“Blum,” the young officer finishes, clearing his throat and straightening up on the stool. He runs a hand over his stubble-covered jaw before resting it on his thigh. “No problem, detective. Come on through. I will stick around and try to keep everything calm.”
Leroux claps a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, we appreciate it. Come on, Muller.”
He waves Wren and the technician through, and the three of them walk around the left side of the stage. The odor is unmistakable. As they near the flies, the air becomes thick and hazy. It’s like walking into another realm, one filled with death and decay. Wren drops to a knee and peers between the slats where a portion of the wood has rotted away. It’s dark under the stage. Her eyes adjust to the curtain of blackness, and a familiar form takes shape. Crumpled and motionless, laying almost directly in the center of the area beneath the stage, is the source of the blowflies’ gathering. The smell is unbearable as she moves closer to it.
“Is there a way to get under the stage?” Wren straightens up, stifling a gag.
“There is a door back here.”
Wren walks around to the back, where Leroux is already crouching low. His hand clicks open a latch. She removes the small flashlight from her back pocket and flicks it on. The beam of light casts forward and comes to a stop, bending itself around the motionless object. Illuminated in front of her is the distorted body of what appears to be a woman in her twenties. She is lying on her stomach with arms outstretched beneath her as if freefalling from a plane moments before the parachute opens. Wren quickly sees the mangled mess of flesh and bone where her right knee should be. She pans the light from legs to head, and her breath catches briefly as the victim’s half-open eyes light up like a demon’s. They stare directly back at Wren, staring but seeing nothing. Her face is filthy, painted with dirt, blood, and grime. Wren clicks the flashlight off and takes a moment to compose herself, crouched at the small door.
“It’s what we thought, and it’s bad,” she says. She can hear him mutter “shit” under his breath. “Unfortunately, I’m going to need to get closer.”
Leroux uses the back of his hand to wipe his forehead. “You’re not seriously thinking about crawling under there, are you?”
“Not all the way in, but if I can just get a little closer, I’ll be able to see exactly what we are working with. She looks like she has something in her right hand.”
Wren makes her way to the end of the stage and stops to gently kick at the wood in front of her. It crumbles away, and she looks at Leroux.
“Found a weak spot,” she reports.
He bends down next to her as she pulls away pieces of rotting wood. A small hole begins to form. Leroux peers into the darkness, using his phone to illuminate as far as he can.
“You sure about this, Muller?”
Wren nods and throws her hair into a messy bun on the top of her head. She reaches into her back pocket and brings out a pair of black nitrile gloves, snapping them onto her hands.
“Positive. Now watch my back.”
She clicks on the flashlight and puts it between her lips as she dives headfirst into the blackness. The performance slams overhead as she slowly makes her way toward the body in front of her. The space is cramped and hot. There is only enough room for her to squat uncomfortably with her head bent at a sharp angle or crawl. She crawls forward and feels the ache of rocks and uneven ground rubbing against her knees. As she inches closer, the full savagery of this young woman’s death is revealed. She has a number of cuts, bruises, and wounds covering her form, including a large laceration across her neck, her dark, curly hair matted to her face and neck with both fresh and old blood.
“Jesus.”
The word almost falls out of Wren’s mouth, muffled by the flashlight between her teeth. Leroux is waiting impatiently at the entrance. He squints at the carnage.