by Paul Sating
It was a punch in the gut. "Of course," Janis tried to keep the envy from her voice because it would just feed Angelique's need for juicy drama. "I promise, I'll call you soon as I can. Okay?"
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you too; but stop calling me at this time in the morning. Okay?"
"As soon as women stop getting killed around here, you got it."
"A woman? Did they say it was a woman?" The words were out before she remembered who she was talking to. "You know what? Never mind." She needed to rescue control of the conversation again before she spent the next two hours on the phone. "Let me go. I'll call you later."
They hung up. The auditory separation brought relief. Angelique was a headache and Janis would have to be careful, otherwise Angelique would get too deep into this investigation for her own good. A thousand times over, Janis had heard her friend's stories about supplanting another writer in a story. To Angelique, it wasn't an argument about ethics but instead her drive to get the real story before anyone else. Many people saw her as aggressive, but Angelique had a way of working that got the results she wanted while no one seemed upset with how she accomplished the job. That made her dangerous to have around for this story. Angelique wouldn't deliberately get in the way, but Janis knew she needed to remain steadfast in keeping Angelique at arm's length.
After taking a shower that ended too quickly, Janis poured herself another glass of tea. How many nights had she cried herself to sleep thinking she would never work for a media outlet again? For months after being fired from her last job, Janis struggled to convince herself she would make it on her own, creating her own content. It was an exciting prospect but, ultimately, one that proved her initial skepticism valid. Money that supposedly poured into YouTube and blogs never reached anyone over 25. And just when hope started to fade, people around Memphis began turning up murdered. Suddenly, her skills were in demand again.
This was a chance of a lifetime and no one, including Angelique, would interfere.
She sat at the table, alone, thumbing the buttons on the recorder. With a deep breath, she tried to will her heart to slow, and began. "My name is Janis Herring, and I'm keeping a digital record of notes for the story I'm working on for The Memphis Times." She stopped. Frustrated. It didn't sound right; plus, what would happen with these recordings once the story was over? Surely they would become part of an official record somewhere. Janis knew she had to be careful about what was said. After all was said and done, if she did it right, there would be a reputation to protect. Legacy was everything.
And hopefully a respectable reputation.
Erasing the recording, she started again. "I'm an independent reporter for a local paper here in Memphis. I just got a call from Angelique, friend and nosy Nelly extraordinaire about the latest incident, and I'm heading down to the paper in a few minutes. Hopefully, they can confirm some of this for me.
"There's not much on social media, but I'm not surprised," she continued. "No official word has come out and Angelique would've said something if she'd heard otherwise at this morning's staff meeting. Authorities won't want to feed the trolls, except for Angelique. A lot of people trust her. She's been in the business forever and has an excellent reputation, but I'm still not sure how she gets first word on these things. She does though, time after time. She always does."
There were secrets in the trade, professional tactics employed to further careers. Janis understood that; she'd done it herself thousands of times over the past fifteen years. So she wasn't confused or surprised that Angelique would either. Whatever Angelique was doing, she wasn't sharing, keeping secrets secret. But Angelique was good, too good. And maybe that's why Janis was bothered by the phone call. It was validation that Angelique got the first word again. If the paper had been smart, they would have put Angelique on this story, Janis knew that in the deepest part of her soul. But politics were at play, the dirty game of self-interest and preservation, and Angelique was on the payroll for The Memphis Times. She was official. Janis wasn't. And that separation provided the paper with a luxury they wouldn't have otherwise. The South and its politics, Janis thought. I need to tread carefully.
"Angelique is good when she's freaked out, especially when she's freaked out," Janis continued. "She should be. Everyone should be. So, since my last audio file was corrupted, I'm starting from scratch. Where to start? Let's see. Screw everyone talking about Chicago's murder rate. The murder rate in Memphis can challenge any big city. In fact, last year it was 64% higher than Chicago's. Yet they get all the attention. I guess Memphis just isn't sexy enough for everyone to be outraged about how many people are killed here each year."
It was an inconvenient truth, a fact that wasn't well known outside of Memphis or Tennessee's law enforcement circles. Everyone in the state, and those just across the state lines in Mississippi and Arkansas, knew about Memphis' problem, but as long as the problem didn't touch their own communities, they were fine just providing the city of Memphis with platitudes and prayers. People here were sensitive to the isolation created by apathy from other communities so Memphis had developed a circle-the-wagons mentality. The population had almost become overly protective, especially of its women. Good old Southern conditioning at its best, Janis thought.
"With these latest murders there seems to be an atmosphere of hypersensitivity," Janis said. "No one is sure what's going on, and for The Times to commission me to cover it, well, I don't usually get this sort of guaranteed work. It's not a perfect science I know, but it's enough for me to draw pretty solid conclusions about the temperature of the situation, if you will. People are scared. Very scared. And it all started before a murder last month with a string of animal eviscerations. Cats and dogs, household family members that started showing up in ditches and alleys around the city appearing much worse than they had the last time their owners saw them. Then, a human was killed in a similar fashion, at least that's the narrative that's been created around the story.
"Memphis is, was, numb to murder, but that all changed when Lacy Nichols was found strangled to death on a side road near Nonconnah Creek. The cops said the body appeared to have been shoved off the route 61 Bridge. That one of its women had been treated with such disrespect would upset Memphis, if it wasn't already enraged by what else was done to her body. The authorities were tight-lipped, of course, but people talked and information leaked and rumor quickly became fact.
"Lacy Nichols was 36 years old. A single mother and an active member in her church. While reports said she was a very likable person, she had few close friends and was reportedly dating a man from Southaven, over in Mississippi. She didn't seem to have much going on for her, but that could be said about millions of people across the South. Lacy Nichols was so nondescript as to be unnoticeable, the type of life that would fade into obscurity without notice outside of family circles.
"Yet, for the last month, Lacy Nichols has been the biggest news in Memphis," Janis finished. "Hell, she's been the news. The fact that she was a woman is not what drew attention to her case, it was how she was killed. Not only was she thrown off the bridge into the creek, but the postmortem revealed she was dead before she was tossed into the water. Her stomach had been completely ripped open and her uterus removed."
Janis remembered waking to the news, the whispers at the supermarket that day, and the heavy tone in the newsroom. Usually, the place buzzed from a constant high of fresh and exciting stories—writers can be like that—that day, everyone was utterly diffused of emotion. The ripples of shock extended to all circles across the city.
"People are traumatized thinking about what type of person would remove a woman's uterus. Some are questioning God. Some wondered if the world would ever be the same again. Memphis is a different place now that its women were being slaughtered."
4
Janis was late to work, but Monica Ravenholt, her new boss, was a pushover and would buy the 'horrible traffic' excuse. Fortune smiled when she was hired by someone so mild. Nothing
short of a miracle.
She pulled up to a red light, the four-story building housing the paper rose above everything surrounding it, its drab faded olive exterior unable to excite Janis beyond the reasons she already had.
Her skin prickled. Employed. Employable!
Janis tapped the steering wheel, playing drums to the most recent classic on the radio. Classics were the only form of music in the city that wasn't country, and country music wasn't her thing and never would be, no matter how hard Memphis tried. A song from the seventies, one her father used to sing to that fell somewhere between Abba and Jim Croce, provided an excuse to avoid thinking about the games she was going to have to play at the paper. The added benefit of being reminded of her father on such an important day didn't hurt. Being able to call him and break the news that she was back in the game would have made today perfect, but Janis wouldn't allow herself to be dragged down by the impossible.
Today, tomorrow, her future, was all about the possible.
And the future started today, the first official day on the job.
Thanks to budget cuts, Monica didn't have a gatekeeper of any sort, no secretary, no administrative assistant, not even an unpaid intern. Anyone who wanted access to Monica got it by going directly to her, and Janis did just that. No one questioned her, day one or not.
"Come in," Monica called from the other side of the door. "Thanks for getting in so quickly. Have a seat."
The office was chaotic, piles of samples and copies of past issues threatening to bury unsuspecting victims alive. The air was stale as if a window hadn't been opened in years. A semi-respectable conference table in the corner near the windows was ravaged by the similar towers that probably served some purpose, but which looked nothing more than a mess Monica refused to clean up. Janis did her best to ignore the irritated feeling rising in her throat. Orderliness obviously wasn't as high on Monica's To-Do list.
The woman sitting bravely behind the towering piles was short and, even with her hair cut short, equally imbalanced. For someone in a leadership position, Monica succeeded without the apparent expectation to present a manicured appearance. Her short hair unintentionally spiked in random spots. The turquoise blouse looked like it'd been pulled straight from the laundry pile. Her round face indicated a lack of healthy eating habits, typically of busy writers.
Janis was pulled away from the distracting revulsion of Monica's world by her boss's smooth, southern drawl. "How much have you heard about this new one?"
"Angelique called me first thing. Woke me up, in fact."
A tight smirk passed Monica's face. "Of course she did."
"You know how she can be."
Monica nodded. "I got lucky hiring her."
"You did. Better treat her right; I'm sure any other paper in Tennessee would love to get their hands on her."
Suddenly Monica stopped shifting the piles, looking Janis square in the eyes for the first time. "Why? Have you heard something?"
"No. She's all yours, for now." The extra tease rattled Monica. Janis decided to not push further. "Seems like she enjoys working here. Just keep treating her right. Keep her happy. And hey, you've still got me. At least for the story. Freelancers ... yay." Monica didn't seem to notice Janis' faux enthusiasm.
"Well, budgets being what they are, I'm thrilled we got you. We got lucky."
"I'm glad my misfortune was primed for you to take advantage of me."
"I—um—I'd—I didn't mean—"
This was fun. "Jesus, Monica," Janis said, "it's a joke. I'm not as fragile as you may have heard."
For her part, Monica didn't seem to be able to play along, doing nothing to dissolve Janis' preconceived notion of her new boss.
"I didn't mean to imply—" Monica now struggled to finish a sentence.
Janis couldn't hold the laughter, it burst out in an awkward bark. "Oh my God!" She wiped away a tear. "Relax. Please. Haven't even had a cup of coffee yet."
Monica's shoulders slumped in relief as she pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. "Well, let me fix one for you while you take a look at these."
A thick folder sat in the middle of Monica's desk. She picked it up and handed it to Janis, who took it hesitantly. A picture slid out and Janis caught it before it fell to the floor. It was a grim photo of the victim. Before Janis could wonder about the full contents of what she held, the next picture confirmed the gruesomeness of the contents, showing the bruised and battered body, naked and ripped open, the victim's skin shredded as if something trapped inside had burst out. "God."
"If there is a God, I'd love to know why he allowed something like that to happen," Monica responded, closing the office door. "That's just ... it's—it's—"
"It's fucked up, Monica," Janis answered for her. "Just fucked up."
"Doesn't get easier, the more I look at them. Still want that coffee?"
"Uh, yeah, sure" Janis answered over her shoulder. "What has Marshall shared?"
Marshall Rogers was a 40-something year old homicide investigator for the Memphis Police Department. Candid and possessing the right balance of salt and pepper hair, he was a dear friend to Monica, so Janis navigated carefully. The last time she dealt with Marshall, she had been working at the television station. It was a brief encounter over a story that ran for a solitary day. An encounter he probably wouldn't even remember.
"You know how he can be," Monica said.
Janis didn't, not really, but she didn't want to appear inattentive or ignorant. She needed to play along to keep Monica clueless about her past. The less questions asked, the better. Ambiguity was a matter of survival. "Overly protective? Guarded? Annoying?"
Monica nodded, delivering immediate validation. Janis didn't want to give Monica's reasoning a chance to catch up with the conversation. "So, he hasn't loosened up? You think he would have by now. I don't get it. It's not like you two don't go back 40 years."
Monica held up a hand, palm forward. "Uh, I'm not nearly that old, young lady."
"Continuing to say things like young lady doesn't help your claim," Janis said with a nod and wink. "Just doesn't make sense why someone who's been a friend for years is so distrustful."
"Not of me," the dark comment hung between the two women.
"Really?"
Monica extended her arm, waving around the office as if she were pointing out an invisible crowd. "The profession. Marshall doesn't trust anyone in it, so I don't take it personally. If he had his way, we'd all be unemployed." She finished her brief by handing Janis a brown ceramic coffee mug that read I Write, Therefore I Am in think white lettering. The coffee steamed and smelled like a Sumatra blend.
Points for Monica.
"Ah, got it. Not sure how we're supposed to do our job and get more ears on the street if he doesn't give us something."
Monica nodded. "I'm grateful for the information I do get. Well, I was. I'm not sure I can be grateful about stuff like those pictures. I'd rather we didn't have to deal with some of the shit people do to each other. Murders? They're no big deal anymore; Memphis has numbed me to them. But that isn't murder. That's ..."
Janis understood why Monica was unable to finish the sentence. Most people would struggle to describe what was in the pictures, even if the two hardened professionals currently occupying the office weren't deterred.
"It's a dissection."
"Yeah," Monica's voice barely overpowered the low rumble of passing cars outside the window. "Let me ask you a question."
"Sure, shoot."
Monica extended a finger toward the pictures Janis held. "What makes people do something like that to another human?"
5
The question was unanswerable.
Monica wouldn't understand, regardless of how much effort and time Janis gave to the topic, to her boss or the news-curious stranger on the street. The vast majority of people struggled to understand the horrors humanity was capable of committing against one another. Privileged people enjoyed their ignorance; suffer
ers of trauma, people like her, they weren't so lucky. But they were also the ones who understood without explanation. Staring down at the set of pictures in her hands, Janis pushed down the surge of emotion threatening to flood the room if she couldn't contain it. If she didn't, the day would end with her back on the unemployment line.
"I don't know, Monica," Janis said instead of putting voice to million things swirling around inside her head.
Monica made a throaty sound in response, probably lost in her own jaded thoughts.
The pictures were gory digital imprints of what authorities found at the scene, a macabre collection of lurid artistry from investigators capturing the remains at an impressive number of angles and proximities. The victim, a woman in her thirties, had been strangled. Janis wasn't sure how authorities came to preliminary conclusions in cases like this because, to her layman's eye, the body showed no discernible signs hinting at what killed the woman first.
The strangulation had left her neck destroyed, bent at an angle only elbows or knees could naturally accomplish. Her body was ravaged, carved like it was meant to be displayed as a centerpiece during a feast of cannibals. The blue hue of death colored her skin by the time the postmortem pictures were taken, but even time couldn't cover every injury. Her crooked neck had been slit, so deeply as to nearly decapitate. And Janis noticed that the pictures caught one more detail. Had anyone else picked up on it? Monica didn't mentioned it, at least, not yet. The woman's right index finger had been severed.
The decimation had been deliberate and thoughtful on the killer's part, eternally captured by the Memphis Police Department. The fate of this woman was part of the city's permanent record. Once these pictures were leaked the population would be thrust into chaos. Pictures like these got out, they always did.
However, the last picture in the set made Janis ponder the possibility that this evidence would never see the light of day. She stared, unable to look away but remotely aware that Monica was watching, not daring to make a noise beyond a low groan.
