The body, at first glance, didn't look too bad. There wasn't any blood on his clothes. He sat at the kitchen table, slumped back with his head on his shoulder like he'd just fallen asleep. There wasn't a sign of a struggle, in fact, not even a single hair was out of place. He just looked like a sleeping man.
It was only once you looked at the table in front of him that you saw a problem. There was a plate, sitting innocently in front of him, a knife and fork still pristine and put together. On the plate, pristine and decorated, lay the man's stomach. It was still attached to him, his oesophagus protruding from a small hole in his neck, similar to a smoker's stoma, and his small intestine peeking out from beneath his buttoned-up shirt.
It was gruesome. The stomach was raw, but drizzled in a chocolate-looking sauce, as though it was expected to be eaten. The detective in charge of the crime scene gagged, holding her shirt over her nose and mouth, but the smell wasn't bad in the kitchen. In fact, perhaps due to the multiple candles on the counters, the whole place smelled of vanilla.
The small-town cops had been called in by the distraught girlfriend of the man, who had come home from work to find him like this, screamed, and ran away. Her coat and purse were both still on the floor beside the door, where she'd dropped them. The cops hadn't even touched it, calling in the FBI before they could get past the doorway. Which was why Detective Hull was the one to order the forensics to unbutton the shirt.
A neatly stitched scar stretched between two points, the hole in his neck and a hole above the belly button. They all took a moment to realize that the killer had pulled out his stomach, put it on the plate, then stitched it all back together without a drop of blood anywhere. One of the forensics shuddered.
"He was alive," she stated, quietly confident.
Nobody asked for details. The idea of a living dissection victim was horrifying to them all. He was dead, now, but it hadn't been from having his stomach removed. It didn't take long for the body to be packed away, sent away to be studied for the actual cause of death. Forensics, detectives, and officers searched the room for anything to identify the killer.
"Not even a smudge," one of the officers whispered, cold chills racing down his spine as he studied the glass holding the vanilla-scented candle.
"Our killer must've vacuumed," another officer sighed, searching the carpeted floors. "There isn't even dust in the corners of the room."
"Any sign of forced entry?" Detective Hull asked, even as she looked over the windows herself.
There wasn't even a speck on the windows. They were locked, closed, and cleaned. Detective Hull sighed, ignoring the unsettled turning in the pit of her stomach. According to the girlfriend, the front door had been locked when she'd gotten there, which was supported by her key still in the lock.
Since it was a single-level house in an okay neighbourhood, Detective Hull had some hope that the neighbours might've seen something, but none of them had. None of them had been home, they explained, and the one's with security cameras set up only had the cameras focused on their own home. Even the children, of which there were only three on the block, had either been napping or in daycare. The one who'd been napping wasn't even old enough to do much more than babble.
The only lead they had was the victim's being a notorious playboy who had, according to his own mother, "dated half the girls in town." Indeed, the list of girls he had dated was long, reaching into the fifties. Fifteen of them had even been his fiancee, at one point, only to end up dumped.
The town's library had a book of contact information, which was incredibly helpful for Detective Hull. The librarian was happy enough to answer any questions, going so far as to offer her assistance in any way necessary.
"Has anything like this ever happened before?" Detective Hull questioned, while her team went through and wrote down all fifty-eight of the victim's previous girlfriends' contact information.
"I'm not sure," the librarian murmured, rocking back and forth on her feet thoughtfully. Detective Hull couldn't help but note that she was pretty young. "We have old newspaper clippings, if you want to look through them."
"That would be great," Detective Hull sighed, already mentally noting to look them over only if nothing else turned up. "Could you get them for me, please? Or, just tell me where they are."
"I'll grab them," the librarian said, offering a comforting smile before disappearing into a room labelled 'RECORDS.'
She came out of the room with a box full to the brim with newspaper clippings. Just looking at them, even as neatly organized as they were, Detective Hull felt a strong urge to down a bottle or two of whiskey. The librarian giggled at her defeated expression.
"Don't worry," she chirped. "I'm sure one of his ex-girl's will come through for you."
"God, I hope so," Detective Hull replied.
Most of the victim's girlfriends had alibis. Ten of them had moved out of the state, fifteen others worked in different towns, and thirty of them were married. Still, Detective Hull dutifully went to each one, interrogating them politely. Most of them didn't seem devastated in the slightest.
"Jonny was the biggest prick in town," one explained, around her cigarette outside her house. "He called all his girls "Notches in the Bedpost." Asshole, right?"
"I'm surprised he didn't die sooner," another commented, folding clothes in her living room. "Not murder, no. But, Jonny had a bad habit of drunk driving. We all bet he'd go off the bridge on his way home, one night."
"Gross way of killin' someone, ain't it?" yet another considered, gesturing to the newspaper still on her table. "I read all 'bout it in the paper. It kinda reminds ya of that ole sayin' that you have to get to a man's heart through his stomach, don't it?"
"Jonny had a bunch of girls after his jock that he never screwed," the thirtieth explained, even as she cooked dinner for three kids in the other room. "He was a real bitch about his girls. Had a type, you know? He liked blonds, wouldn't even lay a finger on brunettes. He dumped me the second I dyed my hair black. I'd bet it was one of the girls with a crush."
"He was a slut," his own mother told Detective Hull. "A popular, jock-type slut. He fucked half the town, but the other half also wanted a fuck from him."
Detective Hull's team had nothing to show from fifty-eight interviews, except that none of his exes liked the victim and he was a picky slut. Detective Hull considered these two things, the only two things that every one of the ex-girls, the victim's mother, and even a passing priest had agreed on. She slammed her head down on the table, considering stabbing herself.
"Sorry we can't help you more," Jon's mother, Cherry, apologized, though she certainly didn't look too apologetic. "Even if one of us did know something, wouldn't it be dangerous to tell you?"
"No," Detective Hull muttered into Cherry's coffee table, the officer beside her patting her back consolingly. "We don't tell anyone in town about these interrogations."
"I'd go after one of the doctors at the General Hospital," Cherry stated. "Jonny always told me that that man was a flamer for him."
"Cherry, I could marry you," Detective Hull sobbed.
Cherry laughed. She couldn't understand that it was the first lead in what felt like three years. Truthfully, it had only been two days.
Dr. Herr, when they interrogated him, seemed baffled. He was a good-looking man, with a full head of brown hair. A picky slut like Jonny would never go near him, definitely.
"I'm a suspect?" he confirmed, confused. "I don't understand."
"Pretty much everyone in the state is a suspect," Detective Hull grumbled, somewhat exhausted and hungover from a late night.
"Then, I suppose I'm not too offended that I'm included," Dr. Herr muttered, thoughtful. "Is there really so little to go on?"
"My life is torture," Detective Hull whispered.
"She means to say that we'd just like to know what you were doing the day of the crime," the officer beside her, Officer Reeds, corrected.
"I had the day off," Dr. Herr admitted, thinking back. "I spent most of the day on the phone with my sister. If you go to the library, you'll meet her, Charlotte Herr, the librarian."
The librarian, Charlotte, confirmed this pleasantly. She sorted through books as Officer Reeds looked at her phone records. They had really been on the phone the whole day, only twenty minutes, at the longest, between calls. Twenty minutes wasn't long enough for him to go to Jonny's house, let alone murder him without a trace of blood.
"What were you talking about all day?" Detective Hull questioned, her mind flicking through who she could leave this case to so she could go home, five states away, and pet her dog, Cliff.
"We were talking about a gift for our mother," Charlotte explained, sliding several books into their correct spots. "I went to shop for it, but had to double-check with him the details. I felt so dumb, we just ended up ordering it online, even though I spent all day pestering him."
"There goes our lead," Detective Hull grumbled, rubbing her eyes. "We might have to just call this one cold."
"That would scare the town," Charlotte frowned, pausing in putting away her books so she could look at the detective. "We're a small town. Murders like this scare us pretty bad."
"That's true," Detective Hull admitted guiltily, then turned to Officer Reeds. "Do you think they can put someone else on the case?"
"Aw, don't say that, Chief," Officer Reeds grinned, slapping her back. "Everyone in town already likes you. Right, Miss Herr?"
"I like you, Detective," Charlotte chirped.
"Don't guilt me," Hull huffed. "It was a joke."
Charlotte smiled. Detective Hull huffed again. Officer Reeds laughed at them.
Jonny's body had been treated somewhat respectfully. This one, on the other hand, was torn to shreds. There was hardly a surface in the apartment that didn't have blood on it, not to mention his organs. They had all been torn out, leaving him cut open and hollow, and were scattered across the apartment.
Despite his empty body, his mouth was full of what they recognized as his stomach. His teeth and tongue weren't in his mouth, only his stomach, his oesophagus still attached but just circling from his neck back into his mouth.
There were more candles, still vanilla-scented, all lit. None of them had even a drop of blood on them. It was rather impressive, since there was a literal inhuman amount of blood covering everything. It painted the ceiling, walls, doors, windows, everything. The smell was a disgusting, bloody vanilla. Nobody wanted to go inside.
The worst part, debateably, was the clean bouquet of of flowers that sat, in a lovely vase, beside the body. Yellow roses, with morning glory surrounding the buds. Tiny beads of water still peppered the flowers. They'd been watered only minutes before the cops had been called. The included note card was tucked very visibly on top.
The lack of blood anywhere near the bouquet unnerved all of them. Officer Reeds picked up the letter, paling immediately. She hurried over to Detective Hull, who was looking at the small intestine that had been layered on top of the counter.
"It's for you," Officer Reeds whispered.
Chills raced down Detective Hull's spine as she took the note away from the officer. She flipped it open to find her full name, though she'd introduced herself without her first name to everyone in the town, in strict letters. A poem followed, all in strict letters that were so obviously stenciled Detective Hull wanted to cry.
Yellow Rose for Jealousy
Morning Glory for a Promise
Darling you're trapped forever
Until I get my kiss
Detective Hull wondered if throwing up would be a dramatic reaction. She handed the note off to one of the members of Forensic, walking out of the apartment quickly for some fresh air. It had been signed with a 'Your Secret Admirer' and Detective Hull felt sick. She stared down at the pavement, cold wind passing over her, only the rustle of cloth coming from behind her reassuring her she wasn't alone.
She choked down the lump in her oesophagus, then went back in.
The victim was not so notorious a playboy, this time. He'd only dated four girls, all of them brunettes who didn't even remember his name until Detective Hull and Officer Reeds reminded them of it.
"Oh, Brady," the first hummed, thinking. She worked as a nurse at the hospital. "I went on one date with him. He was too clingy for me. Always wanted to know where I was and what I was doing. Told me not to be friends with anyone. I broke up with him. I forgot we even went out."
"Brady was so dumb," the second offered, as though she'd only just remembered. She also worked as a nurse. "He always told me to stay away from other girls, unless they wanted a threesome. Dumb as a brick, that prick."
"Jealous bastard," the third shrugged. She worked as a doctor. "Told me not to even look at other guys, but groped every other girl in the school. I kneed him in the balls then tried to forget him."
"Uh, I don't remember," the fourth and final admitted. She worked as a vet. "I dated a lot of guys. Sorry, I don't remember a Brady."
The only constant was that he was forgettable. The hypocrite angle was interesting, since that would give any of the girls a reason to murder him, but most of them had alibis. Without any solid leads, they went to talk to his mother, Charlene.
"Brady was always competing with Jonny," Charlene explained, the only woman in town who seemed to remember he existed. "None of the girls really liked him, though, so it was pretty one-sided. Dr. Herr was pretty much his only friend, but he ditched Dr. Herr after that whole gay fiasco went over. Didn't want to be buds with a fag. Can you blame him?"
"Yes," Detective Hull replied, to the woman's shock. "But, his idiotic personality leads to a suspect, so I guess his homophobia was good for something."
"Getting him murdered by a homo?" Charlene choked.
"Yeah," Detective Hull stated. "Well, maybe."
Dr. Herr had Saturdays off, which it was, luckily. He was very polite, even as he had to answer his phone almost ten seconds after he invited them in. They sat on his couch, watching as he stared glumly at the floor, waiting.
"As much as I'd love to talk to you for three hours about dogs, Char," Dr. Herr began, though he didn't sound all that disappointed at all, "I've got guests. I'm suspect to murder, again, probably. No, no, it's no big deal. You know, two homophobes get murdered and the gay guy is a suspect, right? What do you mean that doesn't happen often enough for you to know? Whatever, Charlotte. I'll call you when they've left. Only call me if there's an emergency."
He hung up very purposefully, then sat across from the detective and officer. He smiled apologetically.
"Sorry about that," he hummed. "My sister recently got into dogs. She wants to get one. I guess she's lonely."
"I'll give her some advice," Detective Hull grumbled, rubbing her nose. "Charlene said you and the victim were buddies until he found out you were gay. Alibi, please?"
"I was working all day, Detective," Dr. Herr chuckled. "Besides, I was only friends with Brady for a week. He only hung out with me to get to my sister, since he had a thing for brunettes."
"What a dick," Detective Hull grumbled, crossing her arms pointedly. "How long is your lunch break, Doctor?"
"I didn't take a lunch break that day," he admitted, thinking. "Charlotte had a terrible bloody nose and I went over to help her."
Charlotte confirmed the story, humming as Officer Reeds went through her phone records again. She didn't seem too concerned with anything, flicking through a book of poems. The very sight made Detective Hull go pale, which Charlotte noticed almost immediately.
"Not one for poems, Detective?" she asked, tilting her head curiously.
"Not after getting one from a murderer," Detective Hull admitted, running a hand over her face. Her eyes tracked the motion of Charlotte putting the poetry book away on a shelf.
"I apologize, Detective," Charlotte murmured, gently placing a comforting hand on Hull's shoulder. "If I'd have known, I would've put it away before you could get uncomfortable."
"No, it's fine," Detective Hull grumbled. "It's just me being a baby about it."
"How odd that you got a poem, though," Charlotte huffed, finger trailing over the spines of several books as she searched for one in particular. "As a librarian, I find myself wondering if it was well-written."
"I guess," the detective considered. "It really fulfilled its purpose of intimidating me."
"Is that what it was for?" Charlotte asked.
"Why else would a murderer give me a bouquet and a poem?" Detective Hull joked, then stiffened. She visibly shuddered. Charlotte's eyebrows creased. She gently gripped Detective Hull's biceps, making the detective's attention jump to her face.
"What's wrong?" she lilted.
"The murderer is flirting with me," Detective Hull whispered, gripping Charlotte's shoulders. "Oh my God, how is this my life? A murderer? Really? Oh, God, why-"
"Detective, please," Charlotte cut in, voice firmer. "Calm yourself. Surely, this is a good thing?"
"A good thing?" Detective Hull repeated, baffled.
"If a murderous psychopath really did fall for you, wouldn't that make it easier to catch them?" Charlotte suggested. "They might even make a mistake."
"What if they kill me because they feel like I don't return their affections?" Detective Hull snapped, hands tightening on Charlotte's shoulders.
"Detective, you're a brunette," Charlotte commented, which confused the detective into softening her grip. "That was Brady's type. He always hit on me because I'm a brunette. I never went out with him, but he was pretty insistent. He groped every brunette in town. If the murderer killed him, then left you a note, what do you think that tells you?"
"They don't want anyone else to touch me," Detective Hull whispered, eyes wide.
Charlotte smiled, nodded. Detective Hull slid her hands off the librarian's shoulders. Officer Reeds chose that moment to return, rubbing her forehead.
"Sorry," Officer Reeds said in lieu of greeting. "To got held up talking to that old priest from the other day. He kept going on and on about cookbooks."
"How odd," Charlotte murmured, tapping her bottom lip with a single finger. "We're such a small town, most of our cookbooks are from grandmas or moms. We only have a couple in the library."
"Wasn't there a woman who said all of this reminded her of that old saying: 'the easiest way to a man's heart is through his stomach?'" Detective Hull asked the officer.
"Yeah," Officer Reeds replied, confused but still going through her notes to see which had said it. "Are you thinking that the murderer was trying to get to these guys' hearts through their stomachs, literally?"
Detective Hull shivered. Was that the next step, after flowers? Charlotte, as though sensing her uneasiness, rubbed her arm soothingly. The shaken detective subconsciously leaned into the comforting touch. Officer Reeds was too busy going through her notes to notice, but Charlotte's face softened.
The newest corpse was different from the others. First, it was called in in the middle of the night, during a night where Detective Hull was finding her dreams haunted by visions of the past two bodies. Second, it was a female, this time. In fact, they learned later, it was the very woman who had told them it reminded her of the old saying.
Then, of course, there was the fact that her oesophagus and stomach were torn out, laying in front of her still body, her small intestines draped across the room. Jutting out of her throat were more yellow roses, the thorns digging into the skin. Detective Hull had to hold on to the wall, her face pale, as her sleep-deprived mind tried to process the image before her.
Lavendar wrapped around a bright azalea sat, patiently, in the hollow of the body. Again, the other organs were gone, though the replacement made Detective Hull shudder. She knew nothing of the language of flowers, only knowing the ones her dad had pointed out to her when they went hiking or camping. She found herself flooded with a want to know what they meant, another want battling to the surface being leaving.
She wanted, more now that she recognized that knot in her stomach, to leave. To go home, go home to her dog and quiet apartment and secret life. Quit the FBI and become something easier. A dog trainer would be nice, though her own would undoubtedly be jealous. Always was, whenever it smelled any other dog on her. It might be worth a few hours of sulky sniffing and cuddling every night if she never had to see this scene ever again.
"Detective?"
Detective Hull jumped when the hand touched her shoulder, her fist flying out and catching one of the other officers in the throat. She clasped her hands to her mouth, only to feel something warm and wet on her hands. To her horror, there had been blood on the wall, still fresh, and she had gotten a faceful of it.
"Are you okay?" she asked, weakly, to the officer.
"Yeah," he wheezed, rubbing his throat. "I didn't mean to shock you, Detective. I just thought you'd want to see this."
Another note. This one wasn't a poem, but a letter. It was still addressed to her. Detective Hull had to blink multiple times to clear her eyes enough to read it.
Maybe, Darling, you shouldn't ask around town, anymore.
Detective Hull had to leave the crime scene. She left the building, scrubbing her hands over her face, forgetting that there was still blood on her hands. She didn't care anymore, as she stared at the ground. It wavered beneath her feet, swimming in front of her eyes.
"Detective Hull," Officer Reeds murmured, keeping her distance. "I think you should go home and rest."
"You're right," Detective Hull agreed. "I'll do that. I'll come back in the morning, Officer."
"We'll wrap things up here for you," Officer Reeds promised.
Detective Hull walked in the direction of her hotel, passing in front of the large, brick library. Her mind flickered to Charlotte's lilting tone, her soft hands, her care. The detective wavered, staring, only to hear a door open.
Charlotte exited, recoiling as though shocked to see the detective. Then, she smiled and waved, tossing a garbage bag in the dumpster and jogging across the street. Up close, she gasped, hands flying to her mouth.
"Detective!" she exclaimed. "Come inside, you're covered in blood!"
Charlotte took Detective Hull's wrist into her grip, the detective unresisting as she was led into the library. Charlotte lived in the back, apparently.
"C-crime scene," Detective Hull stammered, a sensation like her brain oozing out of her ears falling over her. "Bl-blood. On th-the walls. I-I-"
"It's okay, Margaret," Charlotte promised, lilting sweetly. "I understand, it's all okay."
Charlotte gently washed the blood off of Detective Hull's face. It was so caring, the weary detective relaxed completely. She didn't even react as Charlotte's gentle hands peeled off her sweaty, blood-stained clothes.
"You're a mess," Charlotte purred, voice barely louder than a whisper. "You really got blood all over you, didn't you?"
"S-sorry," Detective Hull stuttered.
"No apologies," Charlotte tutted, though it was a soft, sweet soft. "I'm sorry it was such a mess. Should have been more careful."
Charlotte ran the wash cloth over Detective Hull's neck and chest. She set down the cloth, then took the detective's hands in her own. Detective Hull whimpered at the tenderness.
"Do you want to spend the night?" Charlotte asked, soft voice a sweet comfort.
"Please," Detective Hull whimpered, dropping into Charlotte's arms. "Please."
"No need to beg," Charlotte chuckled, warm as she guided them both to her room. "I love having you over, Detective."
"Thank you," Detective Hull murmured, the last words she spoke before falling into bed and sleep, Charlotte still tucked around her.
Detective Hull woke up in a chair. Specifically, she was tied to a chair. Her blood ran cold as her eyes opened and she found herself in a position similar to Jonny's. Her stomach lay in front of her, pain throbbed down her front, and she knew that she'd die. She closed her eyes again.
"Margaret, don't do that," the sweet voice of Charlotte cooed, a soft finger beneath the detective's chin. "Your eyes are so pretty."
"No," Margaret begged.
Charlotte bopped her nose. Margaret opened her eyes, meeting Charlotte's. The librarian seemed pleased, leaning back across the table and cocking her head to the side. The air smelled like vanilla. Margaret whimpered, but kept her eyes open.
"You're wondering how this could all be, right?" Charlotte asked, smiling prettily. "Well, you already know. The way to a man's heart and all that."
"You tried to feed Jonny his stomach," Margaret whispered.
"He wouldn't eat it," Charlotte replied. "He didn't want me. That's why I killed him."
"What about Brady?"
"I told you. He gropes every brunette in town. I happened to go to the same restaurant as Brady, the night before I killed him, talking about how much he wanted a piece of your ass. So, I killed him."
"And, the woman?"
"I had a theory, Dear, that one more would tip you over the edge, send you straight into my arms."
Margaret sighed, slumping a bit. Charlotte leaned across the table, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. Her smile was honest and open. Margaret swallowed, wondering if Charlotte could see it.
"If you eat a piece, I promise to send you home," Charlotte promised.
"Of my own stomach?" Margaret affirmed.
"Yes," Charlotte agreed, cutting off a thin layer. Margaret fought not to gag. Charlotte raised it up to Margaret's lips.
Margaret hesitantly parted her lips, accepting her own stomach into her mouth. The moment in passed her throat, she felt herself slump back. She saw Charlotte set the fork down, calmly, then get to her feet. Charlotte walked around the table at a leisure pace, even as Margaret's eyes got heavier. The librarian knelt down and pressed their lips together.
"You, Margaret," Charlotte lilted, speaking the words against her lips, "are lovely."
Margaret fell back unconscious, her eyes rolling back in her head.
Margaret woke up aching. Almost immediately, she threw up, the foul taste of bile on her tongue. Oddly, she threw up onto a previously spotless, tiled floor. She looked up, recognizing an I.V. in her arm and a hospital bed beneath her.
"Detective Hull!" a nurse exclaimed, suddenly pressing her back into the bed. "You shouldn't be awake, yet. Are you okay?"
"Was I cut open by a murderer, made to eat some of my own stomach, only for my stomach to be drugged?" Margaret questioned.
The nurse blinked a few times, her mouth gaping. Suddenly, she nodded, leaning forward.
"You remember?" she asked. "One of the officers told me to ask you who you remember, if there was anyone with you."
Margaret Hull considered her answer, then looked up at the nurse.
"I was blindfolded," she lied. "I don't remember a voice, either."
"Oh-"
"I'd like to go home, after this," Margaret whispered.
"Of course," the nurse chirped. "You've been taken off the case entirely. Officer Reeds is seeing you home."
Margaret asked the nurse if she was going to clean up the bile on the floor.
Officer Reeds saw her to a plane, then apologetically had to go back to explain things to the new detective on the case. Margaret dealt with an hour-long flight, an hour-long wait for her bags, then a half hour drive back home. The scar down her front was puckered, she could feel it beneath her shirt.
Her apartment was the same. Her dog was the same. Charlotte, smiling in the corner, was different.
"Welcome home," Charlotte purred. "You didn't turn me in."
Margaret didn't say a word, only pet her dog. Charlotte was patient. Eventually, Margaret cleared her throat and met her eyes.
"I'm going to quit my job," she stated.
"Oh?" Charlotte asked.
"I'm going to train dogs or something," Margaret continued, stroking her own. "You can get a new job, too."
"I've already applied for a position in the library," Charlotte hummed.
"Of course," Margaret replied.
The pair was silent for a while. Margaret took Charlotte into her room, the dog following, and laid down with her. They both faced the ceiling.
"You know, Charlotte," Margaret murmured, listening to the rustle of fabric as the woman turned to face her. "I've always had a problem with the person next door."
"Really?"
"Yes. They listen to loud music all night, most nights. He snuck into my apartment while I was showering, once."
"Oh."
"I just figured I'd let you know."
Margaret turned away from Charlotte. The librarian pressed up against her back, a warm arm draping over her stomach.
"It'd be a shame if he got hurt," Margaret whispered, feeling gentle kisses press to her neck. "I'd probably cry."
"A real pity," Charlotte hissed.
Margaret fell asleep with a smile on her face.
It was only once you looked at the table in front of him that you saw a problem. There was a plate, sitting innocently in front of him, a knife and fork still pristine and put together. On the plate, pristine and decorated, lay the man's stomach. It was still attached to him, his oesophagus protruding from a small hole in his neck, similar to a smoker's stoma, and his small intestine peeking out from beneath his buttoned-up shirt.
It was gruesome. The stomach was raw, but drizzled in a chocolate-looking sauce, as though it was expected to be eaten. The detective in charge of the crime scene gagged, holding her shirt over her nose and mouth, but the smell wasn't bad in the kitchen. In fact, perhaps due to the multiple candles on the counters, the whole place smelled of vanilla.
The small-town cops had been called in by the distraught girlfriend of the man, who had come home from work to find him like this, screamed, and ran away. Her coat and purse were both still on the floor beside the door, where she'd dropped them. The cops hadn't even touched it, calling in the FBI before they could get past the doorway. Which was why Detective Hull was the one to order the forensics to unbutton the shirt.
A neatly stitched scar stretched between two points, the hole in his neck and a hole above the belly button. They all took a moment to realize that the killer had pulled out his stomach, put it on the plate, then stitched it all back together without a drop of blood anywhere. One of the forensics shuddered.
"He was alive," she stated, quietly confident.
Nobody asked for details. The idea of a living dissection victim was horrifying to them all. He was dead, now, but it hadn't been from having his stomach removed. It didn't take long for the body to be packed away, sent away to be studied for the actual cause of death. Forensics, detectives, and officers searched the room for anything to identify the killer.
"Not even a smudge," one of the officers whispered, cold chills racing down his spine as he studied the glass holding the vanilla-scented candle.
"Our killer must've vacuumed," another officer sighed, searching the carpeted floors. "There isn't even dust in the corners of the room."
"Any sign of forced entry?" Detective Hull asked, even as she looked over the windows herself.
There wasn't even a speck on the windows. They were locked, closed, and cleaned. Detective Hull sighed, ignoring the unsettled turning in the pit of her stomach. According to the girlfriend, the front door had been locked when she'd gotten there, which was supported by her key still in the lock.
Since it was a single-level house in an okay neighbourhood, Detective Hull had some hope that the neighbours might've seen something, but none of them had. None of them had been home, they explained, and the one's with security cameras set up only had the cameras focused on their own home. Even the children, of which there were only three on the block, had either been napping or in daycare. The one who'd been napping wasn't even old enough to do much more than babble.
The only lead they had was the victim's being a notorious playboy who had, according to his own mother, "dated half the girls in town." Indeed, the list of girls he had dated was long, reaching into the fifties. Fifteen of them had even been his fiancee, at one point, only to end up dumped.
The town's library had a book of contact information, which was incredibly helpful for Detective Hull. The librarian was happy enough to answer any questions, going so far as to offer her assistance in any way necessary.
"Has anything like this ever happened before?" Detective Hull questioned, while her team went through and wrote down all fifty-eight of the victim's previous girlfriends' contact information.
"I'm not sure," the librarian murmured, rocking back and forth on her feet thoughtfully. Detective Hull couldn't help but note that she was pretty young. "We have old newspaper clippings, if you want to look through them."
"That would be great," Detective Hull sighed, already mentally noting to look them over only if nothing else turned up. "Could you get them for me, please? Or, just tell me where they are."
"I'll grab them," the librarian said, offering a comforting smile before disappearing into a room labelled 'RECORDS.'
She came out of the room with a box full to the brim with newspaper clippings. Just looking at them, even as neatly organized as they were, Detective Hull felt a strong urge to down a bottle or two of whiskey. The librarian giggled at her defeated expression.
"Don't worry," she chirped. "I'm sure one of his ex-girl's will come through for you."
"God, I hope so," Detective Hull replied.
Most of the victim's girlfriends had alibis. Ten of them had moved out of the state, fifteen others worked in different towns, and thirty of them were married. Still, Detective Hull dutifully went to each one, interrogating them politely. Most of them didn't seem devastated in the slightest.
"Jonny was the biggest prick in town," one explained, around her cigarette outside her house. "He called all his girls "Notches in the Bedpost." Asshole, right?"
"I'm surprised he didn't die sooner," another commented, folding clothes in her living room. "Not murder, no. But, Jonny had a bad habit of drunk driving. We all bet he'd go off the bridge on his way home, one night."
"Gross way of killin' someone, ain't it?" yet another considered, gesturing to the newspaper still on her table. "I read all 'bout it in the paper. It kinda reminds ya of that ole sayin' that you have to get to a man's heart through his stomach, don't it?"
"Jonny had a bunch of girls after his jock that he never screwed," the thirtieth explained, even as she cooked dinner for three kids in the other room. "He was a real bitch about his girls. Had a type, you know? He liked blonds, wouldn't even lay a finger on brunettes. He dumped me the second I dyed my hair black. I'd bet it was one of the girls with a crush."
"He was a slut," his own mother told Detective Hull. "A popular, jock-type slut. He fucked half the town, but the other half also wanted a fuck from him."
Detective Hull's team had nothing to show from fifty-eight interviews, except that none of his exes liked the victim and he was a picky slut. Detective Hull considered these two things, the only two things that every one of the ex-girls, the victim's mother, and even a passing priest had agreed on. She slammed her head down on the table, considering stabbing herself.
"Sorry we can't help you more," Jon's mother, Cherry, apologized, though she certainly didn't look too apologetic. "Even if one of us did know something, wouldn't it be dangerous to tell you?"
"No," Detective Hull muttered into Cherry's coffee table, the officer beside her patting her back consolingly. "We don't tell anyone in town about these interrogations."
"I'd go after one of the doctors at the General Hospital," Cherry stated. "Jonny always told me that that man was a flamer for him."
"Cherry, I could marry you," Detective Hull sobbed.
Cherry laughed. She couldn't understand that it was the first lead in what felt like three years. Truthfully, it had only been two days.
Dr. Herr, when they interrogated him, seemed baffled. He was a good-looking man, with a full head of brown hair. A picky slut like Jonny would never go near him, definitely.
"I'm a suspect?" he confirmed, confused. "I don't understand."
"Pretty much everyone in the state is a suspect," Detective Hull grumbled, somewhat exhausted and hungover from a late night.
"Then, I suppose I'm not too offended that I'm included," Dr. Herr muttered, thoughtful. "Is there really so little to go on?"
"My life is torture," Detective Hull whispered.
"She means to say that we'd just like to know what you were doing the day of the crime," the officer beside her, Officer Reeds, corrected.
"I had the day off," Dr. Herr admitted, thinking back. "I spent most of the day on the phone with my sister. If you go to the library, you'll meet her, Charlotte Herr, the librarian."
The librarian, Charlotte, confirmed this pleasantly. She sorted through books as Officer Reeds looked at her phone records. They had really been on the phone the whole day, only twenty minutes, at the longest, between calls. Twenty minutes wasn't long enough for him to go to Jonny's house, let alone murder him without a trace of blood.
"What were you talking about all day?" Detective Hull questioned, her mind flicking through who she could leave this case to so she could go home, five states away, and pet her dog, Cliff.
"We were talking about a gift for our mother," Charlotte explained, sliding several books into their correct spots. "I went to shop for it, but had to double-check with him the details. I felt so dumb, we just ended up ordering it online, even though I spent all day pestering him."
"There goes our lead," Detective Hull grumbled, rubbing her eyes. "We might have to just call this one cold."
"That would scare the town," Charlotte frowned, pausing in putting away her books so she could look at the detective. "We're a small town. Murders like this scare us pretty bad."
"That's true," Detective Hull admitted guiltily, then turned to Officer Reeds. "Do you think they can put someone else on the case?"
"Aw, don't say that, Chief," Officer Reeds grinned, slapping her back. "Everyone in town already likes you. Right, Miss Herr?"
"I like you, Detective," Charlotte chirped.
"Don't guilt me," Hull huffed. "It was a joke."
Charlotte smiled. Detective Hull huffed again. Officer Reeds laughed at them.
Jonny's body had been treated somewhat respectfully. This one, on the other hand, was torn to shreds. There was hardly a surface in the apartment that didn't have blood on it, not to mention his organs. They had all been torn out, leaving him cut open and hollow, and were scattered across the apartment.
Despite his empty body, his mouth was full of what they recognized as his stomach. His teeth and tongue weren't in his mouth, only his stomach, his oesophagus still attached but just circling from his neck back into his mouth.
There were more candles, still vanilla-scented, all lit. None of them had even a drop of blood on them. It was rather impressive, since there was a literal inhuman amount of blood covering everything. It painted the ceiling, walls, doors, windows, everything. The smell was a disgusting, bloody vanilla. Nobody wanted to go inside.
The worst part, debateably, was the clean bouquet of of flowers that sat, in a lovely vase, beside the body. Yellow roses, with morning glory surrounding the buds. Tiny beads of water still peppered the flowers. They'd been watered only minutes before the cops had been called. The included note card was tucked very visibly on top.
The lack of blood anywhere near the bouquet unnerved all of them. Officer Reeds picked up the letter, paling immediately. She hurried over to Detective Hull, who was looking at the small intestine that had been layered on top of the counter.
"It's for you," Officer Reeds whispered.
Chills raced down Detective Hull's spine as she took the note away from the officer. She flipped it open to find her full name, though she'd introduced herself without her first name to everyone in the town, in strict letters. A poem followed, all in strict letters that were so obviously stenciled Detective Hull wanted to cry.
Yellow Rose for Jealousy
Morning Glory for a Promise
Darling you're trapped forever
Until I get my kiss
Detective Hull wondered if throwing up would be a dramatic reaction. She handed the note off to one of the members of Forensic, walking out of the apartment quickly for some fresh air. It had been signed with a 'Your Secret Admirer' and Detective Hull felt sick. She stared down at the pavement, cold wind passing over her, only the rustle of cloth coming from behind her reassuring her she wasn't alone.
She choked down the lump in her oesophagus, then went back in.
The victim was not so notorious a playboy, this time. He'd only dated four girls, all of them brunettes who didn't even remember his name until Detective Hull and Officer Reeds reminded them of it.
"Oh, Brady," the first hummed, thinking. She worked as a nurse at the hospital. "I went on one date with him. He was too clingy for me. Always wanted to know where I was and what I was doing. Told me not to be friends with anyone. I broke up with him. I forgot we even went out."
"Brady was so dumb," the second offered, as though she'd only just remembered. She also worked as a nurse. "He always told me to stay away from other girls, unless they wanted a threesome. Dumb as a brick, that prick."
"Jealous bastard," the third shrugged. She worked as a doctor. "Told me not to even look at other guys, but groped every other girl in the school. I kneed him in the balls then tried to forget him."
"Uh, I don't remember," the fourth and final admitted. She worked as a vet. "I dated a lot of guys. Sorry, I don't remember a Brady."
The only constant was that he was forgettable. The hypocrite angle was interesting, since that would give any of the girls a reason to murder him, but most of them had alibis. Without any solid leads, they went to talk to his mother, Charlene.
"Brady was always competing with Jonny," Charlene explained, the only woman in town who seemed to remember he existed. "None of the girls really liked him, though, so it was pretty one-sided. Dr. Herr was pretty much his only friend, but he ditched Dr. Herr after that whole gay fiasco went over. Didn't want to be buds with a fag. Can you blame him?"
"Yes," Detective Hull replied, to the woman's shock. "But, his idiotic personality leads to a suspect, so I guess his homophobia was good for something."
"Getting him murdered by a homo?" Charlene choked.
"Yeah," Detective Hull stated. "Well, maybe."
Dr. Herr had Saturdays off, which it was, luckily. He was very polite, even as he had to answer his phone almost ten seconds after he invited them in. They sat on his couch, watching as he stared glumly at the floor, waiting.
"As much as I'd love to talk to you for three hours about dogs, Char," Dr. Herr began, though he didn't sound all that disappointed at all, "I've got guests. I'm suspect to murder, again, probably. No, no, it's no big deal. You know, two homophobes get murdered and the gay guy is a suspect, right? What do you mean that doesn't happen often enough for you to know? Whatever, Charlotte. I'll call you when they've left. Only call me if there's an emergency."
He hung up very purposefully, then sat across from the detective and officer. He smiled apologetically.
"Sorry about that," he hummed. "My sister recently got into dogs. She wants to get one. I guess she's lonely."
"I'll give her some advice," Detective Hull grumbled, rubbing her nose. "Charlene said you and the victim were buddies until he found out you were gay. Alibi, please?"
"I was working all day, Detective," Dr. Herr chuckled. "Besides, I was only friends with Brady for a week. He only hung out with me to get to my sister, since he had a thing for brunettes."
"What a dick," Detective Hull grumbled, crossing her arms pointedly. "How long is your lunch break, Doctor?"
"I didn't take a lunch break that day," he admitted, thinking. "Charlotte had a terrible bloody nose and I went over to help her."
Charlotte confirmed the story, humming as Officer Reeds went through her phone records again. She didn't seem too concerned with anything, flicking through a book of poems. The very sight made Detective Hull go pale, which Charlotte noticed almost immediately.
"Not one for poems, Detective?" she asked, tilting her head curiously.
"Not after getting one from a murderer," Detective Hull admitted, running a hand over her face. Her eyes tracked the motion of Charlotte putting the poetry book away on a shelf.
"I apologize, Detective," Charlotte murmured, gently placing a comforting hand on Hull's shoulder. "If I'd have known, I would've put it away before you could get uncomfortable."
"No, it's fine," Detective Hull grumbled. "It's just me being a baby about it."
"How odd that you got a poem, though," Charlotte huffed, finger trailing over the spines of several books as she searched for one in particular. "As a librarian, I find myself wondering if it was well-written."
"I guess," the detective considered. "It really fulfilled its purpose of intimidating me."
"Is that what it was for?" Charlotte asked.
"Why else would a murderer give me a bouquet and a poem?" Detective Hull joked, then stiffened. She visibly shuddered. Charlotte's eyebrows creased. She gently gripped Detective Hull's biceps, making the detective's attention jump to her face.
"What's wrong?" she lilted.
"The murderer is flirting with me," Detective Hull whispered, gripping Charlotte's shoulders. "Oh my God, how is this my life? A murderer? Really? Oh, God, why-"
"Detective, please," Charlotte cut in, voice firmer. "Calm yourself. Surely, this is a good thing?"
"A good thing?" Detective Hull repeated, baffled.
"If a murderous psychopath really did fall for you, wouldn't that make it easier to catch them?" Charlotte suggested. "They might even make a mistake."
"What if they kill me because they feel like I don't return their affections?" Detective Hull snapped, hands tightening on Charlotte's shoulders.
"Detective, you're a brunette," Charlotte commented, which confused the detective into softening her grip. "That was Brady's type. He always hit on me because I'm a brunette. I never went out with him, but he was pretty insistent. He groped every brunette in town. If the murderer killed him, then left you a note, what do you think that tells you?"
"They don't want anyone else to touch me," Detective Hull whispered, eyes wide.
Charlotte smiled, nodded. Detective Hull slid her hands off the librarian's shoulders. Officer Reeds chose that moment to return, rubbing her forehead.
"Sorry," Officer Reeds said in lieu of greeting. "To got held up talking to that old priest from the other day. He kept going on and on about cookbooks."
"How odd," Charlotte murmured, tapping her bottom lip with a single finger. "We're such a small town, most of our cookbooks are from grandmas or moms. We only have a couple in the library."
"Wasn't there a woman who said all of this reminded her of that old saying: 'the easiest way to a man's heart is through his stomach?'" Detective Hull asked the officer.
"Yeah," Officer Reeds replied, confused but still going through her notes to see which had said it. "Are you thinking that the murderer was trying to get to these guys' hearts through their stomachs, literally?"
Detective Hull shivered. Was that the next step, after flowers? Charlotte, as though sensing her uneasiness, rubbed her arm soothingly. The shaken detective subconsciously leaned into the comforting touch. Officer Reeds was too busy going through her notes to notice, but Charlotte's face softened.
The newest corpse was different from the others. First, it was called in in the middle of the night, during a night where Detective Hull was finding her dreams haunted by visions of the past two bodies. Second, it was a female, this time. In fact, they learned later, it was the very woman who had told them it reminded her of the old saying.
Then, of course, there was the fact that her oesophagus and stomach were torn out, laying in front of her still body, her small intestines draped across the room. Jutting out of her throat were more yellow roses, the thorns digging into the skin. Detective Hull had to hold on to the wall, her face pale, as her sleep-deprived mind tried to process the image before her.
Lavendar wrapped around a bright azalea sat, patiently, in the hollow of the body. Again, the other organs were gone, though the replacement made Detective Hull shudder. She knew nothing of the language of flowers, only knowing the ones her dad had pointed out to her when they went hiking or camping. She found herself flooded with a want to know what they meant, another want battling to the surface being leaving.
She wanted, more now that she recognized that knot in her stomach, to leave. To go home, go home to her dog and quiet apartment and secret life. Quit the FBI and become something easier. A dog trainer would be nice, though her own would undoubtedly be jealous. Always was, whenever it smelled any other dog on her. It might be worth a few hours of sulky sniffing and cuddling every night if she never had to see this scene ever again.
"Detective?"
Detective Hull jumped when the hand touched her shoulder, her fist flying out and catching one of the other officers in the throat. She clasped her hands to her mouth, only to feel something warm and wet on her hands. To her horror, there had been blood on the wall, still fresh, and she had gotten a faceful of it.
"Are you okay?" she asked, weakly, to the officer.
"Yeah," he wheezed, rubbing his throat. "I didn't mean to shock you, Detective. I just thought you'd want to see this."
Another note. This one wasn't a poem, but a letter. It was still addressed to her. Detective Hull had to blink multiple times to clear her eyes enough to read it.
Maybe, Darling, you shouldn't ask around town, anymore.
Detective Hull had to leave the crime scene. She left the building, scrubbing her hands over her face, forgetting that there was still blood on her hands. She didn't care anymore, as she stared at the ground. It wavered beneath her feet, swimming in front of her eyes.
"Detective Hull," Officer Reeds murmured, keeping her distance. "I think you should go home and rest."
"You're right," Detective Hull agreed. "I'll do that. I'll come back in the morning, Officer."
"We'll wrap things up here for you," Officer Reeds promised.
Detective Hull walked in the direction of her hotel, passing in front of the large, brick library. Her mind flickered to Charlotte's lilting tone, her soft hands, her care. The detective wavered, staring, only to hear a door open.
Charlotte exited, recoiling as though shocked to see the detective. Then, she smiled and waved, tossing a garbage bag in the dumpster and jogging across the street. Up close, she gasped, hands flying to her mouth.
"Detective!" she exclaimed. "Come inside, you're covered in blood!"
Charlotte took Detective Hull's wrist into her grip, the detective unresisting as she was led into the library. Charlotte lived in the back, apparently.
"C-crime scene," Detective Hull stammered, a sensation like her brain oozing out of her ears falling over her. "Bl-blood. On th-the walls. I-I-"
"It's okay, Margaret," Charlotte promised, lilting sweetly. "I understand, it's all okay."
Charlotte gently washed the blood off of Detective Hull's face. It was so caring, the weary detective relaxed completely. She didn't even react as Charlotte's gentle hands peeled off her sweaty, blood-stained clothes.
"You're a mess," Charlotte purred, voice barely louder than a whisper. "You really got blood all over you, didn't you?"
"S-sorry," Detective Hull stuttered.
"No apologies," Charlotte tutted, though it was a soft, sweet soft. "I'm sorry it was such a mess. Should have been more careful."
Charlotte ran the wash cloth over Detective Hull's neck and chest. She set down the cloth, then took the detective's hands in her own. Detective Hull whimpered at the tenderness.
"Do you want to spend the night?" Charlotte asked, soft voice a sweet comfort.
"Please," Detective Hull whimpered, dropping into Charlotte's arms. "Please."
"No need to beg," Charlotte chuckled, warm as she guided them both to her room. "I love having you over, Detective."
"Thank you," Detective Hull murmured, the last words she spoke before falling into bed and sleep, Charlotte still tucked around her.
Detective Hull woke up in a chair. Specifically, she was tied to a chair. Her blood ran cold as her eyes opened and she found herself in a position similar to Jonny's. Her stomach lay in front of her, pain throbbed down her front, and she knew that she'd die. She closed her eyes again.
"Margaret, don't do that," the sweet voice of Charlotte cooed, a soft finger beneath the detective's chin. "Your eyes are so pretty."
"No," Margaret begged.
Charlotte bopped her nose. Margaret opened her eyes, meeting Charlotte's. The librarian seemed pleased, leaning back across the table and cocking her head to the side. The air smelled like vanilla. Margaret whimpered, but kept her eyes open.
"You're wondering how this could all be, right?" Charlotte asked, smiling prettily. "Well, you already know. The way to a man's heart and all that."
"You tried to feed Jonny his stomach," Margaret whispered.
"He wouldn't eat it," Charlotte replied. "He didn't want me. That's why I killed him."
"What about Brady?"
"I told you. He gropes every brunette in town. I happened to go to the same restaurant as Brady, the night before I killed him, talking about how much he wanted a piece of your ass. So, I killed him."
"And, the woman?"
"I had a theory, Dear, that one more would tip you over the edge, send you straight into my arms."
Margaret sighed, slumping a bit. Charlotte leaned across the table, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. Her smile was honest and open. Margaret swallowed, wondering if Charlotte could see it.
"If you eat a piece, I promise to send you home," Charlotte promised.
"Of my own stomach?" Margaret affirmed.
"Yes," Charlotte agreed, cutting off a thin layer. Margaret fought not to gag. Charlotte raised it up to Margaret's lips.
Margaret hesitantly parted her lips, accepting her own stomach into her mouth. The moment in passed her throat, she felt herself slump back. She saw Charlotte set the fork down, calmly, then get to her feet. Charlotte walked around the table at a leisure pace, even as Margaret's eyes got heavier. The librarian knelt down and pressed their lips together.
"You, Margaret," Charlotte lilted, speaking the words against her lips, "are lovely."
Margaret fell back unconscious, her eyes rolling back in her head.
Margaret woke up aching. Almost immediately, she threw up, the foul taste of bile on her tongue. Oddly, she threw up onto a previously spotless, tiled floor. She looked up, recognizing an I.V. in her arm and a hospital bed beneath her.
"Detective Hull!" a nurse exclaimed, suddenly pressing her back into the bed. "You shouldn't be awake, yet. Are you okay?"
"Was I cut open by a murderer, made to eat some of my own stomach, only for my stomach to be drugged?" Margaret questioned.
The nurse blinked a few times, her mouth gaping. Suddenly, she nodded, leaning forward.
"You remember?" she asked. "One of the officers told me to ask you who you remember, if there was anyone with you."
Margaret Hull considered her answer, then looked up at the nurse.
"I was blindfolded," she lied. "I don't remember a voice, either."
"Oh-"
"I'd like to go home, after this," Margaret whispered.
"Of course," the nurse chirped. "You've been taken off the case entirely. Officer Reeds is seeing you home."
Margaret asked the nurse if she was going to clean up the bile on the floor.
Officer Reeds saw her to a plane, then apologetically had to go back to explain things to the new detective on the case. Margaret dealt with an hour-long flight, an hour-long wait for her bags, then a half hour drive back home. The scar down her front was puckered, she could feel it beneath her shirt.
Her apartment was the same. Her dog was the same. Charlotte, smiling in the corner, was different.
"Welcome home," Charlotte purred. "You didn't turn me in."
Margaret didn't say a word, only pet her dog. Charlotte was patient. Eventually, Margaret cleared her throat and met her eyes.
"I'm going to quit my job," she stated.
"Oh?" Charlotte asked.
"I'm going to train dogs or something," Margaret continued, stroking her own. "You can get a new job, too."
"I've already applied for a position in the library," Charlotte hummed.
"Of course," Margaret replied.
The pair was silent for a while. Margaret took Charlotte into her room, the dog following, and laid down with her. They both faced the ceiling.
"You know, Charlotte," Margaret murmured, listening to the rustle of fabric as the woman turned to face her. "I've always had a problem with the person next door."
"Really?"
"Yes. They listen to loud music all night, most nights. He snuck into my apartment while I was showering, once."
"Oh."
"I just figured I'd let you know."
Margaret turned away from Charlotte. The librarian pressed up against her back, a warm arm draping over her stomach.
"It'd be a shame if he got hurt," Margaret whispered, feeling gentle kisses press to her neck. "I'd probably cry."
"A real pity," Charlotte hissed.
Margaret fell asleep with a smile on her face.
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