by L E Fraser
She had taken a prison tour during her undergraduate studies at Queen’s University in Kingston. Millhaven’s perimeter fences included a microphonic intrusion detection system. It analyzed signals and notified correctional officers if someone cut, climbed, or lifted the barrier. An electromagnetic system, installed between the two barriers, detected movement. Anyone breaking in or out would have to defeat two physical barricades and the invisible system. And do it without being shot by the tower guards.
Sam parked in a crowded visitor lot and reported to the registry office, which was located in a building separated from the institution. At the security check desk, she waited her turn and signed a visitor’s log, showed photo identification, and stated her reason for visiting. An officer herded her and a dozen other visitors into a cramped room. She slouched against the wall and covered her nostrils with her knuckle to minimize the reek of a woman’s suffocating perfume. The group watched a short video outlining correctional officers’ rights to interrogate and search visitors. It annoyed her that several people whined about their civil rights. Behind the prison walls, federal intake and assessment inmates commingled with vicious criminals, many serving multiple life sentences for horrific crimes. Incubus was not the only killer who called Millhaven home.
The second a guard opened the door, Sam darted out of the tiny room. An officer escorted her to an ION scanner that identified drug residue. He swabbed her hands and wristwatch and ran the sample through the machine. Once that was completed, he waved her over to a walk-through metal detector. She dropped her leather jacket, her keys, and her wallet into an x-ray bin.
At visitor security control, she declared a document to a correctional officer. He examined the single sheet of letterhead and frowned, glancing at her with a puzzled expression. She said nothing. After consulting with a colleague, he returned the document and gave her a visitor card and a key to a locker. Relieved that the rigmarole was over, she deposited her belongings in the locker, keeping the letter with her, and rejoined the rest of the visitors.
A corrections officer escorted her group through a locked gate and down a walkway that led to the institution. They crossed through a second security gate to enter the prison. A different officer instructed her to stand still with her arms at her side. A gorgeous black lab sniffed her front and back, burrowing up her butt and into her crotch. After three rotations, the dog stepped back and the guard removed him from her path.
The clearing process had taken over forty minutes, but finally a guard led her to Closed Visiting, an area reserved for inmates whom the correctional manager ruled a possible security risk. It was doubtful that anyone had permission for contact visits with Incubus. Still, it comforted Sam that she wouldn’t be confronting him face to face. A physical barrier would make it easier for her to maintain psychological distance.
The large room contained a line of pods, divided by half walls constructed of cinderblock. The tops of the dividers were glass, allowing for no privacy. In each individual cubicle, chairs faced a long glass partition. Each pod had a short metal shelf suspended below the window that separated the visitor from the prisoner. A black phone with a metal cord snaking from the handset permitted two-way communication. Loud conversation swirled around her, punctuated by heartbreaking wails from a woman in her late seventies. The room stank of body odour and desperation.
Armed control centres gave guards a bird’s-eye-view of the visitor area and the room that housed the prisoners. CCTV cameras ensured there were no blind spots within the individual visitor pods, and she was aware that a listening device—embedded somewhere within her cramped pod—enabled eavesdropping in the event of suspicious conduct.
Every officer she had encountered was polite and respectful. But she witnessed a couple of them whispering and looking in her direction. They had recognized her name, and both her visit and the document she carried baffled them. Sam understood their curiosity, but it increased her anxiety. She sat impassive, willing her body to relax. Perspiration dribbled between her breasts and she had to clasp her hands in her lap to hide their tremors.
Twenty minutes later, a door on the other side of the glass opened. Chains circled Incubus’s waist, securing his lone wrist to his body and ending in shackles that bound his ankles. While a guard processed him, Incubus’s single icy blue eye drilled into hers and his lopsided smile was grotesque on his half-melted face. On his left profile, puckered ridges of scar tissue twisted across shiny pink patches of skin. A black eye-patch hid his empty eye socket. His left nostril and the left corner of his lips drooped down, giving his face a liquid appearance. The fire that had ravished his left side had fused his outer ear to his skull and the earlobe was missing. Wisps of blond hair sprouted in tufts from creases of warped tissue on his scalp. The left sleeve of his shirt dangled empty by his side, but bulging muscle stretched the right sleeve. He had been working out and taking care of himself. Bile bubbled into Sam’s throat.
The right side of Incubus’s face was perfect. Long dark lashes encircled a striking blue eye. A short, well-groomed beard lined his jaw. Wavy blond hair fell across his right shoulder. The stark difference between the two sides of his face was terrifying.
Guided by two correctional officers, he shuffled to a chair behind the glass. One guard rested a hand on his weapon while the other one freed Incubus’s hand. They backed away, their eyes never leaving the monster.
Incubus picked up his phone, leaning close to the window as his single eye scrutinized her.
Sam lifted her handset.
“Did you bring what I requested?” he asked.
She held the paper to the glass.
“Excellent,” he murmured as he read.
She dropped the letter to her lap.
“You look fabulous.” He tilted his head. “A bit tired, perhaps. I’m disappointed you cut your hair. Women should always wear their hair long. Let me see your hands.”
When she refused to display her hands for inspection, he peered at the one that clutched the phone receiver.
“Did you drive your daddy’s black Grand Am?” he asked pleasantly. “I always loved that car. You do your father proud by keeping it in such mint condition.”
“I gave you what you asked for, so tell me what you know about the Frozen Statue Killer,” she said.
“Ah—right to the heart of the issue.” He leaned back in his chair. “You might have noticed that the killer is leaving her victims at the same locations I used.”
“And?”
“Well, Samantha, I transported my victims by boat, hence the reason I staged them by water. I believe you’ll find the same is true here.” He scowled at her. “The twat is copying my process for entering and exiting without leaving tracks. It’s curious that she figured it out. The ineffectual forensic analysts never did.” His smug grin twisted into a sneer on his skewed face.
There had been endless hypotheses on how Incubus had staged his victims without any sign of access, but authorities hadn’t proved any of them. This could be a valuable clue, assuming he hadn’t conjured up this fantasy for his own amusement.
“Fine. Tell me how you did it,” she replied.
“She visits the site prior to disposal and collects organic substance from around her chosen location,” he stated. “After she positions her statue, she removes any trace of egress and tosses the sack of debris to further thwart investigators’ efforts to track her path.” He lifted his one arm. “Voila! Nothing appears out of place.”
When he raised his single arm, the cuff of his sleeve slipped down. She glimpsed the outline of a lily tattooed in black ink on Incubus’s wrist. It hadn’t been there during his trial.
“Footprint impressions are difficult to remove.” She fought to keep her tone neutral.
He laughed. “Not in the winter when the ground is frozen, and not if you select areas protected by trees.” He paused in thought. “But you may also have noticed that she stages her victims during storms. The same as I did. Fresh snow and torrentia
l rain work to her benefit.”
“If it’s a woman, how does she move her victims? They’re frozen. That’s tremendous weight to carry,” Sam said.
He gazed at her with disgust, as if she were supremely stupid. “She doesn’t carry them. They’re on a trolley. She rolls them down a ramp,” he said with exaggerated patience.
“There would be wheel impressions,” she argued.
His disgust shifted to disdain. “Samantha, you disappoint me. Can you conceive of no scenario to avoid that happenstance?”
She took a discreet breath and willed herself to be patient. Enabling his self-aggrandizing by playing the student might lower his guard so she could trick him into getting what she needed.
“She’d lay a barrier. She’d remove it, rake the crushed debris, and drop a top layer.”
He held the receiver against his shoulder and mimicked clapping with his one hand.
Sam wasn’t convinced. Forensics wasn’t a qualification she possessed, and she couldn’t tell if this elaborate strategy would work to foil an analyst’s attempt to reconstruct the killer’s trail, but she doubted it. Information about the Frozen Statue Killer would have been a bonus, but it wasn’t her objective today.
Feigning a look of interest, she pressed on. “She must be more confident than you,” she said. “What you’re describing takes time. The threat of someone witnessing her activities is high.”
“If you’re implying she’s smarter than I am, you’re mistaken.” He blew out an aggravated sigh. “She is copying me and she can’t even pose her creations with originality. Did you review the work of the sculptor I recommended?”
“The victims’ poses don’t resemble his work,” she stated.
His one eyebrow rose. “Is that so? Then you aren’t privy to the details. How disappointing it must be to be excluded.”
“I’d like to see the letter from your so-called fan,” she said.
“I’ve shared a secret with you. Rather than demanding more, you should be appreciative.” The working side of his lip lowered into a pout. “You can run along to that priggish bore, Mansfield, and illuminate him on this clever theory. Maybe you’ll ingratiate yourself and he’ll reinstate you. Wouldn’t you rather be part of the blue brethren? Private investigation work is so beneath you.”
“I noticed that you commemorated Incubus’s reign of terror,” she remarked and gestured at the inside of her wrist.
“How observant of you,” he declared with delight.
“Unimaginative,” she murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“A symbol of death and rebirth.” She shrugged. “It lacks creativity.”
He leaned forward and his breath steamed the dividing window. “Is that what you believe my lily means, Samantha?”
She swallowed. “I don’t believe it has any deep intellectual significance, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He lowered his voice to a seductive purr. “Are you trying to banish your demons?” His superior expression oozed satisfaction. “Is that why you burned down my little cabin, the inspiration for my art?”
She said nothing.
“I know a secret,” he whispered in a singsong voice. “You lied to Detective Mansfield. Before my arrest, you visited my kill room. You tampered with my tools and contaminated the scene. Just think of all the evidence a judge would have had to deem inadmissible.” His tongue flicked between his lips. “Did you appreciate my little workshop, Samantha? Think about what you saw.”
The thin veneer of clinical objectivity she’d been clinging to cracked. She swallowed dryly.
“You withheld my identity and the location of the primary crime scene,” he continued. “While you obstructed justice and plotted your revenge, another innocent woman died.” He smiled with candid glee. “Had I told the authorities what you did, I believe you’d be the one languishing behind bars right now. Are you curious why I protected you and never uttered a word?”
She kept her expression deadpan.
“I guess not.” He flipped his head and a wave of blond hair fell over his shoulder. “Here’s a fun fact,” he said playfully. “Of all the women I killed, Joyce was the only one who didn’t beg for her life.”
Her sister’s name on Incubus’s despicable lips caused nausea to roll across Sam’s stomach.
“I admitted to her that you and I were friends,” he remarked cheerfully. “It fascinated me to witness how her will to live died the second the truth resonated. You were the reason she was there.” He gazed into the distance, as if captivated by a pleasant memory. “As the last of her life drained from between her thighs, she called your name.” He leaned back with a whimsical smile. “Was she forgiving you or damning you? What do you think?”
Stunned and sickened, Sam could do nothing but stare at the monster behind the glass.
“By the way, I liked the white coffin—very stylish. I do wish Grace had selected lilies instead of orchids, though.” He winked at her. “How entertaining it was to watch your mother disgrace herself at the cemetery.” He uttered a high-pitched giggle. “How wicked of her to berate you and shriek how she wished it was you in that coffin.”
The air crackled around Sam. Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to drop the phone but shock prevented her brain from issuing the command. It couldn’t be true. Incubus could not have stood among the crowd of mourners, amused by her family’s unyielding grief.
“Remember what I told you in the warehouse?” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “Someday soon the evil inside you will break free. And when you kill, you’ll understand the truth.”
“You’re going to an uncategorized portion of hell,” she whispered.
He laughed with genuine merriment. “Where the flutter of demon wings will bring mortals to their knees and you and I will rule together.” He held the phone receiver against his shoulder and placed his palm on the glass. “You believe you’re nothing like me, Samantha. But all humans have the capacity to kill for pleasure. One only needs to break them.”
She stumbled to her feet, knocking over her chair in her haste to leave. Imagined echoes of his giggles taunted her as she scrambled for the exit. She choked back tears and focused on regulating her breathing before she hyperventilated.
A CO escorted her out. “This job is hard,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Victim visits remind me why I do it. Will you be alright?”
“I caught him,” she croaked. “I’m not a victim.”
His eyes filled with sympathy. “Aren’t you?” He held the door open to the registry office. “Have a good day, Ms. McNamara.”
She collected her belongings with shaking hands and fled to the parking lot, sucking in gasps of fresh air and trying to slow her pounding heart. Safe in the driver’s seat of her car, she locked the doors and clenched her eyes shut, desperate to block out the image of her sister calling for her in death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Three Years Earlier
Sam
POLICE RECOVERED THE body of a thirty-year-old woman last night. After two weeks, my sister’s murder is no longer the lead story in the papers. The public has reduced Joyce Russo to one of Incubus’s victims. In my dreams, I lie beside her on that frozen riverbank. She whispers in my ear and begs me to avenge her murder. My inadequacy traps her between worlds. Until she rests, I’ll never find peace.
I’ve spent six years studying clinical psychology. You can’t go around grief. You have to go through it. But my anger paralyzes me. My hatred for Incubus consumes me. Only when his blood coats my hands will I be free. But to hunt him, I must understand him. His acts have significance that extends beyond the pleasure of the kill.
A friend on the police force sent me copies of the crime scene photos. I have burned every detail into my mind. The lily calling card has meaning for Incubus. Many people associate lilies with funerals because the flower symbolizes restoration of innocence in death. In Greek mythology, the lily is a symbol of motherhood because milk that spilled from He
ra’s breast transformed into the flower. In Christian theology, a white lily represents the qualities of the Virgin Mary. One victim connection is that none of the women had children. Immaculate Conception in death is what I think that lily means to Incubus. Perhaps he suffers erectile dysfunction or infertility and blames the impurity of women for his condition.
After tedious research, I’m positive his calling card is a tetraploid strain called Lilium Ice Cave. The snowy white flower with the pale green throat blossoms in July. Incubus grows them in a winter greenhouse. If he bought them, police would know from where, and they don’t.
Yesterday, I realized what’s wrong with the lily he left in my sister’s hands. In the crime scene photo, there is a circle of stamen extending from the bottom of the blossom, but there isn’t a pistil in the centre. Incubus removed the carpel. The same is true on the tattoo that disfigures all the women’s ankles. He tears out his victims’ wombs and he rips out the lily’s female reproductive parts.
Detective Mansfield doesn’t believe that I remembered this tiny detail from what I witnessed at the crime scene. He didn’t ask how I obtained copies of the official photos, but I need to be careful with him. He’s warned me twice to stay out of his investigation, and the second time he included a threat. Bryce confirmed that police know about the mutilation of the lily. They also suspect that the monster grows them. He claims they’re close to catching him. That cannot happen. I must find Incubus first. Without death, there will be no justice.
Close to midnight, my cell rings and I shift my dry eyes from the gruesome pictures that litter my office desk.
When I pick up, Lorna says, “So Mr. Lutz is out of jail. He’s parked outside, sitting in a red Honda.” She sighs. “I want to talk to him. You know, find out what he wants.”
I think about the dead expression in his eyes while we waited for police.
“The creep is unbalanced,” I say firmly. “Please trust me and stay in the house with the doors locked. I’ll be right over.”
She sighs with annoyance but agrees and we disconnect.
