by Alice Ayden
Anne fidgeted as she sheepishly glanced back to Cora. “Everything’s fine, Mr. Morgan.” She tried her best attempt at a friendly smile but failed.
Evan’s eyes narrowed. He was normally easygoing and shy. When he wasn’t, people took notice. “You got two choices. One: leave quietly. Or two, as my sister would say, become just a bad smell in various mason jars in the basement.”
Anne smirked at Cora as she looked her up and down. “You’re too stupid to see what’s right in front of you.” She ripped off her name tag and threw it to the ground; then, she fled down the stairs.
Evan picked up the name tag and turned around to Cora. “Another prickly pear solved.” His face relaxed back to his normal easy going self.
“Do I just naturally bring out the worst in people?” Used to seeing a tumble of blondness, Cora jumped back. “What happened to your hair?”
Evan frowned. “Too much trouble to upkeep.” He ran his fingers over his almost shaved head. “Didn’t have the time.”
“But the tourists. They’ll be crushed.”
Evan flashed Cora a look that said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
“Do you know how many emails I get about your moppy head? They write poems about it. They blog about it.”
Evan blushed. “Cora, I—”
“They’re obsessed with you. Your clothes, marital status, favorite foods, hobbies, past girlfriends, future girlfriends. Your fans are all Evan all the time. There’s even a blog about the best times for Evan watching. Why did he move out? When is he at Ausmor? Where is he living?”
Evan’s eyebrows lifted. “Why so much interest in me?”
Cora sneered. “I don’t know. The heir of the Morgans. Rich. Super genius. And you own a mirror, don’t you?”
“Okay...” He brushed the compliments away like a gnat. “Are you alright?”
“I don’t know.” Cora couldn’t believe those words came out. She was used to being evasive or outright lying to family.
Evan leaned closer and studied Cora’s eyes. “Your migraines are taking their toll.”
Before Cora could respond, Evan looked at his watch. “I’m late for a call from my dad. He wants to talk about the renovations. Where is Grand Maeve?”
Cora shrugged.
Evan started to leave but quickly turned around. “How much are you remembering?”
Cora flinched. Usually, people asked in a roundabout manner. It was never a direct question from her family. She really didn’t know what to say or why her stomach hurt and her head ached. Cora closed her eyes and saw the stone walls and dirt floor. “Not again. I don’t want this. I want to forget.”
The images remained. In the cellar, Cora peered into the darkness and could barely make out the outline of someone chained to what looked like an old stove. “Natalie?”
Cora hadn’t seen Natalie in…she couldn’t remember how long. “What are you doing here?”
Natalie pulled against the chain and got as close to Cora as she could. “Open your eyes. See what’s right in front of you. You’re the only one who can stop him.”
Chapter 14: The Signature
In Nick’s windowless office, Maines studied the graphic muscle and bone medical posters that plastered the oatmeal walls and winced at the flashing florescent light above him. “Imagine working with the dead all day?” He noticed a life sized picture of Nick stuck to the back of the door. “Guess it’s better than some of the living.”
Maines crinkled up his nose. “What the hell is that smell?” He peered around the office not wanting to look too closely. “Smells like a dying shoe.” Last year’s calendar fell off the wall as Maines walked by. He grabbed it, and tossed it on Nick’s cluttered desk. Beside the obtrusive CRT, which took up ¾ of Nick’s desk, a vibrating fan periodically blew sticky notes around in a swirl. Maines leaned over the desk to see dozens of other sticky note escapees lounging on the floor with various colored paper clips, pens, and a few candy wrappers. “Takes skill to dump up the place so fast.”
Maines stopped his rant and plopped into one of two mustardy colored chairs. The chair was more uncomfortable than the color. Old stabby springs refused to yield until they’d found Maines’ spine. He quickly lunged out of the torture trap.
The door creaked opened, and Weever joined him. “Still not here?”
Maines shook his head. “Better leave the door open. There’s a stench plus...” He motioned for her to look behind the door.
She did and jumped at Nick’s life sized picture staring at her. “Jeez.” She looked closer. “He still has the smirk. And that hair you love.”
Maines grunted. “Sister okay?”
Weever nodded and smiled. “Just got caught up in her new job. New apartment. New friends.”
Maines looked at his watch. “Prick makes us wait twenty minutes. I like the spacious office, don’t you? Surprised they didn’t force him to use a urinal for his desk.”
Nick busted through the door with a look that asked, ‘Why are you here?’
“You called us. Said you had information.” Maines hoped that would nudge Nick’s memory.
“Oh, yeah. Jessica Suthers’ kit hasn’t come back yet. Gave ‘em hell about it.” Nick paused as if thinking about his threats. “They got the message.”
Maines chuckled as he studied Nick’s roughly 120 pounds of pale. “I’m sure they’ll be checking under their beds tonight.”
Nick ignored Maines. “Promised they’d get back to me this afternoon or tomorrow.” He rifled through the top of his desk flinging more paper scraps to the floor. “That JD. I mean Jane Doe. I just like using JD cause I think it sounds more personal. Course that would confuse it with John Doe being they both start with the same letter.” Nick analyzed it for a few minutes.
Maines sighed loudly while Weever grimaced at the bone mobile above Nick’s desk.
“Let’s see. I’m looking for info on the JD we found mutilated in the woods.” Nick scanned through the report. “Okay, she’d been dead less than twenty four hours before we found her.”
“And you’re sure it’s the same knife used on Jessica Suthers?” Weever asked.
“Yep.” Nick opened his desk drawer. Stuff popped out to the floor.
Maines winced.
Nick rifled through a thousand things and brought out a small knife. He held it this way and that. “Similar design. Handle about 4 ½ inches in length.” Nick slashed at the air. “Light weight. The metal part is 3 ½ inches. Drains down to a point. Serrated. The knife he uses has a small chip out of the middle. Probably from hitting bone. See the curved part of the knife?”
Maines rolled his eyes. “The part you’re pointing at? Yeah.”
Weever held out her hand, and Nick gave her the knife. “It’s light.” She spoke to Maines. “Like the weight of a pen. Intimate. He’d be able to feel the blood over his hand. Feel the flesh he stabbed.” She touched the metal and flicked the sharpness of the edge which made a whine. She handed Maines the knife.
Maines shook his head. “You’re the one who likes to crawl inside their tiny minds. I don’t care why they do it.”
Nick took the knife back. “She was tortured. Old bruises and scars and multiple sexual assaults. Malnutrition. Dehydration. I’d say he kept her for at least three months. Makes me hungry just thinking about how hungry she would’ve been. We found fibers which we’ll be able to match. Most likely from a blanket or car. And several of her organs were missing.”
“Whoa.” Maines stopped Nick. “We’re not talking Ripper, are we?”
“No.” Nick’s head danced back and forth. “No, nothing like that. The wounds weren’t precise. Parts of her organs were still intact. This wasn’t ritual. Nothing Ripper about it. It was frantic. Angry.”
Maines breathed a sigh of relief. “Don’t need any of those freaking copycats trying to recreate something. Hate those bastards.”
Weever couldn’t take her eyes off the bone mobile. “Excuse me, but what is that?”
Maines looked up at the mobile he hadn’t noticed. “The hell? Is that bone?”
“No.” Nick laughed. “Just morgue humor. It’s plastic. You have a good eye, Teresa.”
Weever nodded as if she understood.
Nick cleared his throat and returned to the report as Maines’ glare intensified. “She’s between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Five seven. And she weighed one hundred and ten. No surgeries. Never been pregnant. I ran her stats and prints through the system. No hits.”
Maines nodded. “We’ll find something.”
“I did take these.” Nick handed Maines two pictures.
Maines looked at both. “Tattoos on our Jane Doe?”
“Yep.”
Maines handed Weever the photos. Weever examined the lime green four leaf clover behind a tiny purple heart jaggedly split in two.
Nick waited until the detectives had a chance to study. “What do you think that one means?”
Maines glared. “I think it means she likes egg salad.”
Nick smirked. “I’m just asking about the tattoo cause I’m sort of a tattoo lover. You wouldn’t know by looking’ at me.”
“No,” Weever said. “Wouldn’t know by looking.”
“Don’t have any myself. But you gotta love the way they’re able to—”
“This other design...” Maines knew enough about Nick. He didn’t want to know more. He pointed to the intricate back tattoo. “That one of those Indian—”
“Totems,” Weever answered. “With an eagle’s head.”
Nick smiled. “Yeah, that one’s interesting because totem’s traditionally have—”
“These ours?” Maines asked.
Nick nodded. “Toxicology was clean if I didn’t already mention that, and oh...” Nick handed them another picture. “She had something carved into her bones.”
Maines studied the photograph of what looked like scratches in the ribs of the unidentified woman. “This?” He couldn’t see anything. “Markings from the knife hitting the bone?”
“Found the same markings on the partial skull discovered last week. Turned out skull fragments were from the parietal and frontal bones right here.” Nick tapped on his own skull.
Maines looked at Weever who shrugged. “And that tells us what?”
Nick handed them more pictures. “Hard to find cause she had this weird gash right here.” Nick pointed to his clavicle. “Notated it. Wasn’t COD, but I was thinking maybe a hesitation cut. Took another look. Sliced the skin and drew the muscle back to expose the bone.”
Weever studied the photos. “Does that spell something? Doesn’t make sense. I see an A, an R, an O. Is that a C?”
Nick nodded. “I think so.” He took a deep breath. “Glad someone else can see it, and I’m not crazy in a puff jar. The letters are smushed together because it’s damn difficult to carve with a knife into bone. I know. I tried.”
Maines quickly looked at Nick.
“For this case. Not for fun.”
“So we does this mean?” Weever took out her notepad. She scrambled the letters this way and that. “Could be ARCO. Or ORCA. Like an acronym or something.”
“Or Cora?” Maines flinched at the name.
Weever couldn’t stop smiling. “We have a signature. We’ve got to put the word out to all agencies with homicide victims with any sign of carvings on—”
Maines held his hand up to stop the speeding train. “Wait a minute. Just because—”
Nick handed Weever a bulging folder with a couple of under appreciated rubber bands barely holding everything together. She had to readjust to hold the weight of the folder. “How many?”
“Some might not be anything, but I’ve requested the autopsies of every homicide victim in the past ten years with unexplained markings on their bones.”
“That’ll take months,” Maines said.
Nick grinned. “I can be pretty persuasive.”
Maines studied the folder. “How many so far?”
“At least twenty-two over a decade. Always the same letters. Always smushed. There’s at least twelve states represented.”
Maines and Weever looked at each other.
Nick beamed. “I guess no one’s made the connection until now.”
Maines wanted to fester and stew at Nick, spit at him, or at least throw him an extra foul glare. But Nick was right. No one had caught it. First Emily and now Cora. What the hell? Who is this guy? Maines got a sick feeling he knew him. “I hate missing something right in front of me.”
Chapter 15: Johnston
Cora paced in her room and fidgeted like a starving dieter surrounded only by jumbo bags of Halloween candy leftovers. Her fingers stiffened. Her arms itched. She gasped for oxygen as if a plastic bag had been thrust over her head. She reached for a water bottle and swatted at the dangling hair that clinged to her forehead like a sticky cobweb.
She forced herself to inhale a slow, deep breath. “Collect my calm.” Cora’s muscles relaxed thinking of Ausmor’s grassy fields on a windless day. Cora glanced out through the French doors, and, for the first time in a long time, prying eyes didn’t assault her.
“Errzzz.”
The noise jolted her. “Darcie?” Cora leaned down and peeked under her bed. In the lair, gardener’s gloves, tiny shovels, and a new toy mouse with purple elephant ears surrounded the cat. Darcie halted the slaughter long enough to throw Cora a stink eye. After a few seconds of stuffed mouse amnesty, the cat ripped off a purple ear and tossed it to Cora as a kind gesture.
“Errzss.” The sound trailed off as if someone tried to silence it.
Cora surveyed her room. The curtains caught her attention. Something lingered in the room with her. She stood statue still and focused on the curtains behind the white chairs. One panel of curtains danced in the breeze with the ceiling fan, but the other side - the side closest to the wall and armoire - didn’t move. Cora imagined someone holding them in place. Prying eyes didn’t assault her outside because they were already in. Cora had to move, but she couldn’t budge. She stared at the curtains. Through them.
Suddenly, the curtains parted, and Johnston Stonston stood there.
A chill attacked Cora and gave her goose bumps. The pain in her head switched to a hollow, far away twinge as if she had someone else’s migraine.
Johnston circled her like a mosquito desperate to make his bite quota. His vinegar streaked fingers greedily grasped at everything. He touched pillows, Cora’s comforter, the walls, her armoire. Then he touched her shoulder. “C to my J. Some cherished memories in this room.”
Cora thought of the nightmarish scenarios swirling in Johnston’s teeny brain, and they made her gag.
Johnston giggled, and Cora noticed the tiny beads of sweat he normally kept at around a hundred had multiplied. “You’re starting to remember, aren’t you?” Johnston tapped softly against the side of her head. “What you said earlier about a cellar?”
Images fluttered past Cora like pieces of torn paper in a windstorm. She couldn’t catch her breath. She traced the scar on the left side of her forehead just underneath her hair. “This happened in the cellar. I didn’t trip on the stairs in Ausmor. And it wasn’t an accident.” Cora stared into Johnston’s beady, dull, dry eyes. “You were there.”
Johnston’s hand quickly and painfully found its mark. The force threw Cora against the door. Blood trickled down her lip where Johnston hit her.
“I usually miss the face to avoid suspicions.” Johnston took a deep breath as if savoring each moment. “Now, what were you saying about me?”
Cora struggled to get up, but Johnston pushed her back down. “You’re better than a carnival ride.”
Her lip ached. She wiped blood from her mouth. Johnston grabbed her throat and forced her up. Inches from him, the vinegar smell overpowered. Limp and lifeless, Cora fell to the floor.
...After a few moments, Cora opened her eyes and looked around as if she just woke up. Her lip ached. She notic
ed blood on her hand. “Did I fall?” A few images flashed like a struggling fluorescent bulb and then disappeared.
“Why does it smell like vinegar?” Cora quickly looked around. “Johnston.” Cora noticed the drapes. They bulked, but something fluttered deep in her gut and told her not to pry.
Chapter 16: Instinct
Oliver hadn’t planned on it, but something had to be done. Johnston was there in Cora’s bedroom. Abusive piece of shit.
He does not understand what it all means and how much planning it involves. Cora remembered the cellar, but she loses her memory whenever traumatized. Snippets of truth evaporated. As soon as her memory withered, the coward left.
After her memories vanished, Cora picked the cat up and left. She spoke with her assured, robotic voice. Her memory’s catch and release combination expunged all unpleasant memories. It had been that way since she was a kid. A doctor explained it to Oliver once in a very clinical way about Cora’s amnesia. The doctor thought he was being helpful. He was. He helped Oliver learn how much blood could be spilled before death hovered.
Cora’s bedroom resembled her: complicated and schizophrenically eclectic. Oliver walked around careful to avoid the squeak directly in front of her bed and the one beside the armoire. The dark hand carved armoire clashed with the color stabbings of those abstract prints she drenched over her white walls.
Green, yellow, and blue throw pillows sat atop her oversized red comforter. Comparing the bed’s pillows to Darcie’s purple and pink thrones, no hue was abandoned. And that weird alien mobile above Cora’s bed watched Oliver. He didn’t know how she slept with those hollow egg eyes judging.
Oliver’s stomach ached from the unnatural descriptions. Metaphoric prancings. They were not part of his daily requirements. He left the descriptions to Natalie. His Natalie. Her compliance makes her culpable, but she desperately clings to her victim status. Blame and guilt will destroy her. She is not missed. Oliver chose her because of her anti-social tendency to alienate and disappoint.