by Cade Brogan
“Grandmas’ are like that,” Rich commented, chuckling. “Clucking right behind you.”
“Yeah, but mine’s worse,” Rylee responded. “Kind of a cross between a grandma and an overprotective mom.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Rich said, pausing, “your grandparents raised you, didn’t they.”
“Yep,” Rylee answered, her voice trailing off, “sure did. Lived with ‘em from the time I was five.” She shuffled papers, pushing a painful memory to the back of her mind. Then, she experienced an attack of conscience, telling herself that—one of these days—she should visit her mom.
Rich tipped back in his chair with the report in his hand, returning them to a work topic. “So, what if our vic wasn’t murdered?” he proposed. “What if she was a gardener, gardening somewhere that we don’t know about. Maybe she had a big ol’ armload of wolfsbane, on the way to the burn pile or something.” He paged through the report. “Look here,” he went on, pointing. “Dr. Grey makes it a point to ask if our vic was a gardener.” He opened his notebook, referring to his handwritten notes. There were pieces of information that the pathologist shared afterward, but didn’t include in her report. “Says here that neurotoxins, like wolfsbane, are easily absorbed through the skin and open wounds.” He looked up. “So maybe this was an accidental overdose.”
“It wasn’t,” Rylee responded, shaking her head with her lips pressed together. “But it doesn’t matter what we think because her death was ruled a homicide.”
“I know,” Rich said, “just thinking out loud.” He flipped to the third page of his notes. “Says wolfsbane causes nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea in lower doses.”
“And she wasn’t sick beforehand,” Rylee reminded. “So, her death was pretty much instantaneous.”
“Yep,” Rich said, nodding, “so it had to be a high dose.” He stared out the window. “But something just doesn’t sit right with me about it,” he continued softly. “Been trying to come up with a different angle since the Doc said the puncture wasn’t consistent with a dart gun.”
“Yeah, me too,” Rylee responded. “Been mulling it over for the last couple of hours.” She tipped back, fingering a lock of hair off her forehead. “So if she was jabbed up close and personal, why didn’t she struggle?” She shook her head, thoughtfully. “I mean, if a dirt bag came into my bathroom and tried to needle-poke me, I’d kick, claw, and bite the hell out of him.”
“Me too,” Rich responded, palming over his balding head. “So why didn’t she?”
“Maybe they were lovers,” Rylee tossed out, shrugging her shoulders as she lifted an eyebrow. “That’s the only thing I can come up with that makes any sense whatsoever.”
“But the only way that works,” Rich countered, “is if the guy wore gloves when he visited her house.” No fingerprints except for Sally’s had been found in or around the shower stall. He cocked his head, nodding with a bite to his lower lip. “Unless this was the first time they showered together.”
“So maybe that’s it,” Rylee said, “maybe the doer was new on the scene.” Her forehead wrinkled as her mind raced through alternate possibilities. “But I don’t know,” she continued, shaking her head, “it still feels like we’re missing something.” She tipped back, adjusting her shoulder holstered 9mm. It was a full-sized handgun, chosen because it wasn’t too clunky to hold onto. When she dropped forward, she reached for the last donut in the box she’d brought in for the morning briefing.
“That’d explain why he wasn’t in her address book,” Rich added, “and why none of her neighbors reported seeing him.”
“Yep,” Rylee responded, nodding slowly, “but it wouldn’t explain why she’d shower with someone whom she’d never called or gotten a call from.” They’d interviewed and checked alibies for all of her recent contacts in a matter of only a few hours. Their victim had obviously been a loaner.
“No,” Rich said, “it wouldn’t.”
***
Ahhh, there you are, Joanna thought, smiling to herself. Come on, show me where you live, sweetheart. Her upper lip curled. And show me who waits for you—longs for you—to get home. It was stupid, following her. Her mouth opened and her tongue pushed slightly forward. But it was Friday. She sighed. And Monday was so long ago. She bit her lower lip, leaning forward as she licked it, soothing the soreness. You have to do this, she told herself. She had to know where the handsome detective lived so that she could stop thinking about her. God, those eyes, those insanely hot brown eyes, had watched her for hours—watched her as she performed the autopsy. They’d watched her, just her and her alone. She couldn’t respond. But she did respond and it was wrong.
Rylee glanced over, right at her—unknowingly—and then back to her partner.
Joanna struggled to hear their conversation through her rolled down window. If only she’d been able to park a little closer. But that would’ve been too risky. How would she have explained being at CPD at six o’clock on a Friday night? It wasn’t like they wouldn’t know her.
“Okay then,” Rylee called out. “Hi to the wife.”
“Sure thing,” Rich called back. “See ya on Monday.”
“Hope not before,” Rylee responded, climbing into her black Tacoma. “Sure would be nice to have a full weekend off.”
“I hear ya, pal,” Rich answered, shutting the door of his sedan, and driving off.
“Don’t count on it,” Joanna murmured. It’d been so long since she’d hunted. She always took a break when she moved somewhere else. Last Sunday. She licked her lips. It just wasn’t enough. When Rylee exited the parking lot, she settled in three car lengths behind her. At that moment, as she watched brake lights flicker, she realized where she’d seen her before. It was on Sunday, she thought. I saw you on Sunday on my way home from church. She took a breath, whispering, “Sunday.” She had so much to do before the next one. It took time, more time than one would think, to grow, harvest, and concoct special poisons. You have no business wasting time on something as frivolous as a fantasy, she told herself. But those eyes, she countered, those insanely hot brown eyes. She licked her lips, whispering. “Feminine, and masculine at the same time.” The signal blinked and she rounded the corner. Her mouth moistened, causing her to swallow, when the double cab pick-up slowed and pulled into what she assumed was the handsome detective’s driveway. She parked two doors down on the opposite side of the one-way street, her nerve endings stirring like they hadn’t for some time.
Rylee dropped to the asphalt, her square-toed boots landing firmly. She paused to re-tuck her red western cut shirt.
“Mmm, straight-legged jeans,” Joanna murmured, moistening her lips. “So sexy.” She hadn’t noticed just how much until Rylee hopped onto the bed of her truck for a bag. She closed her eyes, shivering as she imagined being close enough to touch her. You’re not a homosexual, she told herself as she pulled onto the freeway. Everyone has fantasies. She took a breath, allowing the air to escape slowly. Yes, she responded in her mind, but your fantasies are sinful thoughts and will require penance. “I know,” she answered, swallowing down a quiver in her voice. “Tonight,” she promised.
Chapter Six
Joanna smiled as she topped the hill, seeing the familiar patch of tall white flowers in the distance. Poison hemlock, used by the ancient Greeks to execute the famous philosopher, Socrates, and this week’s chosen poison. It grew wild along many Illinois roadsides, more abundantly south of Chicago. Its tubers were superbly toxic, especially in early spring. It was more than capable of killing a cow or a human. She liked to cultivate her poisons, but this one, like wild mushrooms, required gathering.
A red-winged blackbird fluttered toward the sunrise as she pulled to the side of the road. She released her hatch door but didn’t immediately exit her vehicle, swallowing hard, feeling dizzy as she shifted her position. Hopefully, you’ll remember this pain when you’re tempted to yield to the devil’s temptation again, she told herself. She winced, standi
ng up. Self-mortification of the flesh was a necessary safeguard. She forced her shoulders back as she took a breath, steadying herself before retrieving her garden tools. She always carried a small shovel, shears, and protective gloves with her. She fastened the clasp of her tool apron, gingerly stepped down into the gully, squishy-wet from a recent shower, and slowly dropped to her knees. The poisonous plants with the purple-spotted stems were simply beautiful. She chose one with a tuber well suited for juicing, dug it with care, and placed it in a gallon freezer bag. If all went well, tomorrow’s poison would be ready by late afternoon.
***
“No Sally, or Jodi,” Kenzie said, wrinkling her brow. Both, missing worship on the same day, was highly unusual. “I think we should stop back by and check on them after church.”
“I have plans this afternoon,” Abby said as her shoulders slumped. It was a posture that had become all too familiar of late. “Remember?” she asked, her voice lifting with the word dragging out to what seemed like infinity.
“I remember,” Kenzie responded evenly, trying her best not to engage her daughter on yet another Sunday morning. She briefly closed her eyes, took a breath, and added, “It won’t take that long.”
“Can’t you just call ‘em or something?” Abby whined.
“No honey, I can’t,” Kenzie responded sternly, “Jodi’s phone was cut-off. That’s what happens when you lose your job and can’t pay your bills.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “We’ll talk about this later, Abigail,” she added, nodding forward. “The service is about to start.”
Abby leaned back in the pew, hard enough that the family down the way could feel it.
Kenzie held a breath, exhaled slowly, and leaned over. “It’ll only take a few minutes,” she added softly. “Don’t worry; you won’t be late for your party.” She patted her daughter’s jean-clad thigh, smiling thinly, “I promise. Now come on,” she whispered, “the service is starting.” She looked forward as Pastor Mark stepped into the pulpit. Solid in his faith, he was respected and loved by all. She was thankful to have him, not only as their minister but also as her boss.
“It is with a heavy heart,” he began, pressing his palm to his chest, “that I share sad news with you this morning.” When he fell silent, Kenzie was sure that everyone in the congregation could’ve heard a pin drop. “It’s about our beloved sister, Sally Smith,” he continued. “She’s been taken from us, murdered.” He paused to shake his head before continuing in a louder voice. “Sad, and yet joyful, joyful because she was a faithful servant and will spend eternity with the Lord.”
Kenzie turned away, covering her mouth, before reaching to hold her daughter’s hand. The pastor spoke of missionaries in Africa and the Middle East harvesting souls for the church. Her missionary contributions supported a minuscule part of their work.
“So you must walk the straight-and-narrow,” he concluded, “and convert others to our faith, never ceasing.” He looked up, meeting the eyes of his congregants. “For just as our dear sister had no idea she’d be taken last Sunday morning; neither do you know if you’ll be next.” He lifted his hymnal, turning to page five-hundred-thirty-two. “Our closing hymn is so appropriate in light of the day’s news.” He nodded to the musicians, standing ready at the corner of the stage, and they lifted their instruments. “Such a beautiful song,” he added. “Let’s lift our voices high as we sing, I Shall Speak of the Lord With My Dying Breath.”
Kenzie glanced two rows back, feeling as if someone was watching her. She nodded to the woman, smiling. It was good to see so many visitors returning. She’d make it a point to chat with her when worship was over.
Joanna nodded back, licking her lips and smiling.
***
“Oooh, look,” Abby blurted out, “cop cars, all over the place.”
“Oh my,” Kenzie responded, slowing, but not pulling into the parking lot. “Something must’ve happened.”
“Probably a drug bust or something,” Abby responded with lift in her voice.
“That’s not a good thing, Abigail,” Kenzie reminded, taking a breath, and exhaling. “Except, I suppose, that it’ll grant your wish that we go directly home.” A quiver twitched in the pit of her stomach as she drove by the line of yellow tape, stretching from the water meters to the rear entrance of the property. “I just pray that no one’s been seriously hurt,” she added.
***
“Here we go again,” Rich greeted. He’d waited in his car, knowing that Rylee would arrive shortly.
Rylee walked toward him, shaking her head. “Didn’t even try to head out this morning,” she said. “Figured I’d no more than have bait on my hook than we’d be called in on a homicide.” She poked her tongue into her cheek, her head still shaking slowly. “What is it with Sundays?” She exhaled. “Oh well, at least I got to sleep in.”
“Not me,” Rich answered with an eye roll. “My wife got me up at the crack of dawn to mow the yard. Daughter and her boyfriend are coming over with the new grand baby for a cookout this evening. She said she had a feeling we’d be called in this morning.” He shook his head, chuckling. “I swear that woman’s got a sixth sense sometimes.”
“And lots of experience being the wife of a homicide detective with tons of overtime,” Rylee added. Her partner just got his twenty-year service medal, and she guessed he’d be calling it quits before the year was up. Most cops did, once they put in their time, figuring that they’d tempted fate long enough.
“Yes, she does,” Rich responded, “and I gotta admit she’s darn tired of it.”
“Sounds like a fun evening,” Rylee said, returning the subject to the lighter topic. “I guess… Haven’t really been around kids that much, especially little ones.”
“You’d be good with ‘em,” Rich said. “You should stop by and meet my new little granddaughter.”
“Might just do that,” Rylee responded. “Haven’t had anything off the grill since last season.” She met his eye. “I think you cooked it for me.”
“High time then,” Rich said, moving toward the side of the water meters. “Let’s get going, so I can have the burgers on by six.” He snapped on gloves and squatted down. “Forensics took several shots.” He leaned in for a different angle, adding, “and measurements.”
“Footprints, they look deep,” Rylee responded, crouching to near ground level, “like someone stayed here, watching or waiting.”
“About time our doer made a mistake,” Rich commented.
“Sure is,” Rylee said, nodding. “Just couldn’t wait for things to dry up a bit.” Recent rains had left much of the area flooded and muddy. “They’re small,” she commented, taking an even closer look. “Maybe a seven or eight?”
“If you’re talking men’s,” Rich answered, holding her gaze. “Women’s…I’d guess a nine or ten.” They both knew that poisoning was often the mark of a female serial killer.
Chapter Seven
“Cheese?” Rich asked, catching Rylee’s eye.
“Yeah, that’d be good,” Rylee answered, “one piece.”
“Just have cheddar,” Rich continued.
“Still good,” Rylee said, swigging down a drink. “What do you think’s up with the blackberry twig?” she asked, returning their discussion to the murders.
“Dunno,” Rich answered, flipping five burgers, and placing slices on each. “Doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yet,” Rylee added. “Maybe we’ll get something out of the autopsy.” It was scheduled with the same pathologist.
“Yeah,” Rich said, “maybe.”
“It’s like something went wrong on this one,” Rylee continued. “I mean last week’s pretty much dropped on the spot.” She shook her head. “But this one…” She took a breath, exhaling slowly. “This one made it all the way across the bathroom and then vomited.”
“Maybe a different poison,” Rich guessed.
“Yeah, maybe,” Rylee said, “but I think it’s more than tha
t. I don’t think the doer planned to stab her twice. It’s like she wasn’t dosed high enough to kill her or something.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s not the same doer,” Rich said, looking up. “Maybe it’s a copycat.”
“I don’t think so,” Rylee responded, pursing her lips. “Because it’s all the same except for shot number two and the fact that Jodi lasted a couple of extra minutes. A copycat wouldn’t know details that we haven’t released.
“Interesting that this morning’s vic had a kitchen calendar from last week’s vic’s church,” Rich continued “More than a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Definitely,” Rylee said, “and a good lead for us to run down first thing in the morning.”
Rich nodded, moving toward the door with a full plate of burgers, charred dark. “Now remember,” he said, “no shop talk once we’re inside.”
“You got it,” Rylee chuckled with a wink. “Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with the wife.”
***
Joanna palmed underneath her panties to the back edge of her top dresser drawer. An involuntary shudder traversed her spine as her fingertips touched the flagrum’s wooden handle. Smooth and worn, it was a handmade gift from a campus preacher and a perfect fit in her palm. She fingered down its thin leather straps, each outfitted with hard, sharp objects. All were necessary reminders to step the straight-and-narrow. It was an instrument of penance, most commonly found in the most conservative of religious orders. She’d practiced the ancient ritual of self-flagellation since her first semester in college. She swallowed hard, remembering how difficult it had been to resist the myriad of temptations that were thrown at her. With gentle reverence, she rested the whip atop her white quilt covering and sat down. “Forgive me, Lord,” she whispered, “for I have sinned.” She removed her t-shirt and unclasped her bra. “You’re vile and impulsive,” she muttered, shaking her head as her eyes narrowed. “This morning’s kill was for you, not God.” She folded her clothing into a neat pile, setting it on the far corner of the bed, far enough that they wouldn’t be splattered with blood. With a crack, she strapped over her shoulders striking tender flesh, recently broken. Crying out, she buckled onto herself. “And in my flesh,” she winced with another crack, “I am filling up what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions for the sake of his body.” She held the flagrum low, lifted it high above her head, and cracked its leather, strung with tiny shards of metal, wood, and glass, across her back. Her head dropped forward with a grimace and salty tears. “That is, the church,” she whimpered, collapsing to the floor. She lay there for some time, allowing her wounds to scab over, before crawling upon her quilt.