Leroux runs his gloved hand along the pink lividity on the Doe’s right arm and looks up at Wren.
“So, he’s trying to fuck with your time of death estimate,” he states rather than asking.
Wren doesn’t take her gaze off the woman.
“Trying … succeeding,” she replies, shaking her head absentmindedly before turning around to click a new blade onto the scalpel handle.
“That’s such a weirdly specific thing to do, ya know? How many of these idiots out there even know you can do that?”
Wren doesn’t answer and instead makes a cut to begin the evisceration. She angrily shakes her head. Leroux snickers, stepping back and readjusting the mask on his face.
“I bet it was done with the sole intention of grinding the gears of the county medical examiner,” he jokes and tilts his head to the side. “You’re giving this guy a lot of credit here. From my experience, they’re idiots in wolf’s clothing.”
Wren stops cutting and gives him an annoyed look.
“I never said it was his sole intention. I just don’t like my abilities being tested by some gutless asshole who thinks he’s Hannibal Lecter or something.”
She pulls out a tool like a pair of hedge clippers and begins using it to snap each rib from the bottom up to the clavicle. The force and sound of snapping ribs make for perfect catharsis whenever she feels frustrated. The dense clavicle bone takes some extra elbow grease to crack, a job she relishes at this moment.
“Well then, you will hate this next piece of information.” Leroux steps to the side, allowing her to get to the left side of the rib cage.
She groans without pausing her work.
“Spit it out,” she hisses between the sharp sound of snapping bone.
He silences the call coming through on his cell phone and leans on the counter, “We are pretty positive we have a serial killer on our hands.”
“No?!” she says with fake incredulity.
He stays silent but gives her a stony look in response.
“I could have told you that, John. When do I get my detective badge?” Wren retorts and rolls her eyes, allowing a smirk.
He closes his eyes in exasperation. “All right, well that’s not the real kicker here, Muller.” He walks around the other side of the table and leans forward on his hands. “This potential serial killer is leaving clues about his next body drops. We think we may have a lead on another scene, but we can’t decipher it yet.”
“You’re going to have to elaborate for me, pal.” Wren turns to face him and cocks her head to the side.
“Stand down, Muller. We aren’t one hundred percent yet. The next drop’s location may be what he is trying to tell us with the garbage he left on the bodies. That victim found behind Twelve Mile Limit? I am sure you remember the paper shoved down her throat.”
Wren stops what she is doing and nods, urging him to continue. There were two recent bodies found with strange items at the scenes. She can’t help but sneer at the idea of a killer trying to be theatrical. Is it not enough drama to take a life away? Are they so starved for validation that they have to package their carnage up like a Jack in the Box toy? It’s always about control. This kind of monster feels power in making sure everyone knows that he is in charge. Wren knows though that these calling cards indicate insecurity more than confidence, like someone who tells a joke but then spends a half hour explaining the punch line. They don’t let it speak for itself. It’s desperate and uncomfortable behavior. It is a move used by only the most pathetic big-name killers, obsessively narcissistic little demons who demand a standing ovation.
Dennis Rader, aka BTK, didn’t stop at stalking, brutalizing, and murdering innocent women in their homes in the 1970s. He was so impatient for infamy that he called the police to direct them to his crime scenes. When he grew tired of merely reporting his own deeds, he took to writing letters and poems to the press and leaving strange little murder dioramas around town for law enforcement. His thirst for attention was his undoing in the end. He got so sloppy in his haste to be the next big thing that he genuinely asked law enforcement in a letter if they could trace a floppy disk back to him. They said they could not, and he believed them. He thought himself so powerful and untouchable that even police would bend to his vaudevillian aspirations. He was wrong.