[Ash Park 01.0] Famished

by Meghan O'Flynn

  Shaking, he wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. His knuckles burned. The whore’s sweat and blood clung to his skin.

  He climbed from the bed and left the room, careful not to look at her. He did not want the reminder that she was not there with him.

  “Soon,” he whispered.

  She’d be with him soon enough.

  Wednesday, November 25th

  “They froze me out.” Petrosky resisted the urge to kick McCallum’s desk.

  “I heard. How did that make you feel?”

  “You know how the fuck I feel about it. They didn’t even call me. Just went out there themselves and ran the scene.” From what he’d heard, Alice Putrus had been found under a manhole cover, her stomach torn open, a dog gnawing on her bloody shirt. She’d been there for a few days, definitely killed before Everette. And his guy had done his homework—there was no way her name was a coincidence.

  “Where’s Morrison?”

  “Getting what he can from the brass. Or from his workout buddies.”

  “He’s better with people, isn’t he?”

  “Doesn’t take much to beat me at people pleasing.”

  “There’s some truth to that.”

  “How insightful. Some shrink you are.” He paused. “I’m going to solve this fucker.”

  “That’s why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “No other reason?”

  “Goddammit, McCallum, knock it off. This isn’t about me. This guy is good. Meticulous. He might not be the best at dissection, but he’s certainly the best at getting in and out of there clean. Even used a rake to obliterate his footprints in that Lapeer field.”

  “So we’re left with what?”

  “The type of victim. The poems.” The poems bothered him more than he cared to admit. Especially Campbell’s. Had their killer hidden the poem on purpose to throw doubt on his identity? If that was the case, why write it at all? Maybe he was messing with their minds. Or maybe it was as simple as them missing the fact that they could move that brick.

  “The other poems were hidden too, but not nearly as well,” Petrosky said. “I mean, he actually risked bringing a large piece of equipment in to lift the cement and hide the paper. He used different restraints, too. There has to be something special about that killing.”

  McCallum nodded. “I agree, though the reason it matters might not be as deep as you think. Have you found anything to indicate that Campbell knew any of the other victims?”

  “No.”

  Just her.

  “McCallum tapped his pen against his desk. “If he hadn’t gone right back to the old pattern, I would say it was a sign of escalation; a game. But he just picked up where he left off, though he’s clearly accelerating his pace.”

  Petrosky resisted the urge to grab the pen and hurl it across the room. The dull throbbing in his temples was turning into a full-blown ache.

  “Anyway,” McCallum continued, “the similarity in the victims before and after continues to scream past slight. I would bet that Campbell’s death was for another reason. Either he knew something he wasn’t supposed to, or he was getting in the way somehow.”

  Petrosky gritted his teeth. “How would he get in the way? He never did anything! He didn’t work and hardly left the apartment except to walk down the street to get cigarettes. He didn’t even have a car to get close to any of the places the killings occurred.”

  McCallum shrugged. “Maybe he had something the killer wanted.”

  “We’ve considered the money route, but the only people who would have benefitted are his ex-girlfriend and her son. They have alibis.”

  “Plus, one of them is five.” Tap. Tap.

  Joke it up, asshole. Petrosky clenched his fist to avoid shoving the pen through the doctor’s twinkling eye.

  “Money isn’t everything. Your killer had something to gain by Campbell dying.” Tap, tap, tap. “Figure out what it is and you’ll be one step closer to solving this case.”

  “I’m doing my best.” Petrosky stood.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Staff meeting.” He pulled his coat off the back of the chair and hauled it on, one of his shoulders creaking in protest. “Might as well make an appearance before Graves tries to throw me off the case altogether.”

  “You and I both know that wouldn’t stop you, Ed.”

  “Yeah, probably not. But it’d sure make getting into the donuts more difficult.”

  Morrison was already in the conference room. Petrosky sat next to him and swallowed bitter precinct coffee, casting envious glances at Morrison’s stainless steel mug. He always brought the best joe from home. In the front of the room, someone had transferred the victims’ photos to an oversized cork board, neon green sticky notes tacked beneath each picture, connections between victims outlined in thread. Next to the cork board, the original white board listed their victims:

  Meredith Lawrence: October 1st

  A boat beneath a sunny sky

  Lingering onward dreamily

  In an evening in July-

  Jane Trazowski, October 11

  Children three that nestle near,

  Eager eye and willing ear

  Pleased a simple tale to hear—

  Jacob Campbell: November 3

  Long has paled the sunny sky:

  Echoes fade and memories die:

  Autumn frosts have slain July.

  Alice Putrus: November 18

  Still she haunts me phantom wise,

  Alice moving under skies

  Never seen by waking eyes.

  Bianca Everette: November 22

  Children yet, the tale to hear,

  Eager eye and willing ear,

  Lovingly shall nestle near.

  Graves stood at the front of the conference room, his eyes much too cool for the occasion. Prick.

  “As most of you know, Alice Putrus was discovered this morning on the eastside, hidden under a manhole,” Graves said. “Preliminary data indicates that she died around November eighteenth. Our killer is moving faster. That means more chances he’ll make a mistake.”

  Graves looked out the window as if he expected to see the killer grinning up at him from the parking lot, holding a dead hooker and waving a bloody Q-tip. But their killer wasn’t going to trip himself up. Not this guy. Petrosky pushed his coffee away as his stomach soured.

  Graves turned back to the boards and pointed at Campbell’s picture. “At the Campbell crime scene, a note was recently found underneath the table. It appears to have been placed there using a dolly to lift the blocks after the killing. Like the others, it was written in the victim’s blood.”

  Petrosky bristled. Was recently found. No recognition for his discovery, not even a nod in his direction. Looked like Graves didn’t want everyone to know his guys were goddamn useless.

  “Why it was hidden is still uncertain. He may have been trying to lure authorities into thinking we had a copycat, at least until the writing was discovered. The different restraints may have been a part of this. Officers are looking into the November second press leak, in the off chance the information was leaked by our suspect to encourage the confusion.”

  The off chance. It wasn’t an off chance. The killer was fucking with them. Bloody words smeared themselves across Petrosky’s brain. There was a reason for everything. There was a reason for Campbell. And if there was a reason for Campbell—

  She’s in danger. It was a gut feeling he couldn’t shake.

  Maybe she knows more than she thinks.

  Don’t focus on her or you’ll blow the whole thing.

  Graves was still talking but Petrosky was no longer listening.

  One last visit can’t hurt.

  Hannah sat waiting for him at the picnic table, her face as placid as the glass pond. He crunched toward her over frost-streaked grass and the occasional frozen leaf.

  “Ms. Montgomery.”

  “Detective Petrosky.
”

  He stopped walking, his back stiffening, but not with cold. Her squared shoulders and erect posture were a far cry from the skittish demeanor she’d had at the shelter. Something was different. She was different.

  He sat across from her, tense and wary.

  “What did you need to see me about? Did something else happen?”

  He shook his head and watched her, gauging her reaction. Her features stayed even. Detachment, maybe? Had everything become too much to bear? “I understand you’ve been cooperative with the FBI, answering their questions about the other victims. I thank you for that.”

  She nodded. Not speechless, not nervous, just matter-of-fact.

  Muscles along the back of his neck tightened and cramped. “We have recently come across new information. I was wondering if you might have some insight.”

  “I’ll help any way I can.” She looked him straight in the eye, not past him or at the lake like she had before.

  “What I am showing you has to remain confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  He pulled out the list of poems, watching her face for a hint of recognition or understanding. “Do these words mean anything to you?”

  She took the page, scanned it, and met his eyes again. “No.”

  Not a single anxious twitch.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He appraised the calm of her face, the evenness of her mouth. “If you happen to think of anything else—”

  “I’ll call you.”

  Maybe she didn’t need help after all.

  He felt her eyes on his back as he walked away. Her boyfriend was gone, but as both LaPorte and Plumber the apartment manager had said, she certainly didn’t seem worse off having lost him.

  The very air I breathed was different, lighter somehow, as if a suffocating fog that had always been wrapped around my face had suddenly lifted. Even the snow on the pond seemed to sparkle through the detective’s questions about a poem. A poem he insisted was connected to the killings. My father didn’t know anything about poetry, but that wasn’t what made my heart soar.

  It was all because of Dominic. He knew my secrets now, and he still accepted each and every part of me, even the parts I had once thought appalling. I felt like a whole new person.

  A better person.

  I practically floated to the filing room to finish up a few things before our monthly staff meeting. If I could find a way to float to the meeting, Dominic and I could giggle all night about the shocked looks from his other employees. Oh no! It’s a ghost! In my current state, I’d make the least terrifying apparition ever. Which was kind of okay.

  Noelle crouched by the bottom file drawer and squeezed a folder into place. “Morning!”

  A twinge of guilt pricked my stomach. I’d been awful to suspect her, to avoid her the way I had. But that was in the past. It was all in the past.

  “You getting a jump on the filing, too?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I want to make sure I get out of here on time tonight. Got a hot date.” She closed the drawer.

  “With Thomas?”

  “Yep.” Her cheeks flushed. “Though I must admit, I don’t usually let myself get carried away like this.”

  I knew what she meant. It was both exhilarating and terrifying when a guy could make you feel drunk and giddy at the mere thought of him. I opened my mouth to tell her how I felt about Dominic, how fast I’d gone from a crush to adoration, but there was no way Noelle would trust my judgment about relationships—after all, I had chosen Jake and professed my love for him even when he was causing me pain. “Looks like you’re falling for Thomas,” I said instead.

  “Yeah, I know.” Noelle squinted at me. “Hey you’ve got something on your—” She gestured to my chest.

  I looked down and brushed off a few dark hairs. “Duke, Dominic’s dog. He’s almost always just wandering around the backyard, but we were wrestling this morning before work.” I closed the drawer and it latched with a soft click.

  “Quite the happy family over there, aren’t you?”

  “It could be worse.” She had no idea.

  Noelle stared past me at the wall. “Yeah, it could definitely be worse,” she muttered.

  We both turned as Ralph entered through the open door. Noelle coughed and slid past him out into the hallway. He watched her go, shoulders slumped.

  Ralph always looked so … hurt. Sad. Maybe I could talk to her about making amends with Ralph. Maybe she’d trust me about him. No one could say I didn’t understand what it was like to be hurt.

  I followed Noelle, trying to ignore the tightness in Ralph’s eyes as I passed him. Looked like he wasn’t taking nearly enough Xanax.

  By the time our staff meeting was over, I had almost forgotten about Ralph and his agitated gaze. Perhaps it was the conference table loaded with coffee and pastries. Maybe it was the banner behind the podium that demanded Imagine! in rainbow colors. Or maybe there was simply nothing as relaxing as listening to your supervisors drone on about teamwork for an hour.

  Well … almost nothing.

  The phone on my desk was ringing when we got back to the office. I raced over and snatched up the receiver, glad my hands had finally steadied.

  “Harwick Technologies, Human Resources, this is Hannah,” I said in the higher pitch that I hoped screamed customer service.

  “Good afternoon.” Even on the phone his mellow baritone gave me chills.

  “What are you doing calling me at work? My boss will be terribly irritated.” I couldn’t keep the amusement out of my voice. I hoped he could hear it.

  Dominic laughed on the other end of the line. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to know if you were free Saturday evening. I have tickets to the symphony downtown. I thought we could go to La Roseo right down the street first.”

  “I would love to. But … I’m not sure about the symphony.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Do you have other plans? Maybe another kitchen reorganization?”

  “I thought you liked my mad organizing skills!” I wondered if anyone else in the office could feel my happiness radiating out at them, tickling their backs.

  “I do. Just don’t organize my man cave.”

  I rolled my eyes. Only Dominic would refer to a workout room that way. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I just don’t have anything to wear to the symphony.”

  “That is not a problem. We’ll go shopping first. Maybe hit the salon. On me.”

  Shopping? The salon? I usually trimmed my dead ends in the sink. “That’s … I mean, I don’t want you to have to pay to dress me.” Even as I said it, my uncertainty dissolved.

  “Trust me, dressing you would be my pleasure.”

  I’m sure you’d enjoy undressing me more.

  “Do we have a date?” he asked.

  I had a choice. I had control. And he cared about me. Maybe. Probably. My heart was as full as those jelly donuts. “It’s a date,” I said.

  “Good. And I’ll meet you out front at five-thirty. I’m making dinner tonight, so don’t be late. You’ve done enough cooking this week.”

  I smiled into the phone. “I don’t mind.”

  “Neither do I. And I’m pretty good at it, if I do say so myself.”

  He wasn’t lying about being able to cook. The smell of warm butter and garlic permeated the air as I entered the kitchen later that evening. Dominic was putting the finishing touches on two plates.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Pan seared duck with rosemary, roasted potatoes and caramelized beets with green salad.”

  I watched, high on endorphins from an hour on the treadmill, my hair still wet from my shower. A spark of apprehension twittered in my chest. I was falling too fast. We had not known each other long enough. But I couldn’t help it; I was completely and totally smitten, and all he was doing at that moment was spooning potatoes onto a plate. He hadn’t even minded when I set up Romeo, my new philodendron, in the kitchen and accidentally
smashed his crystal vase. “These things happen,” he had said.

  “It looks amazing,” I told him.

  He put a sprig of parsley on top of the potatoes. “I hope it tastes amazing. I spent an hour on it.”

  “Sounds like someone needs a hobby.”

  He abandoned the plates and wrapped his arms around me. “I have one now.”

  We ate by candlelight in the dining room, each bite more delicious than the last. When I could eat no more, I sat back and stretched, yawning.

  “You sure you’re okay?” He laid his fork beside his plate.

  “Just a little tired.”

  “I’ll make sure you sleep well tonight.”

  “I bet you say that to all the ladies.”

  “I am an expert in putting women to sleep. It’s my electric wit.” He smiled around his glass of sparkling water.

  “Or … this.” I raised my foot under the table and rubbed my bare toes against his crotch.

  “Just what every man wants to hear. ‘Darling, your penis puts me right to sleep.’”

  “The sleep is just a happy byproduct. And what woman doesn’t love a nap?”

  “I think we can do better than napping. And I don’t need to use my penis to relax you.” He stood. “I want to show you something.”

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “No, not that, though I’m sure I could be persuaded later.” He led me through the living room, past the right archway and opened a large wooden door that I had assumed was a closet.

  I followed him inside the room and gasped. It was humongous, like every other room in the house, but it felt like another planet: cozy in spite of its size, and rich and majestic like an old library. Wait … it was a library, the entire back wall covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The other walls were paneled with deep wooden planks each about a foot across, their rough surfaces dull despite the stain. I ran my hand over the surface and feathery splinters pricked my palm.

  “The wood came from a turn of the century barn that was on my father’s property,” he said. “The people who wanted to buy the house after he died were going to demolish it.”