The Scene (11 page)

Just do it pussy!
 

My legs carried me faster than I intended. I was standing next to the dumpster before I knew it.  I looked down quickly toward the pale legs at my feet. Purple toenail polish with glitter adorned the nicely manicured toes. Tatum had just gone in for a pedicure. I hadn’t even bothered to check out her newest polish color. Also, purple glitter didn’t exactly scream little misses Goth queen if you ask me.

Just look. If you’re right, if this is the girl that left with Cyrus last night, you have to tell Mike. And if it’s Tatum, then, well…I dunno. Just look.

I shuffled my feet as close as I could to the dumpster without touching the legs that protruded
, and leaned over. I stretched my neck and bent my body around to see the face of this mystery girl. To my surprise, her head was turned toward the brick wall that lined the alley, hair flipped over the left side of her face. Mike had said she was in an awkward position; he wasn’t fucking around.

Damn it!

I groaned and rolled my eyes. I was going to have to walk around to the business end of the mess. I glanced back at Mike who was paying no attention to me. I could have been raping his crime scene blind of evidence and he’d never be the wiser. He must really trust me, or he’s really stupid. I scooted around the blue dumpster, trying very hard not to touch anything on my way. This time I wasn’t going to fuck around
. I was going to just look.

Yeah, right
.

I stopped dead at the other end. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see what lay at my feet. I prayed to whatever was listening that this girl was not one of
my
girls. I prayed that this girl was in a better place, whoever she was. But most importantly, I prayed I wasn’t going to look down and see my best friend dead behind a fucking dumpster. No matter how improbable that may be. Also, that the man I had a major Jones for hadn’t slaughtered her. But that one was on the bottom of the prayer list.

              A sick pain sunk deep into my gut as I poked my head around the dumpster to view the face of the deceased. I could not see her full face with her hair thrown over it. The hair was the same color as my best friend, a bit disheveled from the act of death, but otherwise could have been her. Then again, there was still a distinct possibility this was Cyrus’ eighth victim. Trying not to think of the decaying corpse as being someone I loved, I huffed and puffed and pulled a latex glove from my pocket. I bent over her head cautiously. From this distance I was able to catch a sporadic odor of death wafting up from the corpse. Trying hard to only breathe from my mouth, I pushed myself to continue.

As gently as I could
, I moved the girl’s corn silk tresses from her face.  She was looking toward the brick wall. Her left side was exposed flaunting the large incisions along her neck.  Her eyes were open, wide, and the look of terror was left on her pretty face. She must have bled out fast. I didn’t want to see this anymore, but I couldn’t make out her features from this angle. I shimmied around the girls head, avoiding her hair lying across the pavement, and squatted down next to the brick wall she was staring at. The hair seemed too long to be Tatum’s but I had to be sure. I leaned down, and looked the dead girl directly in the eyes. They were green. I let out a sigh of relief that the eyes I was staring into weren’t the beautiful crystal blue of Tatum’s eyes.  She was pretty, but also not the girl Cyrus took home.

A wave of confused emotions swept over me. I was utterly relieved that my thoughts were wrong and my best friend wasn’t dead. My sensibility had told me it couldn’t be her from the moment I had thought it. But my recent irrational paranoia wouldn’t let me accept it until I saw it with my own eyes. For once
, I was happy to be wrong. Similarly, I hadn’t wanted Cyrus to be a psychopath; in fact, I had prayed to God that he wasn’t. Yet, I was surprisingly not completely relieved. In fact, I was slightly disappointed. Maybe I was ready to rat him out and end this whole thing. I guess deep down, I wanted payback. Now, I had to face the facts that Cyrus left a bar very schmooze-y with some random blonde girl. We were no closer to stopping all of this, and the dead girl eerily resembled my best friend.  I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the cool brick of the wall behind me.

Fuck.

“
Hey! Don’t fuck up my crime scene lady!”

Mike…what a jack ass.

“Sorry, I’ve had a rough couple of days. Thanks for…letting me see her. I know you didn’t have to give me the first look. Even though I was terrified it was Tatum. Or…” I stopped before revealing my thought on Cyrus. My voice was still a little shaky from my pounding heart.

“If it had been Tatum
, I would have told you.” His voice was low and calming.

“I had thought so, but you said you couldn’t get a good view of her. I was freaking out until thirty seconds ago when I finally looked into her
eyes.” I let out a long breath. “I was hoping I could help you, but I have no clue where to begin. Breakfast sounds like a start though. I’ll swing by and grab my parting gift after I grab a bite to eat. Will you still be here?” I stood up on wobbly knees and held the wall as I moved slowly away from the body.

“Who knows. Probably. Just look for the car. But just so you know, the door is open now. What you want is in the box in the passenger seat. Don’t take the whole damn box, Dylan. Just the envelope. In the box there’s a big yellow envelope with everything you need. I know you. I know you won’t quit this until you know every bit of information you can possibly know, that’s why I need you. Do not tell anyone you have the items in that envelope, got that?” He must have been
desperate to include me so willingly into his top secret investigation.

“Cross my heart.” I drew an “X” on my chest.

“No bullshit, Dylan. Not even Tatum.” I looked at him like he may have been extremely high. “I’m not kidding. I’ll lose my job. I’m only giving you this to help you, help me. Everything in the envelope is for this investigation only and in no way can be used in your book, until I say so! Read it, see what I’m missing. Use your gift of bullshit to get in with these freaks and find out what the fuck’s happening in my town. I’m trusting you, Dylan.” Mike looked at me then, I could see the stress between his eyes, the worry on his forehead. He really did need me.

“I know. I’ll do what I can. This all started as a ploy, a way into publication, but now, I just want this to stop. I’ve met the people I thought might be responsible for this and they aren’t as sinister as I had imagined. Fucking weird and twisted, but I don’t think they did this. Which makes me wonder, what fucked up sadistic freak could exsanguinate these girls in public and get away with it?” I was walking away from the mess by this point, shaking my head as I passed Mike.

“I’ve never seen you so upset over a story before, Dylan. This one is really getting to you. I figured you’d want him to knock off a few more to fatten up your book. But now, you want it all to end?”  He had turned around to face my back as I walked away. His head tilted to one side in question of my intent.

I stopped and processed what he
’d just said. Turning around to look at him, I replied, “The faster this is over, the faster I can get to writing. We all know trial coverage is the key selling point.” I smiled, not letting it reach my eyes. I wasn’t being honest to either of us at this point.

Mike smiled back and nodded his head toward the general direction of his car. I tilted my head back acknowledging his innuendo. Without another word, I turned around and walked away. I’d hoped the envelope waiting for me in Mike’s passenger seat would shed some light on this situation. 

His work vehicle, a white sedan, was parked only three cars behind mine. 

How had I not seen him earlier?

My feet slid slowly across the pavement as I moseyed over to Mike’s open window. I glanced around for any nearby witnesses to my soon-to-be theft. Nothing. On the passenger seat, just as described, a large brown file box sat inconspicuously on the dark gray seat. Also, just as described, a big yellow envelope sat inside the box, fat with information. I will admit I did nose around in the box a bit for anything juicy, but came up flat. I snatched my envelope and quickly made my way back to my Geo.  Once safely in the car, I opened the flap of the big yellow envelope and peeked inside. To my ultimate amazement, the first item I laid my eyes on was the M.E.’s report, complete with photos. My eyes lit up like Christmas morning. I fired up the old shitty engine in my Metro and put the pedal to the metal.

Driving home in morning traffic allowed far too much time to consider what I had sitting next to me
on my passenger seat. My eyes would not stop wandering toward the big yellow envelope. I wondered what kind of treasures I’d find in the lines of verbiage spread about the pages and pages of case files. I wondered if this would help me, or Mike, or both.

Maybe
, I could help Mike. I have no idea how, but you never know.

My brain would not stop running wild with all that had transpired the last few days; a lot to process. At least Cyrus was likely not a killer
, or at least he didn’t kill this girl anyway.

Maybe
.

Grabbing my cell
, I quickly hit send, twice, to call Tatum. She needed to know what I had been up to in the last twelve hours.

“You called me, who are you? Leave it at the beep.” Tatum’s pre-recorded voice chimed on the other end of the line.

“What the fuck Tatum? Where are you? So much shit has gone down since I saw you. Call me.” I hit the red end button and sighed.

Where the fuck is Tatum?

CHAPTER 11

             
I ran up the stairs as quickly as I could, narrowly escaping death by way of rabid dog and horrendous tree branch. My feet could not get me home fast enough; I had to see what lay inside the mysterious yellow envelope. Keys in hand, I reached my door. Shoving the key in its slot, I cursed out loud when it wouldn’t turn over.

             
“Come on, you stupid fucking thing!” I growled loudly at the poor inanimate object.

             
I persisted. The lock resisted. I jiggled the key; up, down, up, down, side to side: nothing.

Last ditch effort, I kicked that damn thing, hard. I heard the door rattle back at me.
That’s strange
. I tried the lock once more, slowly and more precisely than before. Calmly, I slid the key into its slot. Hearing every pin pushed into its place, I slowly attempted turning the key to the right; finally, movement. One thing was missing, the sound of the deadbolt squeaking and finally clicking over.

Had I already unlocked it?  If the door had been unlocked previously
, that would explain the severe rattle when I kicked it. No deadbolt to hold it still.
Hmm.

Slightly apprehensive, I turned the knob and pushed the door lightly with my shoulder. I let it swing open, uncontrolled, allowing it to smack the wall on the other side. Taking a deep breath, I looked about the living room, listening closely for any abnormal sounds. Sliding slowly through the rooms, I repeated the look-listen technique. After checking behind doors, under the bed, and in the shower, I was slightly more satisfied with the conclusion that the place was empty. Ending up back in the living room, I stood confused and still a little worried that perhaps someone had let themselves in, even if they weren’t there now.

              I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Quit trippin’, Dylan.

“…MUST BE KILLING TIME…!”

             
“AAAHHH!!” I jumped out of my shoes. My heart nearly stopped I’m sure of it.

             
In the silence, I had left myself vulnerable for a really good scare. The music continued louder than usual it seemed. I peeked at the caller ID and finally answered my ever ringing phone.

             
“Tatum, where the fuck have you been?” No answer. “T? You there?” Nothing. “Dude, hello?” Silence.

             
I pulled the phone away from my head to see if the screen was black. According to the well-lit screen of my phone, Tatum and I were still connected on the call.

             
“Tatum?” I waited, silent, listening for any noise. “I can’t hear you. Call me right back, I think we have a jacked up connection.” I waited a moment for a response and got nothing. I watched the screen and waited for Tatum to end the call. Nearly a full minute passed before I decided to hang-up and try to call her back. Pressing the red end button, I hoped that there was nothing wrong.

             
I waited a few seconds to allow her to call me back first. That had past and nothing. I hit the send button twice and waited.

             
“You called me, who are you?” Straight to voicemail.

Maybe she’s calling me
.

             
I hung up immediately and waited for her ringtone to pierce the silence. Minutes past and no call; I called her again.

             
“You called me, who are you?” Voicemail.

Maybe her phone is screwing up.

              “Hey it’s me. You called me first, actually, and I couldn’t hear you. When you get it together, call me back. Or just come over. You have to see what I have.” I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should say more.  “Bye.” I hung up.

             
It is only eleven-thirty, the likelihood that she’s still in bed and butt dialing me is very high.

I had decided to give Tatum until noon, and if I didn’t hear back I was going to blow up her phone.

              Still a little concerned for Tatum, I grabbed my yellow envelope of wonder and plopped down on the couch. I folded my legs under each other and snuggled down into my reading position. Tatum was still on my mind when I opened the prongs and flipped open the envelope. Deciding to pull the table closer, I leaned forward and slid it in my direction. Almost immediately, I dumped the contents of the yellow envelope across my coffee table. In an instant, the black- stained wood table was covered in dead, naked, girls.

There were more than just the two L.A. girls. In fact, there were four in all. It took a moment for me to get a hold of myself and allow my brain to process what was strewn in front of me. After gathering my composure, I began organizing the photos and case files so each had a match. Then, I placed them side by side in chronological order. From what I could gather at first glance, I had the four latest girls, not including the one from this morning. I had the one from Bonita Terrace the other day and the two from Bakersfield. There was a girl from Hanford; one of the Fresno area girls I was guessing.  There was nothing else, none of the others, the first ones. I wasn’t sure if Mike was protecting me by not including them. I had heard they were nearly mutilated, or he just didn’t have the case files from the first three victims.

              I began looking at them one at a time, photos only for now. Seeing them in order you can see how the killer evolved. The earliest I had was a girl found outside Hanford in an embankment on Highway 43; apparently, she was the last in the Fresno-string. If one were so inclined, one could assume that this all started in Fresno, and thus, our killer may very well be from Fresno.

Wherever the hell that is.
  

Looking at all the girls, they all looked the same; blonde, kind of skanky, but fairly pretty.  Not your typical trashy hookers, but hookers nonetheless. I could say one thing about our killer, he had decent taste in prostitutes. I looked at each photo over and over, scrutinizing every detail. 

              The first girl, the Highway 43 one, was a little thicker than the others, fuller in the hips and thighs. Her nails were fake, but expertly applied. The blonde hair was fake too, and as with the nails, it had to have been done by a professional. I don’t really know what street walkers earn generally, but I’d bet they didn’t do it up like this girl. I imagined her in a business ensemble, sensible pumps and a professional up-do. In my mind, the look worked well for her. If she was a prostitute, either she was a really good one, or she hadn’t been one for long. She was too clean, too well put together, aside from her being naked, but she didn’t have control over that. I placed a square yellow post-it on the corner of her photo and scribbled a question mark on it. My notes make sense to me; they don’t need to make sense to anyone else.

             
I flipped through the other photos, only skimming the really gory ones, accidentally skipping over the ME report for the Bonita Terrace girl. I reached the end of the stack and started again from the beginning; slower this time. Finally, sandwiched between a stack of photos, and a very thin police report, lay the three page Medical Examiners report. The first page contained a basic synopsis of the findings along with a drawn diagram of a generic human body. The diagram indicated where any cuts or lacerations were located on the body. According to the document, there were two cuts high on the inner thigh and numerous cuts along the left forearm, from elbow to wrist. Lastly, there was a small puncture wound at the right wrist. Skimming the report I discovered that the puncture wound was likely created by a needle, and according to the ME, it was likely that it had been caused by an intravenous catheter. The report went on to state that perhaps the I.V. had been intended for removing blood and not for an inject-able substance.

Like a sadistic blood bank? Fucking lovely.

Lastly, in big bold type I found exactly what I was looking for. The words read:

POSSIBLE SALIVA IN AND AROUND INCISION ON LEFT/RIGHT THIGH
.

Why Mike hadn’t mentioned this before I had no clue, but it was right there in black and white. It would be at least three days before they got any DNA results back on the saliva swab. And Lord knows how long before they could match it to anyone. But, it was a start at least.

              I began reading the police report, which was surprisingly short seeing as though it was a crime scene. In the small boxes provided at the bottom, HOMICIDE was checked off, as was TRANSIENT. It seemed as though they’d made a mistake, because that was crossed out and initialed by someone other than the reporting officer. The initials
MP
were scrawled next to the slash; Mike. I smiled at the thought that dear old Mike had the sense to check before turning that in. The poor girl’s mausoleum had been behind a dumpster in an alley. She was left bloodless and dishonored, and then was assumed to be just some homeless prostitute. Poor girl. At least she was dead before that humiliation. It was obvious that the original thought was that this was a random killing of a street-person, no biggie. The report was short and fact filled. Sort of.

             
There has to be more, another report written later maybe
.              

             
“They had to have investigated more than this. This girl was murdered by vampires and this is all she gets!” I stood up from the couch in huff, angrily tossing the stack of papers on the table. “Vampires, Dylan? And you are talking to yourself. You are the epitome of sanity,” I said aloud, smirking.

             
I stood for a moment allowing the blood to flow to my feet once again, still studying the faceless naked bodies sprawled on my coffee table. Other than the fact that they were, basically, drained of blood, and mainly blonde, there was nothing about the crime scenes that was exactly the same. Someone cut deep into the arteries, someone slashed over and over into the flesh on the arms, and then someone jabbed a needle into their vein.

Why?

I didn’t have the ME report for the other girls, just ours, so I didn’t know more than what the pictures and basic police reports told me. Mike had thrown some of his notes in, one post-it read:

             
Bakersfield in by Friday-no Fresno

             
I was guessing he was waiting for more information from Bakersfield. Fresno was still a mystery. Out of the four girls I had, all appeared to have had the needle, only two had the slashes into her arm, and three had the deep cuts into the thigh. I definitely was not qualified to come to any conclusions, but I’m not stupid. What I was looking at was either a complete crazy who has no plan and is simply wildly killing for some crazed need for the blood of hookers, or there’s more than one of these fuckers.

             
With a full photo of each girl in front of me, I examined each one. Comparing them to each other, trying to get a picture of what happened to them. Jotting down notes on little yellow post-its I stuck each to the adjoining document. I marked each with an idea or question I needed to ask Mike later. Also, utilizing simple red sticky-tabs, I marked each photo I intended on secretly copying. I’m writing my first fucking novel. I kind of have to be cut throat or I will never make it in the publishing game.

I began thinking about the book; I was never going to write it if they didn’t solve this bullshit. I thought that perhaps just the general idea of the story would make a good fiction novel. I thought further about how it would pan out. Who would die in the end? Who would be the hero? And finally, who would be the villain? I suddenly thought about Cyrus; shuddering at the thought that he could possibly be involved in this. I doubted he was, but you can never rule anyone out in a murder mystery.

That’s all this is. A who-done-it. Come on Dylan; solve the mystery, by writing it in. Truth is stranger than fiction and it makes for a killer story line.

I stared intently at the full color, bloodless, prostitutes I held in my hands. If this were a book, the killer would be the least suspected. Which would mean me, or Mike even. Just as in real life, Cyrus would become a suspect because he is the possible love interest of the main character, which in my book was me. But suspicion of him won’t come to fruition.

Who, Dylan?

I thought hard for a moment, picturing every character in this story. I couldn’t imagine anyone really doing it
, offing those girls. No one I knew, anyway. There had to be a variable, a third gun-man on the grassy knoll. Perhaps our killer had yet to be introduced in the story. Perhaps we are only in the beginning. The thought that this was only the beginning actually terrified me more than anything. Eight dead girls and he was only getting started.

“At some point, everyone will become a suspect
,” I said aloud, sounding very menacing.

You
’re such a dork, Dylan. Stop being so serious. Stop thinking you’re going to blow the lid off this. And damn it, stop talking to yourself.

I chuckled and flopped down on the sofa. Closing my eyes, I took a deep relaxing breath.

“What the fuck am I doing?”
Talking to yourself again after you just told yourself to stop doing that. Dumb ass.