by L. T. Vargus
All written in the second person, the few dozen pages of writing were eerie. Unsettling. Distant but still vivid. Aloof yet insightful.
A heavy hand fell on Darger’s shoulder, and she turned to see Furbush standing beside her, using his fingers to shield his eyes from the sun.
“I should have figured it out,” she said, half talking to herself. “We talked to her twice, and I just… didn’t see it. Because she was a woman.”
“I imagine it’s a pretty rare deal. Female serial killers, I mean.”
“Female killers account for 17% of all serial homicides. So it happens. I’ve never seen it up close, but that’s not an excuse.”
Furbush didn’t respond, and they watched the divers work to get the body secured. Darger couldn’t help but shiver a little at the thought of how cold the river would be, how cold it had been the other night. Even more, she couldn’t imagine being within an arm’s length of that bloated mass that used to be Kathryn Porter.
“Kind of an ironic ending to her story, though, isn’t it?” Furbush said, as if sensing Darger’s earlier thoughts about Kathryn’s end matching those of her victims.
“Yeah,” she said.
She thought she should perhaps say more. Give some profiler’s insight into all of it, but she was just too damn tired. She hadn’t slept well since the incident at the cabin. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Fowles sprawled on the floor, his body opened up, blood spreading over his shirt.
A heavy silence fell over them, as thick as a velvet curtain.
For several minutes, they watched the divers splash about in the river, kicking their flippered feet against the current.
“You know, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Furbush said, and Darger worried he was going to make her go over that night again.
Each time she relived it, she came up with another mistake she’d made. Another way she’d failed Fowles.
His gun, for example. It turned out that Kathryn Porter had shot Fowles with his own weapon. If Darger had only insisted he leave it in the car….
She closed her eyes, pushing these thoughts away.
“What is it?” she asked Furbush.
“When we arrived on the scene — at the cabin, I mean — when Mantelbaum and Parks got down to the river and pulled you out….”
He trailed off, seeming uncertain.
“Yeah?”
“Well, they said it looked like you were running toward Kathryn Porter. Yelling something.”
The wind blew a strand of Darger’s hair loose, sent it fluttering over her forehead. She swept the hairs back and tucked them behind her ear.
“I was trying to… I don’t know. Stop her."
"From killing herself?"
"I guess so.”
“But she was armed. And you weren’t. You didn’t worry she’d turn on you and shoot?”
Shaking her head, Darger said, “I wasn't really thinking about it. I guess it just seemed like the right thing to do."
"Even after she murdered Fowles? I mean, not to mention all the others.”
Darger flinched. Every time she heard Fowles’ name uttered out loud, she felt like someone had walked up behind her and jabbed her with a thumbtack.
How could she could explain it when she didn't even understood it herself? Her gaze fell on the puffy white body being loaded onto a gurney at the riverside.
"It's just such a waste."
A moment later, Dr. Kole stepped out from beneath a white tent and signaled to Furbush. He was ready to get started on the preliminary exam.
Furbush spun toward her and patted her shoulder again with one of his giant bear paws.
“I’ll see you at the service? For Fowles?”
Darger clenched her teeth together and nodded.
* * *
The service for Fowles was held outside, in a park overlooking the Willamette River near where he grew up. They weren’t calling it a funeral or even a memorial service, but a “Life Celebration,” which Darger thought sounded cheesy as hell, but overall, it turned out to be very touching.
His family stood beneath an arched arbor draped with honeysuckle and wisteria, greeting the mourners as they arrived.
His mother had exactly the same eyes — dragonfly blue and sharp with intelligence. He’d obviously gotten the wiry hair from his father, though the elder Fowles tried to tame it with some sort of pomade. And when she smiled, his sister had a similar one-sided quirk to her mouth.
Darger wondered how long they’d been planning this service. What would that be like, to plan someone’s death in advance? Or had Fowles planned it all himself?
There was no casket, just a large, poster-sized photograph of Fowles and a memorial plaque surrounded by a wreath of white roses and blue hydrangeas. In a way that truly suited his scientist’s heart, Fowles had donated his body to the same body farm where he’d done his study.
Had that been part of what made him feel more at peace with dying? Knowing that his death would benefit science?
When they invited people to speak, Darger took a turn, reading from something she’d copied down in her notebook that morning.
“I’d only recently met Ted. But he was inspiring and dedicated and—” She felt a swell of emotion and paused to let it pass. “He knew so many things. And not just bug stuff.”
There was a murmur of laughter from the crowd.
“He could draw and paint. His lasagna was world famous, or so he claimed. And he could also rattle off these lovely little quotes. He told me his grandmother used to give him a dollar if he could recite a poem or quotation.”
His sister was seated just a few feet away, and she began to nod. She caught Darger’s eye and gave the patented crooked Fowles smile.
“This is one of those quotations: ‘Truly the universe is full of ghosts, not sheeted churchyard specters, but the inextinguishable elements of individual life, which having once been, can never die, though they blend and change, and change again forever.’”
At the end of the service, Darger stood looking over a table laden with photographs of Fowles throughout his life: an eight-year-old Fowles fishing in a rowboat, a 23-year-old Fowles in cap and gown, graduating from college. Someone approached the display and stood close enough that their arm brushed hers. She assumed it was Furbush, but when she turned, it wasn’t the big bear of a Chief, but a woman. Cat-like eyes flashed as she held out her hand.
Margaret Prescott. In the flesh.
“So nice to finally meet you in person, though what a shame it’s under such unfortunate circumstances.”
Darger took her hand, not surprised at all to find that Prescott’s grip was almost forceful.
“I wonder if we could find somewhere to talk? I’d love you buy you a cup of coffee.”
“Of course,” Darger said.
“There’s a Starbucks about five minutes from here,” Prescott suggested. “Meet you there?”
Darger agreed, and as she walked to her car, she hoped Prescott wasn’t going to make her rehash everything that had happened. The service for Fowles had been less gut-wrenching than she’d expected, but her emotions were still raw.
* * *
The cafe was filled with twenty-somethings with laptops, busy typing away while they sipped caramel macchiatos and listened to earbuds. Prescott gave their order to the barista and then led Darger to a quiet corner near a ficus tree. Loshak was always pinching and prodding indoor plants to determine whether they were fake or the real McCoy, and Darger had to resist the urge to fondle one of the waxy leaves.
They made small talk about the service and the weather and Prescott’s flight into town until their order was called, but with her double shot dirty chai in her hand, Margaret Prescott turned all business.
“I want you to know that no one blames you. I understand you did everything you could.” She paused to sip her drink. “Still, it’s such a shame things turned out the way they did.”
Darger assumed she was talking abou
t Fowles, but then Prescott leaned across the table and said, “Wouldn’t you have just loved to pick her brain?”
“Excuse me?”
“Kathryn Porter. I mean, just to be in a room with her… I bet there was some energy. You talked to her. What was she like?”
“What does it matter?” Darger asked. She had no interest in magnifying Kathryn Porter’s mystique.
“Are you kidding? You must know how unusual it is to find a female serial killer. She would have made an amazing subject for a case study. An absolute treasure trove of information.”
Darger listened to her go on about it, staring out at nothing, only half hearing the spiel.
Prescott talked about Kathryn Porter’s bisexual behavior as “textbook gender indifference,” a common trait among sociopaths that differed from the more prevalent, healthy form of bisexuality found in the non-sociopathic population. She referred to Porter at one point as a “priceless specimen,” which instantly brought to mind an insect preserved in alcohol. That, of course, made Darger think of Fowles, and suddenly she felt the sting of fresh tears in her eyes. She excused herself abruptly and rushed to the bathroom.
Darger chose a stall and locked the dusty pink door behind her. The cheap toilet paper was rough against her cheeks as she angrily dabbed away the tears. It smelled like cinnamon potpourri and disinfectant.
What the fuck was Prescott going on about Kathryn Porter for? Even though she’d tried to stop Kathryn from shooting herself, part of her was so filled with rage over the heinous acts she’d committed that she was glad. Glad Kathryn was dead. Glad she wouldn’t ever hurt anyone again. Glad she’d been punished by the universe for her crimes even if she’d never be punished by the law.
An ever darker part of her thought it wasn’t enough. Thought that Kathryn Porter should have suffered for her crimes. Tit for tat.
But the noble side of her, the side that accepted humanity as a flawed creation, knew that none of this was for her to decide. She was not judge, jury, and executioner.
Maybe that was the real reason why she’d tried to stop Kathryn from taking her own life.
When she came out of the stall, Prescott was standing near the line of sinks, arms crossed.
“What has you so upset?”
Darger stepped past her and ran some warm water from one of the taps.
“In case you’ve forgotten,” she said, pumping some soap from a wall dispenser, “we just came from a funeral.”
Prescott glanced down at her fitted black pant suit.
"I sure as hell hope so. Otherwise I don't know why I'm wearing so much black," she said, capping it off with one of her demonic laughs.
Darger scowled.
"Do you even care that Fowles is dead?"
Prescott's smile vanished. She fixed Darger with that leopard stare.
"Don't project your grief onto me, honey. Fowles knew what was coming. He'd made peace with it."
“He had time left.”
“Not very much, as I understood it.”
“That doesn’t make it any less of a loss.”
Prescott was rifling through her purse, and she paused to scoff.
“Life is never easy, dearie. I thought you’d have figured that out by now.”
Lipstick in hand, the woman turned to the mirror and began touching up the coral red on her lips.
“Look, Violet — and I'm saying this as a friend, not your employer — just because you’ve decided to be all broken up about it doesn't mean you get to judge when the rest of us don't fall to pieces.”
Darger swallowed, tasting a bitterness at the back of her throat. She watched Prescott pressed her lips together to even out the application of color.
“But as I was saying before, I’m thinking I have enough to do a whole series on female serial killers for the American Journal of Forensic Psychology.”
She ticked the names off on her perfectly groomed fingernails.
“Elizabeth Bathory, Eileen Wuernos, Marjorie Diehl-Armstrong, Kathryn Porter. I've already got a prospective title. Femme Fatale: Women Who Kill.” Studying Darger from the corner of her eye, she added, "I'd love to get an exposition of the investigation from your perspective."
When Darger didn't answer, Prescott went on.
"I’d be willing to give you byline credit."
Trying to sweeten the pot. As if Darger gave a fuck.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Darger said and walked out of the bathroom.
She strode past their table, leaving her unfinished coffee behind as she pushed through the glass doors and out into the golden afternoon.
Author's Note
Thanks so much for reading Five Days Post Mortem! Want more Darger books? Leave a review, and let us know.
- A Note From the Authors -
In a way, I've been on the path toward writing this series since 1995 when I read Red Dragon by Thomas Harris. It not only scarred my impressionable psyche, it also made me want to spend the rest of my life writing creepy stuff.
So this is our delve into the murky waters of the serial killer thriller. Not many books do the genre justice, I'm afraid, but I can promise you that we put our hearts into it. I can't wait to hear what you think.
I'm excited to report that we've got a lot more Violet Darger headed your way. More Loshak, too.
But that's where you come in.
Unfortunately, Amazon won't automatically flag you down when there's a new book in the series. Don't miss out!
Take one of the following actions to make sure you're always among the first to know what Darger and Loshak are up to:
1) Sign up for the Vargus/McBain email list here, and get a free copy of the Darger short, Image in a Cracked Mirror. More details follow below.
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- The Violet Darger series -
Dead End Girl (Book 1)
Image in a Cracked Mirror (A Violet Darger Novella)
Killing Season (Book 2)
The Last Victim (A Violet Darger Novella)
The Girl in the Sand (Book 3)
Bad Blood (Book 4)
Five Days Post Mortem (Book 5)
Book 6 coming soon…
- More Books by Tim McBain & L.T. Vargus -
The Victor Loshak series
The Scattered and the Dead series
Casting Shadows Everywhere
The Clowns
The Awake in the Dark series
- About the Authors -
L.T. Vargus grew up in Hell, Michigan, which is a lot smaller, quieter, and less fiery than one might imagine. When not glued to her computer, she can be found sewing, fantasizing about food, and rotting her brain in front of the TV.
If you want to wax poetic about pizza or cats, you can contact L.T. (the L is for Lex) at [email protected] or on Twitter @ltvargus.
Tim McBain writes because life is short, and he wants to make something awesome before he dies. Additionally, he likes to move it, move it.
You can connect with Tim on Facebook or via email at [email protected].
LTVargus.com
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