Pieces of Ivy

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Pieces of Ivy Page 23

by Dean Covin


  His voice filled the car. “Actually, can I speak with Agent Starr privately?”

  They looked at each other. Agent Starr?

  Vicki thought of her blood-soaked T-shirt. She put the phone back up to her ear as Hank stepped out of the car.

  “What is it, Charlie?”

  “Are you hurt, Vicki?”

  “No, why?” Charlie couldn’t have known about the incident in Roscoe’s office already.

  “Then I’m a little surprised. You know better than to contaminate a sample.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wanted to help you save face, that’s why I asked to speak with you privately. I found your blood mixed in with the victim’s.”

  “What?”

  Hank glanced over but kept his distance.

  “The T-shirt you sent me. I found your blood mixed in with Ivy Turner’s—a lot of it.”

  Impossible. It made no sense. “I wasn’t hurt. I’m sorry, Charlie, I don’t know how that would have happened.” She didn’t.

  “I’ll let it slide this time, but I expect better from you.”

  Normally such an admonishment coming from Charlie would have stung, but she hadn’t been careless. She had checked her breasts meticulously—there were no wounds. There was no way her own blood could have gotten on that T-shirt. But how the hell did Ivy’s? The blood was fresh.

  “I can continue with the rest of my report now.”

  She motioned for Hank to return.

  “I’m here now, Coop.”

  “We’ve been able to peel back additional results. I have to say, this has been more challenging than I expected, and I regret that each discovery paints an ever-more-gruesome picture.”

  Hank and Vicki shared concerned glances.

  “Go on,” Hank said.

  “As I mentioned before, facial damage was extensive. We have been careful to approach this to ensure we’re recreating an accurate account of what happened and when.”

  The agents heard the shrill squeal of metal instruments against a stainless steel tray in the background as Charlie continued to speak.

  Vicki didn’t dare admit her horrifying physical recollection less than two hours ago, as Charlie reiterated the report he had sent yesterday when the agents had first entered Cherrybrook Forest—that Ivy’s eyelids had been cut away, leaving her eyes open, unable to resist, and to further witness the vicious carnage beset upon them onto their ultimate destruction. That agony was all Vicki could think about as she had cried in her car for over an hour. Now Charlie added, in grisly detail, the methods used to slowly slice off her nose and ears—and Vicki wanted to throw up. Not out of revulsion, but fear.

  “We suspect a box cutter and needle-nose pliers were used.”

  As Hank listened to Coop’s disturbingly precise account as it had unfolded for the poor girl, he allowed his own eyes to trace the empty spaces between the houses, trees, street signs and playgrounds in front of them—cherishing the gift of sight.

  His distraction saved Vicki from having to explain the obvious tension in her face and the red strain against her eyes as she fought back tears. No one could blame her, or any rational human being, for being affected by such a cruel and grizzly recount of a living human’s torment; but her reaction was far more physically empathic than emotionally sympathetic.

  Vicki’s deep-chocolate-colored eyes were keen, sharp, intact and alive. It would be impossible for her to understand the impact like Ivy did. Impossible.

  “And this, you figure, occurred before her eyes were destroyed?” Hank said.

  “Yes. I imagine she was shown her facial desecration prior to the additional damage being inflicted. And, unfortunately, I am nowhere near done here.”

  Vicki stole an extra breath.

  “And the dirt?” Hank asked.

  “Once her eyes were cut away, the soil was packed in pretty hard. I can’t imagine how painful that must have been. Worse, we found a seed planted in each one—guess what kind.”

  “No.”

  “Poison ivy.”

  No one spoke. Hank broke the lingering silence. “Understood. Thanks, Coop. Keep us apprised.”

  “I will.”

  The call ended.

  Hank let out a long exhale. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She wasn’t.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, nodding, failing to convince himself that he was okay as well.

  † † †

  The early morning dawn woke with the happy song of birds, insensitive to the horrors unfolding in the human world.

  Among the administrivia of note consolidation, evidence reconciliation and report compilation due to Kempt on Monday morning, the sunny May Sunday offered the rare opportunity to catch a number of worshipers off guard with queries about their club affiliations.

  Vicki easily spotted the churchgoers comfortable in their skin—as well as their choices—and those preferring a mask. Doc Collins managed a fairly dexterous vanishing act from among the exodus of pious patrons when quick news of the FBI’s line of casual questioning lit fire. Allowing his retreat was worth it just to watch the fat man hurt himself hurling over the back fence unnoticed—by everyone. And Father Reilly was most displeased with the agents’ disturbance, which delighted Vicki.

  All things considered, the end of Sunday would have resulted in the easiest day on the soul so far, had Charlie not called, again. Never one to place the Sabbath before duty, he provided his latest gut-churning report—the worst to date.

  As a result Vicki shook through her entire bedtime ritual, fearing sleep—which came faster than she had hoped.

  Forty

  Vicki remained silent during the drive, her head elsewhere. Memory of Charlie’s most heinous report to date had risen with the ascent of the sun. The acts were so grievous that, even four hours after waking, she had to fight the swelling behind her eyes.

  The two agents stepped around the corner toward the school administration office, but met the principal in the hall.

  “Nice to finally meet you,” he said. “Though under the circumstances—” The end-of-period bell rang, and doors flew open everywhere. “Let’s walk back to my office.”

  Hank caught sight of the mean girls walking away from them, working their tall heels to accentuate their curvy hip sway. One girl’s designer jeans caught his eye—triggering something deep. Unlike the ubiquitous low-rise boy pants that robbed women of their figures, these were cut exquisitely high-waisted toward her bare midriff, painted to her vigorous curves—expertly torn and worn in just the right places to drive the masculine species wild.

  Perceiving the teen in this provocative way was distressing—still a year from legal maturity. He abhorred the vexing, forbidden frustrations she invoked.

  “Pretty relaxed dress code,” Vicki said, noting the same.

  “No, it’s not,” the principal said and moved directly toward the girls.

  “Miss McQueen—”

  The soft, fleshy contour of her free breasts peeked below the scissor-cut cropped T-shirt pressed beneath the heavy abundance of ornate silver chains—the soft arc of her bare torso taut and smooth. “Rudy, you’re back. How nice,” she lied, teasing a long swirl of her blond hair along her lower lip.

  “Principal Marrow,” he corrected.

  “That’s right! That’s who you are—good boy,” she said as if pushing praise upon a toddler and then moved to walk away.

  “Miss McQueen, that outfit falls beyond the bounds of the school code, and I respectfully ask that you change.”

  “I respectfully decline.”

  Jasmine Boss laughed beside her friend while grinning with conceited contempt at the two agents behind the principal.

  “You need to change,” he insisted.

  “Th
ese are worth more than your car.”

  “I’m not asking again.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “I’m not changing. Take it up with Daddy.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m sure.”

  The girls walked away giggling, putting excessive swing into their wiggle.

  “Why my school? They should be in private school.”

  “Trust me, private schools have enough of that,” Vicki said. “We didn’t need more of them dumped on us.”

  Hank looked at Vicki, how she wore herself. He doubted she wasn’t one of these high school head-turners—especially to vex Daddy.

  Back in his office, Principal Marrow pulled the file he had promised. The dossier held a variety of confiscated items related to Miss Turner. “I fear it’s the tip of the iceberg. But it’s everything we’ve collected over the past year.”

  The variety ranged from sweet to vulgar—poems, stories, explicit drawings and comic strips. There was a pornographic screenplay, well written, if zealously graphic, with the freshman author penned as Miss Turner’s principle costar.

  Confiscated flash drives were clipped to incident reports along with sample printouts of the offending images. The provocative, heavily photo-edited creations ranged from the ridiculously absurd to the startlingly accurate.

  “The kids’ actions are shocking,” Marrow admitted, struggling against making furtive glances at the agents. “But, put into context, not terribly abnormal.” He reclaimed the file, his discomfort obvious. “Miss Turner was very understanding and placed these in the proper context.”

  “How did she respond to the attention?” Vicki asked.

  “She admitted that they made her uncomfortable, rather than flattered”—he cleared his throat—”but she didn’t feel at personal risk.”

  Vicki reached for the folder. “Do you mind if we borrow these?” Asking was a courtesy; she was taking them regardless.

  “I’ll get them back?”

  “When we’re finished with them.”

  “Any issues between staff with regard to Miss Turner?” Hank asked.

  “A couple of instances last school year, when Miss Turner first arrived. A fight broke out between two of my staff—both desired Miss Turner. It turned out their concerns were wasted. There had been no interest on her part.”

  “We’ll need names.”

  Vicki held up her vibrating phone. “I need to take this call.”

  Hank wrapped things up with the principal and then stepped out into the hall where Vicki was speaking on the phone. She mouthed Charlie. Hank nodded, indicating that he was going to take a spin through the school. He walked away, dodging the few groups of students wandering the halls.

  † † †

  As she searched for her partner, Vicki saw three boys rushing up the empty hallway—Hank was in hot pursuit. They cut into the expansive open library and made for the exit on the far side. She ran forward to cut them off and had them corralled just as Hank cornered the bookshelves.

  “Show me,” he demanded, huffing and favoring his right leg.

  “No way!” one yelled.

  “It’s not what you think,” said another.

  “I’m sure it’s exactly what I think.” Hank pinned the first boy to the wall and handed Vicki the laptop.

  “That’s mine!”

  “Zip it!”

  She rested it on top of the bookshelf. “Password?”

  No answer.

  Hank pressed nose-to-nose with the lanky sixteen-year-old. “Password.”

  “Breath mint.”

  “Obstruction,” Hank countered.

  The big word wasn’t lost on any of the kids, and the boy closed his eyes while Hank still held on to him. “Nose, underscore”—he paused, then winced—”fucker ninety-five.”

  Vicki and Hank raised eyebrows at each other.

  Did she hear that right? “Nose fucker ninety-five?”

  The boy kept his eyes closed and nodded.

  She typed nose_fucker95.

  “Porn, right?” Hank said to Vicki as he stared down at the frightened boys.

  When Hank heard no response, he craned his neck to see her staring at the screen. “Right?” he asked, less certain, praying he hadn’t just made another career-limiting mistake.

  Her face was still, but her eyes darted around the screen as she clicked faster and faster. One of the boys whimpered.

  Before Hank could ask again, she confirmed, “It’s porn all right.” She looked up at him. “Just not what I was expecting.”

  Hank looked back at the anxious boys he had pressed against the wall, the shock on Vicki’s face unsettling. “What is it?” he asked her.

  “It’s a private site,” she said.

  “It’s my brother’s account,” another boy blurted. “He doesn’t know. He’ll pound me.” The boy could barely finish through his sobs. “Please don’t tell my dad.”

  † † †

  Principal Marrow resisted surrendering the powers afforded his office, maintaining that he should see the offending images before passing judgment upon the boys. Vicki insisted Marrow take the agents’ word that the photos were pornographic in nature, and that was all that he needed to know. The relieved boys quickly admitted to bringing porn into the school, knowing that the more precise the truth, the more they would be reviled by the community.

  Kyla More’s alluring photos of her best friend had merely hinted at the erotic. With Ivy’s exotic dancing revelation, Vicki wouldn’t have been surprised to discover nude photos. But this was not nude modeling—these were not Playboy.

  Though not that back-alley filth, these high-production, professional-quality photos were exceptionally explicit. They actually turned the considerably liberal Vicki Starr pink.

  She and Hank scanned through images ranging from explicitly intimate solos and intense girl-on-girl, through ravenous group scenes and elaborate BDSM shots. If it could be said that explicit can be done tastefully, then these were exquisite specimens. Even the staged bondage, domination and sadomasochistic photos were done with style, albeit a dark one. Still, these left nothing to the imagination and would be scandalous for even the most promiscuous figures. A schoolteacher would never want these public.

  Vicki was no prude and no stranger to porn. And while these were easily the most stirring and erotic images she had seen, due to their flawless subject, seeing Ivy portrayed this way left Vicki feeling hollow rather than stimulated.

  She could tell Hank struggled against arousal, trying to remain professionally detached. And he was no stranger to porn either.

  “Look, I’ve seen my share,” he admitted. “Enough to be familiar with the popular models and most of the mainstream content. There’re enough top-shelf photos here that I would have come across at least one of them in my travels, but I haven’t.”

  “You sure? There’s a lot out there.”

  “Trust me. I’d have remembered.”

  Vicki couldn’t disagree with that.

  “How old do you think these are?” he asked.

  “CAT should be able to tell for sure.” The FBI’s Cyber Action Team was good and fast. “I already forwarded the member credentials, but I’m guessing five, six years. Definitely not recent.”

  “That puts her at twenty-one, twenty-two, which looks about right.”

  Vicki paused on an image of Ivy seated, lips parted below her blindfold, with arms bound in chains above her head and excessively knotted ropes holding her legs apart.

  Vicki scanned the member responses below, wincing at a crass comment posted by JollyRoger6969: Just look at that juicy slice spread wide. Bet she craves the pain.

  His words revived the chill of Charlie’s Sunday phon
e call. Vicki had to stop reading. The vile spin in her gut threatened to vomit its contents. “I’ll get CAT to run through all comments posted against her photos,” she managed.

  Hank agreed. “I’ve seen enough.” He stepped to the window and cracked it wide. No matter how hard he pressed, he couldn’t rub the images from his eyes.

  “I think you should swing by Kyla More’s,” he said.

  “You’re not coming?”

  He released a long breath out the window. “I don’t see the point. You’ll get more out of her if I’m not there.”

  Forty-one

  Vicki finished scanning CAT’s initial report. Shit!

  Kyla More answered the door with damp hair, a terry-cloth robe and a spent wineglass. “Kinda late, don’t ya think?”

  “It’s important.”

  She locked the door behind them and offered Vicki the sofa. “Please tell me that you’ve taken me up on my offer.”

  Vicki said nothing.

  “Okay … can I offer you a glass of wine?” She started opening a second bottle.

  The invitation was tempting but Vicki’s answer was no. “We found explicit photos of Ivy on a private members’ site.”

  There was a lingering pause—the Amarone filling to the lip of her glass. “Really?”

  “Are you telling me that you didn’t know?”

  Her face gave it away, but it took her a minute to answer. “I knew.”

  “And you didn’t think it was relevant?”

  “Look, it was an embarrassing part of her life.”

  “We know about the dancing. We knew about your photos—”

  “No, not the photos … how they got out.”

  “Explain.”

  “She told me the photos were taken between 2004 and 2005.”

  “So, she was twenty.”

  “And twenty-one.” She nodded. “She said she’d never experienced anything like it. Met an extraordinary photographer that transformed her as a woman.” She patted a friendly hand on Vicki’s knee. “I couldn’t agree more—we photographers tend to do that.” She let go.

  “Anyway, a series of photos were taken and sold. The following year, when Ivy chose teaching as her major, she pooled as much of her dancing money as she could and bought up all the photos.

 

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