Twin Offerings

by Ruth Parker

  “You said that you thought he didn’t sexually assault the girls. Now you’re saying that the ritual is all about sex,” Stella said. “Make up your damned mind.”

  “If he had them for five days and it did not escalate to vaginal intercourse, then his fantasy—whatever it is—is not sexual in nature. He’s fulfilling something else.”

  At least there’s that, Laurel thought.

  “Some killers need to have a certain victim type to fulfill their fantasy,” Fletcher continued. Laurel tensed. This would be the point in the presentation where he’d bring up Leigh, blast her picture on the screen. Everyone would turn and stare at her, whisper their meaningless sympathy. “His own idealized victim profile is twin girls, twelve years old, dark curly hair…”

  Fletcher was still talking, but Laurel couldn’t concentrate. Whoever killed those girls and posed their bodies in the woods, it was him.

  He was still out there. Behind some shadowy corner, in a dark closet, roaming an empty parking structure: he was still out there.

  “He was most likely a complete stranger to the girls.” Fletcher was still giving his presentation. “Unfamiliarity allows him to mold them in his mind, imagine that they’re going to be the perfect thing he needs. He’s got this dissatisfaction in his life. He’s never felt at ease, never felt like he fits into the world. In addition, he’s got these detailed fantasies that he can’t get out of his head. He sees the girls. They’re perfect. He needs to have them. Once he does, then everything will fall into place. Problem is, the victims are never ideal—they can never live up to his fantasy.”

  “Is he going to take another pair of girls?” Laurel blurted out. “Whatever it was this time didn’t work out for him. He didn’t fulfill his fantasy. So is he going to take another pair of twins?”

  “I would say yes,” Fletcher said. “And soon. He’s been trying to hold it all in, but he can’t anymore. It’s overflowing. His fantasies are out of his control now. Plus, he’s done it once and gotten away with it. He’ll be emboldened.”

  “Alright everyone,” Stella said, standing up and taking over the meeting. “We’ve got a grind ahead of us. Fletcher’s not just here to tell us how the killer wasn’t hugged enough by his whore of a mother. He’s here for the nuts and bolts. We’re going to follow up on the two most promising leads—the tea set and the dresses—while the ME does the autopsy.” He slammed a thick sheaf of papers down on the table. “I got your assignments here, so when I call your name, come up here and take your papers and get to work.”

  It seemed to take forever, but Laurel waited for every single officer to get their assignment and then leave the conference room. Fletcher wouldn’t leave. He seemed to be waiting for Sheriff Stella too.

  “Sheriff Stella,” she said quietly. Stella was sitting at the conference table flipping through some files. Fletcher was winding up cords and stowing electronics. Laurel had the feeling he was stalling so he could listen in.

  “What?” he said. Not unkindly, just impatiently. He was still shuffling through the files, pulling out relevant papers and sorting them into piles.

  “We need to talk,” Laurel said. “Alone.”

  “What’s this about?” he asked. He looked up from his paperwork, focusing those tired eyes on Laurel.

  “I think we need to go over my old case file, the details of my sister’s abduction,” she said. She had not told the police the entire story fifteen years ago. She wasn’t going to tell them the whole story now. However, she had to bite the bullet and tell them something—no matter how painful—if it could help catch the killer.

  “That,” he said, pointing at her with a pencil, “was at the top of my list. Fletcher can go over it with you. As an adult you might have a different perspective on the whole thing. Who knows. Fletcher!” Stella yelled, even though the profiler was right there in the conference room with them.

  “Yes?” he said. Fletcher looked like he was all packed up and ready to go.

  “Do you have the case files on Laurel’s sister’s abduction?”

  “I have them,” he said. “I reviewed them last night.”

  “Good,” Stella said. “You two can go over them together right now. Line by line. Use that fine-tooth comb you were telling me about.”

  Laurel did not want to talk about this with Fletcher. She didn’t want to talk about it at all, but least of all with him.

  “I was thinking, Sheriff, that you and me could talk about it,” she said. She didn’t know Stella that well, but she trusted that he was a good man. Fletcher? He’d strolled into town yesterday, acting like he owned the place. He’d been snooping around her house. Hell, he probably only did consultant work like this in order to get material for his books and his lectures. From what she found out about him last night, his consulting business raked in a shitload of cash.

  “Fletcher’s our guy,” Stella said, gathering up his paperwork. “He knows more about these twisted fucks than any of us could imagine. You guys can use this room. I’m out of here.” Stella stood to leave, but Fletcher looked at his watch.

  “Autopsy’s at eleven. I don’t have time right now. We can do it afterward.”

  “Fine by me,” Stella said. “Unless there’s some deep dark secret piece of evidence you’ve been hiding all these years?” He was joking: his way of apologizing for yesterday.

  If he only knew.

  “Yes sir,” she said, not able to meet the Sheriff’s eyes.

  “Why don’t you attend the autopsy with Fletcher? Then afterward you two can go over your file.”

  “The autopsy?” she said. She didn’t know if she could handle it.

  “Unless it would be too overwhelming,” Fletcher chimed in. She resented how he assumed that about her. He’d read her case file last night and thought he knew everything about her. Well, she knew a little bit about him and his victimology books and lectures. He was probably drooling all over Leigh’s case file, his fingers itching to type up the prologue to his new book.

  “I’ve attended autopsies before,” she said, not exactly answering the question.

  “Alright then,” Stella said, seeming to make the decision for her. “It always helps to have another set of scientific eyes down there. You guys think of things that us cops overlook.”

  Laurel doubted how useful she’d be in the autopsy room. Her expertise was in running tests and crunching numbers.

  “I’ll meet you down there,” Fletcher said. “If you change your mind, I’ll understand.” He left the conference room.

  The problem with guys like him was they thought they understood everything, but they really understood nothing.

  He would spew platitudes about grief and loss, but he would have no idea. She could never tell him what happened on that day fifteen years ago. Not him, not anyone, not ever.

  She would tell him about the photography equipment and that was it. And only because the killer might still have all that equipment, ready to use it on another pair of girls.

  Five

  The room was not white, as Laurel had expected, but green, the color of Jordan almonds. The floor tiles were white, but the wall tiles from floor to ceiling were small and green held with a yellowing grout that made her think of a vile and decrepit old smile. The dead girls were each on a metal table. They were naked and gray and didn’t look like they were sleeping. They looked dead.

  An autopsy technician was holding one of the girl’s hands. Laurel recognized his bald head but didn’t know his name. It was a gesture both macabre and sweet until Laurel realized that he was clipping fingernails into an evidence bag. Laurel would run tests on those fingernails later today or tomorrow. The girls’ bodies were unmarked, so Laurel didn’t think she’d find skin under the fingernails. However, both girls had freshly-painted fingernails, and pigment analysis could help identify the brand of polish. Cases had been solved with less.

  The small autopsy room was packed with people. Two state medical examiners had driven up from Salem, along with th
e bald assistant. Also in attendance was Detective Frank Underwood, the lead detective assigned to the case. Laurel and Fletcher were last to come in. “Great,” one of the state medical examiners said, “More lookey-loos.” Detective Underwood gave them a derisive look. He had small hazel eyes, a flat nose, and almost no upper lip, which gave him a sneaky, serpentine look. Laurel would have gladly volunteered to leave, but at this point there was no backing out.

  She stood back, far away from the steel exam tables as possible, next to Fletcher. Even though she didn’t consider him a particularly friendly face, he was at least a familiar face, and she was glad he was here with her.

  “You done with the fingernails?” one of the MEs asked the technician. The doctor’s name badge read Horton. The technician’s name badge read Nowak. She remembered him now, Sam Nowak, a part-time autopsy technician; she’d seen him here and there during her time working in the crime lab.

  “Two more fingers,” the tech said.

  “Alright,” Horton said. He was older, mid-fifties, and had the bravado of a TV doctor in a soap opera. “I’m Dr. Horton and my partner is Dr. Wilson.” He gestured towards an older woman, her red hair gone more than halfway gray. “Dr. Wilson has infinitely more patience than I do. Dead kids fill her with sorrow. They fill me with rage. Camera rolling?” he asked. Detective Underwood raised a small digital camera overhead and said that he was ready with audio and video.

  “Then let’s go,” Horton said. “The first victim is Rebecca Clark, identified by her aunt and confirmed by fingerprints. Age twelve. Caucasian. Height is approximately five-foot. Weight is 98 pounds. Long, curly, dark hair. Brown eyes. She has a large brown mole on her shoulder but no other marks or scars. X-rays showed no broken bones. She appears to be in general good health. No signs of emaciation or malnourishment. No missing or decayed teeth. No bruises, no ligature marks, no lacerations, no wounds. Preliminary sexual assault examination showed that the vaginal hymen membrane is unbroken. No anal fissures, rectal prolapse, or other signs of rectal penetration.”

  Nowak swabbed the mouth while he narrated his actions for the video camera. If the saliva had sperm present, they could extract DNA. The technician plucked out several long hairs and placed them into a bag. Then he drew blood from the femoral artery. While he did these routine tasks, Dr. Horton was taking still photographs of the body.

  Then Dr. Horton examined her head, looking closely through all the hair for any wounds. “No head wounds,” he said. “No lice or nits.” The doctor opened her mouth. “Dental filling in the number thirty molar.” He closed the mouth and opened her eyelids. He peered closely. “No scleral petechiae, no jaundice. One milliliter vitreous humor extracted.” The technician approached the girl’s head with a hypodermic needle. He opened her eyelids with one hand and then inserted the needle into her eye, removing a tiny amount of fluid. However, one milliliter represented a large proportion of the fluid inside the eye, and once the technician had removed it, her eyes were like shriveled prunes.

  Horton asked the technician for something, but Laurel couldn’t hear. She couldn’t stop looking at those shrunken eyes.

  Nowak retrieved a rubber block and handed it to the doctor. The technician took the body in his arms, hugging her around the waist while Horton positioned the block under her lower back. When the tech set the body back down, her back was arched, giving them easier access to the torso.

  The rest of the autopsy went by-the-book, similar to the others that Laurel had witnessed. Doctor Horton used a scalpel to slice from the girl’s shoulder joint down underneath her small breast, all the way down to the top of her pubic bone. He used what looked like pruning shears to cut through her ribcage with a sickening, horrifying crunch.

  There was a small amount of blackened tissue in the heart, indicting myocardial infarction or heart attack. There were also clots that looked like strawberry jelly in the cardiac arteries.

  Laurel would be running some of the toxicology tests later today—but she didn’t need an immunoassay report to tell her that twelve-year-old girls didn’t drop dead from a heart attack. Her guess was benzodiazepine or opiate overdose. An overdose of Xanax or Vicodin especially if combined with alcohol would cause central nervous system depression and ultimately a heart attack.

  The girl’s organs were removed and examined, then placed into bags and reinserted into the body. It was a painstakingly slow procedure and Laurel got light-headed more than once in the crowded room, but she managed to remain stoic and steady.

  The whole thing was repeated for the second girl, Rachel Clark.

  As the shears made their squelching, grinding, snapping sound against the second girl’s ribcage, an image popped into Laurel’s head. Just a quick flash, then it was gone. A slender glass jar filled with dark amber liquid. Then the overwhelming smell of lavender began to fill her nose and her mouth. She hated the stuff even today, lavender anything making her feel shaky and panicky.

  And the voice. His voice: the camera can tell if you smell good.

  “Hold on—” she interrupted. The doctor (this time it was Dr. Wilson leading the examination) was up to her wrists inside the second girl’s torso. Everyone stopped to look at Laurel. She regretted speaking out. This had been a mistake.

  Dr. Horton and Nowak the technician were sewing up Rebecca’s torso with thick stitches that reminded Laurel of a baseball. “Can you check them for lavender. Behind the ears and on the back of the neck. Smell them.”

  “You want me to smell her ears?” Dr. Horton asked, using his long suturing needle to gesture at the body. “Who are you again? The police psychic?” That got a hearty chuckle from Detective Underwood. The technician was stoic, like he’d smelled dead bodies and much worse.

  “Perfume,” Laurel said. “I think…” she couldn’t find the words to continue. The camera knows when you smell good. Your pictures will come out prettier. Detective Underwood turned the digital video camera towards her. The room went silent. How could she explain when she barely remembered herself?

  “We can record the color of her aura, if you can see that too, but that’s not going to show up when we develop the photographs,” Dr. Horton said.

  Fletcher put his hand on her shoulder. The solid weight of his strong hand calmed her down. At least she had one person on her side.

  “Maintain your professionalism, Doctor,” Fletcher said. His voice was strong and seemed to vibrate between the tiled walls. Horton’s smile faded. “The defense will rip you a new asshole if they get a hold of this tape. Check for the perfume behind the ears and on the back of the neck.”

  Dr. Wilson rolled her eyes. She bent down and gathered up the dead girl’s hair and moved it away from her head. She put her face to the girl’s ear. The doctor lifted her head, looking puzzled, then bent down again, this time for much longer. “Yeah, there is lavender,” the doctor finally said. “Definitely lavender.” She bent and sniffed for the third time. “Something else, something sharper. What’s that stuff they make perfume out of? It smells almost like cat pee, I think.”

  “Civet,” Dr. Horton said. “It’s a jungle cat. They used to make perfume from its musk glands, but I don’t think they use it anymore.”

  “It was in a really old bottle,” Laurel said, so low that only Fletcher could hear. The doctors were talking excitedly with the technician, trying to decide the best way to extract the perfume from the skin for testing.

  “How did you know this, Laurel?” Fletcher asked, but she didn’t respond. She was trying to remember. A crystal bottle—or maybe just glass cut to look like crystal. Lots of decorative cuts and edgings. She had thought it looked like a pineapple. On the top was a little rubber hose and a big rubber ball like a bicycle horn. When he squeezed the bulb, a fine mist of perfume sprayed on the back of her ears, on the back of her neck. The tingly, shivery feel as his beard stubble grazed against her neck as he smelled her perfumed skin. That’s perfect, he’d said. Now you’re ready.

  “Laurel?” Fletcher said again.
He put both hands on her shoulders and turned her so she faced him. She came back to the present. The autopsy technician had left the room to get something. Detective Underwood was videotaping the doctors as they narrated the new olfactory findings. The doctors were arguing how to quantify the scent for the evidence record.

  “Can we go?” she asked him. “Please, get me out of here.”

  “Sure,” he said. He took hold of her by the forearm, gently pulling her along as he parted his way through the others in the room. He tapped Detective Underwood on the shoulder and motioned to the door, telling the detective that they were leaving.

  “Hold on,” Underwood said. “How did you know about the perfume?”

  “I just,” Laurel said. This was too much too fast. She didn’t even remember about the perfume until just now. She’d forgotten all about the cold, fine mist hitting her hot and nervous skin, his beard stubble scratching her neck.

  “We’re leaving,” Fletcher repeated.

  “Are you holding out on me?” the detective asked Laurel.

  “No,” she said. “I mean, I just thought that you guys should check for perfume.” Fletcher moved his grip down from her forearm to her hand. He clasped it. She was grateful. Everyone in this small, green room was angry at her when all she wanted to do was help.

  “This has something to do with your sister, doesn’t it?” Underwood said. He thrust the video camera into Nowak’s hand and advanced on Laurel. “What are you hiding?”

  Fletcher pushed Underwood to the side, slamming him against the wall. “Leave her alone,” Fletcher said, his dark eyes turning into black pits of anger. “We can talk about this later, but right now we are leaving.” The doctors had stopped to watch what was transpiring between Fletcher and Underwood.