Killing Ways

18

Ren had spent weeks creating a Wall of Horrors in her living room; pinned to the wall opposite the sofa were photos of faces, wounds, and dump sites. There were maps, single words, questions, answers: everything she could think of to help her catch a monster. She sat now on the sofa, with a bowl of dry Rice Krispies, staring at the block-capital bullet points of the Quantico profile that had come in the previous week.

It had been easy to allow the apartment to become an extension of the office. She couldn’t ever imagine doing this in a true home. But this grim wall felt in place here.

She finished her cereal and left the bowl beside the previous night’s half-eaten pizza. She had watched the faces from the sofa for hours, wanting never to have to add another photo.

When she arrived at Safe Streets, there was a box on her desk, wrapped in pretty paper.

Severed head inside. Has to be.

‘A housewarming gift,’ said Robbie. ‘Finally.’

‘Aw, Robbie!’ said Ren. ‘No way! Thank you so much. Can I open it now?’

‘Sure, go ahead.’ He was smiling.

She started unwrapping it.

‘I just thought with what you said about your kitchen giving you a pain in your behind that maybe this might encourage—’

‘A block of knives!’ said Ren. ‘And I don’t think “pain in my behind” is a phrase I’d ever use, kind, non-cursing Mormon boy.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Everett. ‘It’s bad luck to buy someone knives.’

I know this. But there was no need to say it to poor Robbie.

Robbie looked distraught. ‘Is it?’

‘Yes!’ said Everett.

But Robbie wanted the answer from Ren.

‘But I don’t see why,’ she said. ‘I mean, if you stood behind me and planted each of the knives in my back, that, to me, would be bad luck. But in a block, like this, that I could use every night to actually prepare dinner and think of your thoughtfulness, that’s very good luck.’

Robbie smiled. ‘I’m returning them.’

‘No, you’re not,’ said Ren. Though I am finding it spooky.

‘He is,’ said Everett. ‘A pall has descended.’

OK, shut up, Everett. You’re not helping the advancement of your relationship with Robbie.

Robbie came over to Ren and prised the box out of her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I hope you’re not feeling jinxed.’

Hmm. ‘Of course not.’

Gary stuck his head into the bullpen. He had his jacket on.

‘We have another body,’ he said.

‘Our guy?’ said Ren, sitting up.

‘Too early to tell,’ said Gary. ‘Different physical type for one...’

Carrie Longman had been left up against a tree under a pile of earth, branches, and leaves. She was naked, curled on her side, ruined.

Different body type, different hair color.

The ground was muddy underneath her.

Even though it hasn’t been raining.

I can smell it. She’s been washed down with bleach.

A dog had found her, wrapped his teeth around her wrist and pulled her hand out from under cover. The dog owner was sitting, shocked, on a bench to one side, being tended to by a paramedic. The dog was pressed up against her leg.

You little hero.

The contents of Carrie Longman’s purse were scattered all around her: wallet, phone, keys, notebook, bus tickets, lip balm, a bag of trail mix, a card she had yet to mail, its ink bleeding, the name and address washed away. Ren followed the trail of objects to a squat row of bushes, where a damp pile of clothes had been thrown, alongside a piece of frayed rope.

Ren looked up at Glenn Buddy. ‘Fuck this.’

He nodded. ‘Her name is Carrie Longman. She was a social worker, thirty-three years old. No one realized she was missing for two days. She broke up with her boyfriend of six years last Friday. When work hadn’t heard from her on Monday, they just assumed maybe she was sick, or he had whisked her away somewhere because it was their anniversary. Nice guy. Apparently, once the asshole dumped her, she looked up Denver’s best dive bars and picked number one, Manny’s, went there for Open Mic night, texted a friend that’s where she was, drowning her sorrows. I’ve got some of our guys heading over there now. The friend she texted was away herself that weekend, so she just assumed Longman was sleeping it off. Tried her a few times, let her be.’

Ren looked up. Mark Gaston was striding up the hill toward them. The sun was shining down as if to illuminate only him, like he was the hero prince come to save the kingdom.

‘Is it Kill Your Girlfriend Season in Denver?’ he said, putting down his bag, taking out a pair of gloves, putting them on. He crouched down.

‘She’s very dead.’ He glanced down at the tree branch jammed between her legs. He had no jokes for that. He looked up at Ren. ‘I think he might have... kicked that while it was inside her.’

Ren closed her eyes.

There was all kinds of depravity in the world and she had met it in all kinds of ways. She knew there were people who Googled crime scenes, and wanted the most grotesque photos, who would never stop at the graphic contents warning. There were people who loved torture porn, who wanted to be part of it, make it, watch it, jack off to it. And there were whole other levels too, levels that she had yet to meet and hoped never to. This felt like a step closer to a world she didn’t want to know, a world that these women were likely never to have imagined.

‘I’m sorry, but this guy is a maniac,’ said Gaston. ‘What he hasn’t done to this body... Who is he hating on? Every woman alive? Who didn’t dance with him at his senior prom?’