by Alice Ayden
Chapter 4: Investigation
Detective Maines struggled up the wooded slope just off the highway. He wanted to remember his childhood of playing cowboys in the woods or earning a Boy Scout badge by rubbing two bug carcasses together, but he focused on the price tag of his new shoes. He lost his footing a few times as he shook off excess dirt. “Has to be in the woods.”
Detective Teresa Weever bounced ahead like a young gazelle. “I thought you liked the woods?”
He stopped and gobbled the last of his apple pastry. “Don’t get the woodsy people with their special hiking boots and backpacks and designer water bottles.” Maines used finger quotes which got more aggressive as he continued. “They’re just so into nature and organics and granola and green everything, but they always trample around in shorts.” He grimaced. “What is that about? They spend three paychecks on hiker’s boots and those stupid thick socks and out comes the shorts. All that skin from people you don’t want to see that much of.” He shook himself as if trying to keep the images from sticking.
Weever groaned. She stepped in another rant. “Bottom line it.”
Maines thought about it and prioritized. “Like the woods from a distance. Don’t like most people even up close.”
Weever laughed. “That’s kind of like me and relationships. Distance is fine. Up close?”
Maines had never asked about his partner’s personal life. Rumors swirled that she’d lost her fiancé years ago in Afghanistan. Maines had a rule: don’t ask unless someone hinted they wanted their lives pried apart. Weever never hinted. Maines stopped to catch his breath.
“Come on, old man. Those Civil War reenactments make you soft?”
Maines smirked.
“What they make you play this time?”
“Cook for Union army. Free man.” Maines maneuvered around some rocks. “Done cook four times now. Did slave once but got too many stares.”
“Not black enough for slave and too black for anything else.” Weever had heard Maines say that so many times, she wasn’t risking offense.
“Interracial hanky wasn’t put on display in the front window if you know what I mean.”
Weever made it to the top of the slope and put both hands on her hips as if she’d just conquered Everest. “That’s gotta be a good thirty feet up.”
After a few minutes, Maines reached the top. “Why bring a body all the way up here?”
Weever shrugged. “It’s better than out in Main Street with a bunch of vultures and a traffic detail.”
“Hate those. Damn ghouls.”
Weever grabbed Maines as his foot slipped on some loose dirt. She had the reflexes of a hungry hummingbird. “You okay?”
Maines nodded. “No wonder you broke the records at training. You got the grip of a pissed off pit bull.”
Weever shrugged as if to say it was a fluke or an accident of genes, but Maines knew Weever worked hard to stay in shape. She casually slipped under the crime scene tape with the precision of an Olympic athlete and didn’t stop until she stood in front of the covered body. Flies swarmed. A quick look was all she needed before the salty stench overpowered her. “Jesus.” She covered her mouth to prevent a gag reflex.
Maines knelt down and ignored the rancid stench. “Okay, last week it was Jane Doe number three’s skull. Could've been a hiker. Body had been there awhile. Idiot tourist might have hiked in the snow. But this?”
An Italian suited man interrupted them. “Hey, most people call me Nicholas, but I like Nick.”
Maines frowned. “Where’d you pop up from?”
“Assistant Medical Examiner.” Nick held his hand out. The detectives only stared at it. He craned his neck to take in the sky, trees, and road below. “Is that the city way down there?” He shielded his eyes to see a screaming eagle. “Cool! It’s peaceful up here, isn’t it?”
“Not for her,” Maines said. “They recruiting in the kindergarten these days?”
Nick grinned. “Young for my age. I know. I get it all the time.”
Maines stepped back. “Wasn’t a compliment.”
“Last month I took my mom out to dinner.” Nick glanced at Maines. “You’d love her, detective. About your age.” Nick thought about it. “Well, maybe a lot younger than you.”
Oh yeah, Maines thought. Just the way to get on my good side.
“What do they say?” Nick paused. “Sixty’s the new twenty or something?”
Maines grimaced. “I’m forty-six.”
“Anyway, they carded me.” Nick ignored Maines. “Not that I drink. Haven’t had a drink in about two years. Not an alcoholic, but I—”
“What can you tell us?” Weever interrupted before Maines blew his pension and ended up in prison for killing the M.E.
“First time in the field.” Nick nodded as he looked around. “Really stoked to be outside.”
“Bitchen!” Maines fist pumped the air before rolling his eyes.
Nick studied the remains. “Her head’s half gone. Fingers are missing.” Nick lunged in and yanked open the corpse’s mouth. “No teeth.”
Maines wished he hadn’t downed two of the apple pastries.
Nick stared at them. “What? What I do?”
Weever surveyed the scene. “He parked down below.” She focused on the dirt. “No drag marks. Strong. He wanted her to be found. Why here? Why now?”
“Plus, she’s been dead for...” Nick squished his face this way and that. “At least eight to twelve hours. Killed somewhere else though.”
Maines sighed as he reached in his pocket for a small notebook and flipped through the pages.
Weever looked around. “Wooded but easily seen from the road. Why?”
Nick started to speak, but Maines stopped him. “Think she’s one of the missing girls?”
Weever stared at the remains. “Maybe.”
“This prick thinks he’s so damn clever.” Maines sighed. “Glom onto college girls, runaways, out-of-towners. Thinks we won’t catch on.”
“The problem is with the thousand places to hide around here.” Weever nodded as if figuring everything out in her head. “We’ve got farms, ranches, plantations—”
“Oh!” Nick pulled off his gloves and dropped them on the ground. “Have you been to the plantations in the area? You two ever tour ‘em?”
Maines stared at Nick and pointed to the gloves on the ground. “You’re not just going to leave them there?”
Nick flashed him a look that asked, ‘What?’
Maines sighed. “When did you get into town, Nick?”
Nick thought about it. “Um, let’s see. I saw this in a movie once and always wanted to do it. Four hours.” Nick stared at his watch. “Forty-two. Make that forty-three minutes, and I dunno how many seconds.”
Maines glared. “Shame. I guess you’re not the perp. We could have ended this right here with a bloody shootout.”
Nick laughed. “I don’t carry a gun, detective.”
Maines shrugged as if that fact wouldn’t matter.
“The problem is...” Weever hesitated. “He kidnaps ones who won’t be missed for awhile. So, there’s no initial crime scene. He’s keeping them somewhere. So, what’s his deal? What’s his motive?”
Maines didn’t care about motives. If he stood tall and peered over the tops of the trees, he could just make out the courthouse and the rest of downtown about five miles away. It was peaceful, Maines thought, but he’d never admit that to Nick. The sick grinding in his gut told him they hadn’t found all the bodies. And he couldn’t explain that gnawing feeling that he was missing something right in front of him.
Chapter 5: Soulless
Oliver waited patiently in the car outside the rundown coffee house six miles from Ausmor. Jessica’s shift had long ended. He’d seen her in town and followed her for weeks. Home. School. Coffee shop. Babysitting. Library. She didn’t vary; she left the same time and took the same routes. He’d been watching long enough to see what her ex did to her. That would be useful.
Jessica didn’t flinch last week when she neared Oliver’s table or even when their hands lightly touched. Oliver couldn’t understand why people didn’t sense danger. Maybe that’s why victims littered the world. Natalie suspected. When he caught up with her in that alley, she remembered his capabilities.
11:12 pm. Most of the employees had left through the front door to waiting rides and the bus. The back door opened. Sweet Jessica exited to the parking lot with the usual bag of garbage. After she jiggled the coffee shop’s door handle to make sure it locked, she quickly scanned the dark lot before continuing to the dumpster. Why did Jessica take out the trash? That job usually went to that ten foot tall mouth-full-of-braces assistant manager.
Oliver was out of the car before the trash bag hit the dumpster. Jessica flinched at noises in the distance and at the untimely approaching car before it turned down the opposite road. Her normal nonchalant attitude had been replaced by anxiety and fear. Two feelings Oliver adored. Since it had started to rain, he used the hood of his jacket. Jessica couldn’t see his face, but she heard his approach. He made sure of it. He hurried until he was right behind her thinking she’d turn around, and Oliver could catch her in mid scream. He had to be quick. He couldn’t risk a scream.
Not that her screams would alert anyone. The coffee shop had all but been abandoned with the opening of the new mall across town. The two other buildings in the area were empty, and people neglected the street, a former frontage road, with the construction of the new freeway. Jessica should have found a safer job. Luckily for Oliver, she hadn’t.
Jessica turned around just as the knife glistened under the glow of the street lamp. For an instant, it mesmerized Oliver. He admired the artistry and wanted to remember the details for the future. Little things mattered.
Good genes had given Jessica a beach volleyball player’s body, long blond hair, and sea blue eyes. From a distance, Jessica’s beauty could stir nasty thoughts. Up close, she looked so much like Emily - the real reason Oliver chose her. Jessica’s blue eyes focused on the knife, but her face remained relaxed as if calmly reading a book. While Oliver does not require a rehearsed Broadway bound performance ready to thrill the tourists, he appreciated something for his effort. Show him a preview of a scream and maybe throw in a plea or two. But, please, do not insult with the tired and trite promises to do anything as long as he won’t hurt them. Oliver couldn’t be appeased so easily.
Jessica turned to run, but Oliver grabbed her. Quick at getting behind someone and locking their arms in place, Oliver held a knife against her throat; Jessica elbowed him in the ribs. To say Oliver didn’t like that would be an understatement. He did not appreciate the battle ready ones, the self-defense aficionados, who saw him as a challenge to be defeated. Instead, Oliver admired the ultra paranoid types who instantly crumbled as if they had been expecting him for years and were glad it was finally their turn.
He slowly knifed her in the stomach. He did practice restraint even if some blood splashed to the pavement. A few years ago, he would not have stopped. Practice made him efficient and prepared for all contingencies.
Driving back to the cellar with Jessica in the trunk, Oliver thought of exactly what he wanted Natalie to write in the journal. Natalie appreciated the dictation of exact details.
If they arrested Oliver and found the journal, the shrinks would wet themselves poring over his every word choice. They would most likely label him a narcissist. Why do narcissists gather such bad publicity? Isn’t healthy self-esteem what all those whiny self help books strive for? Oliver mulled over this while waiting at an empty intersection.
Oliver did not respond well to labels. He got a bit testy refusing to accept the confinement. Most shrinks couldn’t define him if he was hacking them in two. True story.
Back in the bowels of the cold cellar with Natalie, Jessica had a few hours of fight left. She looked like a Jessica. She even bled like one. Oliver had known another Jessica. She bled too. Natalie faithfully wrote in the journal during the more graphic parts. After Oliver finished, he sliced both of Jessica’s wrists and stabbed a femoral artery. A short jab at the brachial and a clean glide across Jessica’s throat concluded a successful day. It didn’t last as long as Oliver hoped, but the fleeting moments sustained him.
Oliver grabbed the journal from Natalie and read what she’d written.
“I wrote it all. Whatever you said. I wrote it all down,” Natalie quickly spit out. She backed up towards the stove and clasped her hands in front of her as if in prayer.
Oliver stared at her awhile as he drank in her terror and hesitations. He leaned close to her and patted her on the head. “Good girl.”
She looked at Oliver with panicked repulsion. Then, he threw the journal back.
Natalie scrambled to catch it and reopen to where she left off. When she found the spot, she hesitantly looked up at Oliver waiting for her next orders.
Oliver slowly brushed her hair from her eyes so she could see him clearly. “Write this: By the time I was ten, I had killed more than Jack the Ripper.”
Natalie closed her eyes.
“Remember that, do you?” Oliver smiled reliving that day in the alley with Natalie. “Write: how many more? Will I get to Cora before you stop me, Detective Maines?”
Chapter 6: Deliberate
From her second floor room, Cora stared out into the garden below as gardeners scurried to tend to the new spring growth.
“New flowers, Darcie.”
An American Shorthair silver tabby cat with a dark fudge ripple swirl and light blue eyes perched on her favorite tasseled purple pillow and studied Cora, but her interest shifted to ensuring her gardener glove collection remained hidden under the bed.
Cora threw herself down in her desk chair and waited a few seconds as the official Ausmor Plantation website loaded. Pictures welcomed visitors to take a virtual tour of the house and links led to the history, gardens, and gift shop.
Cora read through the comments, made note of the good suggestions, and deleted the trolls. She answered some questions and updated the FAQs with the new spring hours. Then she opened up a document titled, “Journal.”
Part of Cora’s therapy was to write down everything she could remember including things she feared.
“I am starting to remember. I hate that. I don’t want to remember. If my amnesia is caused by trauma, then isn’t it safer if I don’t remember? I can function. I don’t need the missing memories. Not having them means not dealing with them. Isn’t that what happiness is? Why must we trudge up every little slight or feeling of the past and parse through it as if we were checking a giant pond for bones? Bottom line, I hope I don’t remember. I don’t need the memories.”
Cora read through what she’d just written and then deleted everything. She continued again.
“Little by little, I am remembering more. Family has been,” Cora hesitated. “Helpful. Parts of memories are returning. I am hopeful they will return, and I will be able to deal with everything. I want to remember.” Cora had to quickly finish before her stomach acid disintegrated her organs.
The journal was supposed to be helpful. It was supposed to be private. It was neither. Writing out positive bullshit at least made her family feel better since she’d caught everyone from Mrs. Kiness to Lillia to her grandmother to Lillia’s brother, Evan, sneaking a peak.
Cora looked at her watch, “Been working a good twenty minutes. I think I deserve a break.”
She leapt out through the French doors, but the gardeners had left. Cora gagged on a retching stench of baked cinnamon apples and burning manure. Darcie ran back inside and slid under the bed. “Beastly Bitty’s already in her kitchen.” Cora glanced towards the plain rusty brick outbuilding thirty feet away. “I wish the kitchen was on the other side of the property, don’t you Darcie?”
Cora noticed her cat had shifted to a satiny red pillow by the fireplace to chew on a mouse toy. Although a true cat with hunter instincts, she decided, after much deliberati
on and analysis, to become a pacifist. Darcie did, however, unleash her aggression against unsuspecting stuffed animals with extreme malice and left their cottony innards in horrifying heaps around Cora’s room as a warning to all.
“Are you ready for your day, dear?” Mrs. Kiness asked.
Cora flinched.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Cora.” Mrs. Kiness clutched Cora’s arm. “I did not mean to frighten you. You will catch a death out here.” Mrs. Kiness huddled inside her beige hand-knitted sweater. Then she noticed the stench. “Oh, dear.”
“The Bitty’s cooking should raise the terror alert level.”
“Well, at least she...” Not even Mrs. Kiness could summon positive attributes for Aunt Bitty; she abandoned the quest. “While I do not condone her attitude, her manner, her—”
Cora raised her hand. “Stop or go mad.”
Mrs. Kiness’ eyes softened, and her forehead deeply creased. “Miss Elizabeth Austen confounds me. I find her quite odd.”
“The Bitty Bitch Bot. That’s what I’ve heard some of the staff call her. Remember the costume party? Lillia didn’t want Bitty to wear a hoop skirt cause she could barely fit her own fat ass through the door.” Cora cringed. “Weird the things I can remember.”
“Hush, child.” Mrs. Kiness censored her smile. “Remember, criticism sours while—”
“Compliments flower,” Cora mocked the statement she’d heard all her life.
“Okay.” Mrs. Kiness laughed. “And of what were you thinking before I gave you a scare?”
How sometimes I wish I’d never remember - because if it was bad enough to take my memories what would they do to me if I remembered? Cora shook her head, glad she hadn’t actually said those thoughts aloud. She wanted to change the subject quickly, but her mind quickly drifted to chocolate - her standby.
Mrs. Kiness frowned and scrunched her eyes.
Cora’s French and German could offend native speakers, but she surpassed fluency in Mrs. Kiness eye language. “What is it?”
