“The lab was able to see what was on it, at least partially. It was the seventh chapter of a dime novel. Pop quiz, in what swamp did we find our second scene?”
“Seven Sisters Swamp,” she says contemplatively. “Isn’t that kind of a tenuous connection though? I agree, it’s strange but …”
Leroux puts up a finger to stop her before she can finish her thought. “The book found at the Seven Sisters Swamp crime scene had one chapter torn out of it. Chapter seven. And we confirmed it is from the same book.”
He looks pleased with himself, before gesturing to what used to be a living human being.
“And that’s not all. A piece of scrap paper was tucked into her clothing. We’re looking into it for any indication of the next scene. I’ve got all my people on it but made a photocopy for you too. It would help to have another set of eyes on it.”
He takes a paper out of his back pocket and unfolds it before placing it on the counter in front of Wren. She pulls the glove off her hand and inspects the copy.
“This fleur-de-lis pattern …” Wren leans over the gurney that holds the victim’s body and points at the pattern that borders part of the scrap paper. “Is it matte, or did it have a sheen to it?”
“It was kind of shiny. What’s that word?” He squeezes his eyes shut and holds up a fist, then points a finger. “Iridescent. Kind of embossed too.”
She nods and continues studying the photocopy. “What is this other thing on here?”
He leans forward slightly as she tips the paper toward his eyeline.
“Ah, that’s a copy of the library card from the book. Again, more eyes on it are always helpful.”
“Philip Trudeau. That name feels so familiar,” Wren muses, staring at the last name written on the library card.
“Well, unfortunately, it turned out to be a dead end.” Leroux groans and waves his hand.
“Yeah, I’m no murder police, but my civilian intuition tells me that when a perp writes down their name and number at the scene of the crime, it’s probably too good to be true.”
“Yeah, yeah. We got a hold of this Philip Trudeau. Lives up in Massachusetts. Guy hasn’t been to Louisiana since he was in middle school, some twenty-odd years ago. And this book was accounted for at Lafayette Public Library up until about ten days ago,” Leroux explains. He rechecks his phone and sighs. “I gotta take this, but keep thinking on it.”
He hurries out the morgue door. Wren places the photocopy on the counter behind her and pulls a clean glove onto her hand. She lifts the chest plate out of the victim’s body and looks at the clock above the door.
“It’s going to be a long night, hun.”
CHAPTER 7
CLOCKING OUT OF WORK AT 5:08 p.m., Jeremy gathers his things and makes his way toward the door.
“Saturday!” Corey yells from across the sea of cubicles.
Jeremy raises a hand in acknowledgment but silently breezes past the front desk and into the parking lot. He lets out a heavy sigh and feels the stress release from his body almost immediately. Life in a cubicle is truly barbaric.
As he sits down in his car, the weight of a day’s worth of sun presses upon him. Turning on the air conditioner doesn’t provide any immediate relief. Instead, he is assaulted by hot, stale air from all sides. Opening the window only slightly lessens the feeling of suffocation. As he regulates his stifled breathing in response to the burst of cool air at last pumping through the vents, Jeremy can’t help but wonder if this is how it feels to be strangled to death; a brief moment of helpless, nauseating panic followed by a sudden sense of relief.
But Jeremy isn’t interested in the business of granting relief. No, he is focused solely on inflicting pain. The mechanics of pain are both intricate and simple, a fundamental dichotomy. Physiologically, pain requires a perfect symphony of chemical reactions. Each piece hitting at just the correct time for the feeling to materialize. A stimulus sends an impulse across a peripheral nerve fiber, which is in turn perceived and identified by the somatosensory cortex. If any part of the stimulus’s journey is interrupted, then the feeling will be diminished. In contrast, the act of sending that electrical impulse on its journey to perception is something even troglodytes could master. All it takes is an object, sharp or blunt, coupled with force. What a fascinating thing.