Juarez’s lungs expelled air like a bellows. Bree stood still for a few seconds until it no longer sounded as if her deputy was going to hyperventilate and until her own breathing approached normal. She slid her gun into its holster. “Good job. Let’s get back to that body.”
Juarez nodded. He looked a little sick from the adrenaline rush, but his eyes held both relief and satisfaction.
They turned and filed out of the room. With knowledge that no threats remained in the building, Bree returned to the hanging body and the details she hadn’t noticed while she’d been focused on clearing the building. For one, the garage carried the faint smell of garbage but no decomposition. Even a relatively fresh body put off an odor. Urine and feces released at the moment of death.
She pulled out her flashlight and switched it on. Even before the light fell on the figure, her brain was registering that something was off about the shape. The limbs were oddly bent, almost cartoonish. Relief welled, followed by curiosity. Not a body.
What is it?
She moved closer. “Mannequin?”
Matt’s rifle hung by his side, pointing at the floor. “I don’t think so.”
They walked closer. Bree shone the beam on the shape’s face. It was flat with garish features printed on it. The mouth was disturbingly puckered, an actual hole, lined with bright red lips permanently fixed in an O.
The older deputy gasped.
“Shit.” Juarez flinched. “Sorry,” he said, as if embarrassed he’d been frightened.
“Don’t be,” Matt said. “That thing is scary.”
Bree studied it. “Is it some kind of weird doll?”
Matt cleared his throat. “Sort of.”
In the corner of her eye, she caught bright red spots on Juarez’s face.
She turned back to the doll. It almost looked like a balloon . . . A wave of gross washed over her as she realized what it was. “For the love of Pete . . . It’s a blow-up sex doll.”
She glanced at Matt, expecting him to be shaking his head, but there was no sign of humor on his face. His mouth was locked in a grim frown as he stared at the doll. She turned back and played her light down the rest of its body.
As one would expect, the doll was naked. Her beam fell on its huge breasts, where a badge had been drawn on with black Sharpie. Someone had written SHERIFF TAGGERT in block print. Three red spots had been drawn onto the chest. The paint had been allowed to drip.
Like bullet wounds.
A sense of dread settled over Bree, and the relief she’d felt a minute earlier dissipated like smoke in the wind as she examined the rest of the doll. A police baton protruded from between its legs. A handcuff dangled from one balloon-like hand, and the rope around its neck had been fashioned into a noose.
Bree stepped back. She had no words.
“Clearly, this is a threat.” Matt’s tone was controlled, but the undercurrent was angry.
“Ma’am?” Juarez had moved a few feet away and pulled out his own flashlight. He faced the opposite direction, sweeping his light over the rest of the space. The six-bay space was mostly empty except for takeout containers, bottles, and other trash. On the walls, faded graffiti had been written over with fresh, bright red paint.
The new profanity covered the walls with messages. Bree read KILL THE WHORE, FUCK TAGGERT, and SLUT TAGGERT WILL PAY. All around the words, the “artist” had painted crude yet clear images of a large-breasted female being raped in multiple positions. In case she didn’t grasp the fact that the females being raped were supposed to be her, the artist had labeled them with a sheriff’s badge and her name.
She felt a little sick as she took in a depiction of a violent gang rape. The female was on her hands and knees, being assaulted by three males simultaneously. The male kneeling behind her held a rope tied around her neck. Bloody tears leaked from her eyes.
There was no reason for her to be embarrassed. She hadn’t done anything. Yet she was filled with shame. The scene was graphic and disturbing and humiliating in a way that wasn’t logical.
Matt muttered something under his breath. “Sick.”
Get a grip.
She glanced at Matt. His features were locked in his stony cop face, as were the other deputy’s. Bree turned to Juarez, who clearly hadn’t mastered the flat cop stare. His cheeks were still beet red.
Bree had been a patrol officer, then a homicide detective in Philadelphia before she’d moved back to her hometown of Grey’s Hollow. She’d seen things this young rookie likely couldn’t yet imagine. He was a local, not a jaded city cop. He hadn’t witnessed the terrible crimes Bree had. He’d gone to Catholic school. He was, for lack of a better term, a nice young man.