HELENA
The air smells of leaves, old beer, and death.
Or is it just my imagination assigning an odor to this ghastly exhibition?
He drains them. They shouldn't smell. Not at first.
“Answer me," Dante's voice rumbles.
"Busy," I mutter. What is that stench?
"Why didn’t you call me back, Helena?”
“I’m…at a scene. Another murder.”
Like rot. Maybe a dead animal. But then, something...chemical.
“M.O.D.?”
“Don’t know yet. His work. Or a copycat, but…I doubt it.”
“Tell me what you see."
“The victim is…well…portrayed as Pinocchio. Wow. Red shorts, bright yellow shirt, blue blow-tie, funny hat, and—”
“The long nose of a liar.”
“Yeah. I…gotta go, Dante.”
I hang up before he can respond, walking along the corded-off area, which seems much broader than necessary. Seems each Fairy Tale Kill gets a wider perimeter. I’m sure the growing number of onlookers and tourists has something to do with it.
Settling on the best angle I can, I raise my field camera with its telephoto lens at the man dressed as a boy, red shoes dangling from a low tree branch. He must be tied. How else could a tall, lifeless body sit on a branch upright like that without falling?
His brown eyes look stunned, sewn unnaturally open, and yet vaguely familiar. Not just his eyes but his chin beneath the long shadow of the mask.
Scott’s voice comes eerily to mind as I gawk like an amateur, goosebumps racing over my scalp. God, do I know this man?
He could be anybody.
As the crowd gathers, I watch and listen, pondering how I got here first. It was Scott who tipped me off. I know he has tight connections within law enforcement, so that’s not a big surprise. He sent me a text message at 6:30 a.m. I dragged myself from bed and got here quickly.
But still.
I wasn’t expecting to arrive before anybody else; it’s odd.
I called him en route. No answer. I texted him back, thanking him. I suppose he’s busy working the back end of this case. I’ll leave him alone for now. He’ll call.
There was something in his kiss. Just a peck on the cheek, but it was...I don't know, intimate.
Two police officers now guard the yellow tape as people push in, coming and going in whispers. I stick around, ears attuned to chatter. Nothing of consequence yet. Just another big mystery.
When a crime photographer drops to the ground beneath the tree, snapping a pic, I mirror her, zooming in on whatever possible evidence hides in the underbrush. Will it be a bullet like last time? Surely, my finding went down in the police memo.
Dante's words about the tactical advantage of a .22 come to mind as I focus on the seemingly nothing: rocks and leaves. Was this victim shot? Is there blood splatter? Signs of a struggle?
That wouldn't make sense. The killer needs a studio to work. A shop, garage, or storm shelter converted into a lab. Scratch that last unless he has a great ventilation system built into the bunker. It could be a basement, a warehouse room, or a rural storage facility.
Somewhere not too far from here, there is a place where this monster sucks the life from his victims before patching and dressing them up. He takes his time in a space that's safe only for him: a lair where he enjoys the process of his meticulous obsession.
He may not have started in this town, but he's staying for now. Each in a string of murders making its trail in this direction, and now, two have been right within the borders of this community.
It begs the question: Why here?
Is he settling in? Does he have family in the area?
Something has brought him here. Something is keeping him.
DANTE
Her ringtone goes off, and I fall from the bed, fumbling with the phone as her text message slowly comes into focus.
Where were you last night?
Answering that question in my current state would be easier via a phone call. But she doesn't answer.
Why, what's up? I text back before heading to the shower.
I’m still emerging from a drunken stupor when Jim Peters calls me. My head is pounding, and the light hurts my eyes as I toss the towel from my damp head, my phone, to my ear.
“Morning, Dante.”
“Jim."
“Just checking in with you."
"Mm-hm," I grumble.
"Did I wake you?"
"Nope."
"Okay. Well, have you-uh…had time to look over the files yet?”
“Working on it.”
I shuffle barefoot into the hallway, flicking on a light. Most of my house is dark from black-out blinds.
“Just name your fee, Dante. We’ll do our best to make it happen.”
“I’ll…send you a quote.”
"Okay, great, so..."
I flick on the kitchen light and knock down some painkillers with a cup of cold black coffee, followed by a large glass of water.
“...so, I’ve sent you most of what I have, but more could be coming down the pipe. Phones are ringing off the hook. Another fucking murder. This town is lit up. Feds breathing down our necks. But no rush.”
“Sure.” No rush.
Shirtless and wearing flannel pants, I head to my office.
“I’m hoping, Dante…since you did financial analysis for Hawk’s Casino chain, as you said…that could be helpful here. Those chips were from Hawk’s. Some marked bills mixed in with unmarked ones. Agency’s running serial numbers."
“I'll be in contact shortly,” I stifle a yawn, running my hand through my hair.
"Sounds good. I'll should let ya get to it. Feel free to give in touch via this number anytime.”
"Will do."
I toss my phone on the desk and plunk down into the leather chair before opening Jim's attachments in my email, arranging them on the different screens. I want to get this over with and I am curious to see what they think they've got on this beast—is he more than the murderer-next-door? Could he be an embezzler, a launderer, or what they call a “financial serial killer”?
The sociopathic Ponzi schemers and fake millionaires that target one percenters—celebrities, heiresses, politicians, widows at the country club. Most people don’t feel too sympathetic when somebody filthy rich gets schemed while investing in a risky venture to get richer. So-called "star-whacking" can seem like a form of justice.
But in high circles, these serial offenders--chameleon hunters lacking empathy and remorse--are feared and loathed.
My job as a financial analyst is usually to help companies, funds, and individuals safely and legally invest in things like stocks and the kind of fine art hanging on my walls. No risky ventures, and not nearly as exciting as what a financial crime analyst does, which Jim Peters has hired me for. To trace breadcrumbs back to a source, which Jim believes is tied to the local killer. Ours. Our very own. After two years of living here, I have acquired local status. Jim, the police chief, says so.
So, this is my killer as much as anybody else’s around here. This local legend, this economic boost wrapped in corpses. People drove through here on their way to other places. The locals liked it that way until the money started coming in.
Pat’s Pie Café has extended its hours to midnight. Ruckaby Motel’s parking is always full. Flannen’s is hopping. The truck stop is so crammed with TV vans and big rigs that Tysh Glady is probably hurting for a fresh supply of barely legal meth-heads to crawl inside truck beds. She’ll put the word out: her dude’s got the crank, and girls and boys will come crawling.
The killer now belongs to this town; they’ve claimed its notoriety as their own. The monster shines a spotlight on lifeless cadavers, giving life to the staid.
Local law enforcement can’t afford me, but here I am, pitching in, doing my part to keep the light on this dark corner of the woods.
But I didn’t come to this place to get close to it. I came to get away from what I left. Like others, like Scott Hampston from Chicago, I’m not the only mid-to-late-twenty-something “local” who ditched the major metro.
But then there’s Helena. She came as a teen. This isn’t an escape; this is home. She’s comfortable—too comfortable—and feels safe. She hides behind true-crime lingo, believing that her journalism and sleuth site keep her smart and less likely to become a statistic. But this crime junkie girl of mine is less safe than anybody. For good or bad, it's only a matter of time before one of us haunting her steps finally gets a hold of her.
Which will it be, Helena? Be my pretty prisoner or be dead? You choose.
Time's-a-ticking, baby.
I will, after all, help Jim. But only to help her.
I will do it for my girl.