire and she couldn’t breathe. She felt too raw and exposed, like her soul had been ripped from her and laid out for the world to shit on. Every fiber in her body coiled, ready to run.

  Light flashed as someone took a picture of the scene. “Don’t. Please don’t,” she whispered.

  “Ma’am, we need to document this.”

  Jamison’s hand reached for hers and gave it a gentle squeeze, letting her know he was there, supporting her. She pulled away. He wasn’t even shocked or angry by what she had done. He just accepted that was who she was—and that, more than anything, stung. She wasn’t sure when she had become this person; it wasn’t who she’d set out to be.

  He had once told her that they were both too messed up to be together but that was a lie. She was too messed up. She ruined everything.

  “Ma’am, did you know these pictures were being taken?”

  She couldn’t speak, she could barely breathe, so she just shook her head.

  “We need to know his name so we can contact him.”

  “Who?” she managed to ask.

  “The man in the picture with you. We need to ask him if he knows who took the pictures. What’s his name?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know his name. She wasn’t sure she would even recognize him if she saw him again on the street. She didn’t even know when it was taken. It could have been any night this week. She always told herself that it would be the last time, at least for the week, but it never was. She didn’t even believe it but it felt like a promise she should make to herself, something a normal, functioning person would do.

  “Ma’am, what’s his name?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know.”

  Their stares were heavy on her; she could physically feel the scrutiny on every nerve ending.

  “What? How do you not know? Not the person who took the picture, the person you were with.”

  “She’s already answered the question. She said she doesn’t know.” There was a dark warning in Jamison’s deep voice, telling them not to press the issue any further.

  “I need to get out of here.” Jess turned and left. She went to the kitchen to find Stan. She bent down and cuddled him in close to her, petting his rough fur. “Hey, buddy,” she whispered against his ear. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered that she spoke more to her dog than she did to any human, but she didn’t care. There was no shame or anger with him. “I forgot to feed you in all this commotion. I’m not even a good dog owner.” She stood up and opened the trash can she used to store dog food, scooped him out a bowlful, and then rinsed out his other bowl and gave him fresh water.

  She leaned back against the counter; the marble top pressed into her back because she was so short. She just stood and watched her dog eat because she could not bear to face what was happening in her house, or in her life really. At some point, she’d gone from clinging on to completely derailed, and she wasn’t even sure what she could do to fix it. She couldn’t think about it now because if she did, she wouldn’t be able to hold it together.

  Stan finished his dinner and then came up to her and pushed her hand up with his snout, asking to be petted.

  “Jessie.”

  She looked up. Jamison was standing in the doorway. He made it seem small. Her apartment felt small with him in it. He had not been here since they’d had sex. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “They’ve finished taking pictures and now they’re going to dust for prints. It’s going to be a mess in here for a few days. Fingerprint powder is a bitch to get off.”

  She nodded. She didn’t care how long it took. She would keep scrubbing until every particle was gone.

  “They are going to try to interview your neighbors tonight but it’s getting late so it might not be until the morning.”

  “Okay. But I doubt they saw anything. I don’t know any of my neighbors. I never see them. I only know the old guy on the first floor who scowls at people when they park outside because he thinks he owns the street.”

  “A busybody, just what every investigation needs. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he saw something.” Jamison gave a small smile. He was trying to be chill for her and ignore the reality of the situation.

  “Maybe.” She forced herself to try to sound positive and like she wasn’t mortified to be in her own apartment with people looking at the most private and painful moments of her life.

  “There was no forced entry. Who else has a key?”

  “Just Lindsay.”

  “Did you get it back when she died?”

  “No. I got Stan when she died. I didn’t think to get my keys back or the umbrella I lent her or the CD I left in her car.” Jess shook her head. She wasn’t angry at him. Her choices weren’t his fault so he didn’t deserve her shit. “Sorry.”

  He held up his hand. “It’s all good.”

  “All of Lindsay’s stuff was boxed up and sent to her dad. I doubt he’s even gone through it yet. This is about the suicide game. All of this started when I was assigned the case. I’ve been thinking about it: the pictures in the bathroom were from this week.”

  “So, you remember?”

  She shook her head. “No, the picture looks like the back of the Opal Lounge. I was there last night. I went there after I spoke to Ryan’s mom.” For a second she felt the need to explain, defend herself, tell him that she was having a bad day and that was the only thing that cleared her mind, but the words sounded pathetic even to her. She made her choices and she wouldn’t apologize for them.

  “I think you should stay someplace else until this is over. He’s been in your apartment twice now. It’s not safe here.”

  She looked away.

  “You can stay with me. I’ve already spoken to Jeanie and she agrees, you shouldn’t be here.”

  Her head snapped back to look at him. “You told Jeanie! How much did you tell her?” Embarrassment pummeled her like a kick to her chest. She wasn’t ashamed of the choices she made but they were private. She did her best to ensure that everything in her life was compartmentalized—even if all the ugliness dripped over no matter how hard she tried—but there was one area, one relationship, that was pristine, completely untouched: that was Jeanie.

  “Jessie, she needs to know. This is way above our pay grade.”

  She squeezed her eyes together. “No.”

  “Jessie. We can’t handle this on our own. Some of those pictures need clearance to access. We are dealing with someone on the inside. That’s too big to keep to ourselves. This can’t be ignored. I know that’s what you like to do, just pretend things aren’t happening. But this is happening and you’re in danger.”

  “I need to go. I have to get out of here.”

  She tried to push past him but he grabbed her hand and stopped her. Anger flashed on his dark features. “You can’t do that. Someone is watching every move you make. You can’t go out and hook up with some guy. You need to handle your shit like an adult this time.”

  She yanked her hand away. “I meant I need some air. But good to know what you think of me.”

  Twenty-Five

  Jess was startled awake. Cold sweat and tangled sheets clung to her. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She’d been dreaming about her dad again—not the one where she found the body of one of his victims, and not the one where she was screaming while an FBI agent pulled her dad away from her. This dream was worse: it was the one where they were holding hands and the sun was shining and she felt so safe and loved. She hated that dream. She always woke up from it missing her dad. It was perverse to love a killer but he wasn’t a monster to her: he was her daddy, the only person who ever looked at her and saw perfection, and the only person who made her feel completely safe.

  Her hand banged off something hard when she reached
for the lamp on the bedside table. “Shit.” She squinted into the inky darkness, suddenly remembering she wasn’t in her apartment.

  She got out of bed and slowly walked to the door, her feet barely coming off the hardwood floor so she wouldn’t trip. She flicked on the light switch and took a hard look at her surroundings. They were why she had had that particular dream about her dad. The walls were a soft, duck-egg blue and the woodwork and muslin curtains were white. They contrasted well with the walnut floors. It was very classic and feminine. Felicia must have designed it.

  Against the wall, next to the twin bed, was a white crib with gray striped bedding. She couldn’t tear her gaze away. Felicia had been due next month. Jamison was going to be a dad. Was. That was also why she had had the dream about her dad.

  It was all sorts of fucked up that Jamison made her think about her dad; they were nothing alike except they were the only two men she’d ever loved.

  She needed a glass of water. She followed the hall past the closed door of Jamison’s bedroom to the kitchen at the back of the house. The light was already on. Jamison was standing at the sink, his naked back to her, his boxers slung low on his narrow hips.

  He turned around when he heard her come in. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

  Her breath caught in her throat when he turned around and she saw his bare chest. The skin under his right clavicle was raised and knotted into a keloid scar. The patch of skin was pale, almost translucent against his dark skin. She looked down at her hand at her own scar from that night and then back at him. Shame settled heavy on her like a weight anchored around her. How could she ever have thought he was a killer? He wasn’t her dad, there was no hidden monster lurking in him. She should have trusted him.

  “You’re a great shot.” Jamison’s long finger brushed the scar as he spoke. “You missed all the vital organs.”

  “Was. I was a great shot.” She held up her hand to show him her mutilated palm.

  His full mouth pulled down into a frown. “Yeah. We both lost a lot that night.”

  Her throat tightened. “I’m sorry.” She’d said it before and she would say it again if he needed it. “I try to pretend that I have my shit together and my past doesn’t affect my life, but it does. You saw the proof of that tonight. I’m not trying to make excuses. I just thought maybe… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to say… just that one of the biggest mistakes of my life was not trusting you and I’m sorry.”