Gingerbread

Chapter One

There we go, I said to the empty room, except that it wasn’t exactly empty. A dead guy didn’t count, though. He couldn’t hear anymore, nor could he have responded. That ought to do it!

My voice was light and chipper as I reviewed my work. I had placed just enough blood spray around the room to destroy any actual analysis the police might apply to this particular crime scene’s blood splattering. Hair strands that I took from a floozy at a bar last night have been dropped here and there about the room. Holding a woman’s hair back for her while she puked in a back alley had proven valuable more times than I could recall. She won’t likely come up on any DNA testing, but it would throw the cops a curve ball and waste their time.

I moved next to the wall behind his bed. It was one of those massive California King sized beds. He’d been into some pretty kinky shit, too. I’d found plenty of ropes for bondage play. Rubber paddles and spanking mechanisms for all sorts of kinky fuckery were in the top drawer of his long dresser, along with lubes and feather ticklers, too. Predictable. I painted the back wall with a message that would surely throw off the ignorant police. W.A.S.P ELEETIST PIG and down a line I continued my message in his blood, EAT THAT. I purposely misspelled the word elitist to further confuse the police about the kind of man they were looking for. I even made sure to put periods between the letters of the first word so that the stupid police didn’t start profiling large colonies of biting insects. They needed all the help they could get sometimes.

Next I removed my surgical scalpel from my pouch of goodies, my toys. I neatly sliced off the man’s flaccid penis with enough skill to put the best plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills to shame. Then I placed it in his mouth. There was so much morbid symbolism in this single act that I chuckled. I didn’t know this man, not that well, nor intimately. I never knew him on a molecular level other than tonight. Other people I associated with knew him better than me. I knew of him from what I read in the papers and on the web. He was a businessman. He owned a large food processing plant, junk food mostly in a dumpy small town an hour from here. He didn’t live there. No way, not him. He lived in a mansion with marble floors, a grand foyer with a circular staircase, a state of the art kitchen, a sub-z fridge stocked with only high priced organic food.

Recently he laid off two hundred of his loyal employees. I had no doubts that he intended to follow the current trend of replacing those workers with illegals from third world countries. That wasn’t why I’d killed him. Nor why I’d killed him so brutally. I didn’t have to stab him dozens of times with a six-inch serrated dagger. It did, however, give any one of those two hundred likely disgruntled employees a motive, especially with the angry, cryptic message. That was also not why I’d killed him. I couldn’t care less if he was a weasel who laid off his workers. I didn’t care that the food he produced clogs people’s arteries and gave them diabetes. I simply didn’t care about this person in any way. I cared about as much for him as I would any other person. As much as I could care about any person.

I didn’t actually need to work that hard to cover my ass. Covering up my crime scenes was like second hat for me. It was easy, actually. I’d been killing people for almost ten years. Never had I been questioned or linked to any of the murders. Not once. And why? I was a professional. No, not like a killer for hire kind of thing. I was just a professional serial killer. I killed for me. I killed to squash the demons in my head. To quiet them just enough to function in my normal, boring, daily life until the next time the urge needed subdued again. To say that I enjoyed it wasn’t always accurate. Sometimes, of course, I did enjoy it. Quite thoroughly actually. But, then again, I sometimes didn’t enjoy it all that much. It was a fuck ton of work to do. There was the vetting of the player- that’s what I called them, although they didn’t know this- the research, the stalking, the planning. It was a lot of work. Sometimes it took months to plan it all out. Sometimes I would actually get a player who put up a fight. Difficult to cover bruises at my day job. I was supposed to look professional, neat, on time, a high-end class act at all times. I dealt with the wealthy businessmen of the city. I was not the kind of loser who went to bars and got into brawls.

The bloated, spread eagle body of my player lay face up, staring at nothing on his ceiling of mirrors. More kink. In the shape that he was in, he shouldn’t have wanted to look so much. Fat fuck. I didn’t think he was eating the healthy food in his fridge. It must’ve been a well-placed suggestion of the wife. She was out of town, naturally, or I wouldn’t have been here killing her piece of shit husband. Then I’d have to kill her, too. Not a big deal. I was an equal opportunity serial. I just had no interest this time in her. The one thing I didn’t do was kill kids. There was no sport in it. Plus, they could’ve been as fucked up as me. Why not let them unleash all that on the world some day?

For being such a rich asshole, this guy conveniently lived out in the middle of nowhere. He even let me in his gated drive when I buzzed in. He let me in his front door, too. Perhaps he was expecting someone who looked like me later. Perhaps he was awaiting a paid professional for the evening. Not the kind of professional I am, mind you. Hell, for all I knew he could’ve been full-blown gay and the marriage was a front. Who knew?

I strutted into the bathroom, admiring my muscular, naked calves and toned, sinewy biceps. I did ninety minutes of yoga six days a week, ran three miles four days a week and performed strength training exercises three days a week. I was also self-taught on most weapons and a black belt in karate. It was important to stay in shape. My diet was extremely controlled with a high protein, low carb input. I slid my hands over my bare, six pack exposed in the floor-to-ceiling mirror next to the shower. Sometimes killing a player was like foreplay for me, but I wouldn’t do something stupid and reckless like masturbate and leave evidence here at the crime scene. There would be plenty of time for that later as I recounted again and again the night’s event. My toned body was covered in the player’s blood. Even if I took the time to shower here, which I would not, my DNA would not come up on a crime lab’s extensive records. I’d never been arrested. I was squeaky clean. I was employed, single, white and a taxpayer.

I used my pinkie finger and swiped some of the player’s blood onto it. Carefully, I drew my hallmark, my calling card behind the white commode. It was difficult to do, but I was patient and tenacious. Most of the time, the police never even found it. I knew they didn’t or a serial killer would be all over the news reports. I was clever. Sometimes I hid it in funny little places, places the pathetic police would never look.

The expression in my eyes reflected in the mirror after I finished my sketch was one of excitement. They looked like two, round orbs of icy fire. My red hair, which was normally so neat and tidy, was disheveled. It wasn’t really my hair. It was a wig. My real hair rested hidden beneath in a very tight swimmer’s cap. Even the wig being messy was throwing off my normal appearance, though. This was not how I went to work, not on my day job. I always wore an impeccably tailored suit. I was clean cut. I always said the right thing, paid the right compliments, although I rarely meant it. I made small talk with the men about the weekend’s sporting events, told the women how flattering that new dress was. Sometimes I imagined killing my co-workers for the fun of it. Such mice. It would really be too easy.

I used two of the player’s pristinely white bath towels and wiped most of the blood from my body, especially where it would be seen should I be randomly pulled over for a routine traffic violation from a worthless ticket writer. I redressed but kept on the black leather gloves. Under said gloves, was a pair of precautionary rubber gloves like doctors and nurses on the infectious disease ward of a hospital would wear 24-7. I slid into my jeans, pulled on my black sweater and carried my shoes into the other room. I gathered my tools and left the bedroom. My work there was done. I would not remove the wig until I was closer to home. The black leather gloves, which were splattered with blood would be removed before I got into my expensive black sedan. No sense in spoiling the supple leather.

I took the work boots, three sizes larger than my own feet, out of my bag. I tromped around a few times like a lay-person would, purposely stepping in blood to leave a trail. I even traipsed down the wide, circular stairs to the first floor in them. There was nothing remarkable about them. And I didn’t buy them from a local shoe store. No traceable receipt of sale. I ordered them in batches of two’s and three’s on the internet and had them shipped to my home. The boots left patterns that even the police should be able to see on the white carpeting and the bamboo flooring on the first floor.

I went to the fridge and ransacked it, throwing produce and fruit around the kitchen. It was rather cathartic actually. But this was just more proof that an angry employee could have done this to their once beloved, former employer. Or at least to the guy who signed their paychecks every two weeks.

Next I went into the player’s den, which also doubled as his control room. I fried his computer with bleach and took the hard-drive out of the security system, as I knew that he had driveway cameras. I left the player’s home and went to the rear of it. I used a potted plant to bash in a French door’s glass. More staging. Then I unlocked the door, making sure to leave no blood marks or evidence. I walked straight through to the front of the house again where I exited to my awaiting Mercedes. I left the front door open. After all, I wanted someone to find the poor guy’s body. He shouldn’t have to wait for his wife to get back from her girl’s weekend and lie in there rotting for four days. He had a landscaper that came on Fridays to mow and prune and manicure his property. He’ll be rather surprised, probably horrified at what he’ll find in there. But the thing he’ll likely be most distressed about was whether or not he’d still have a job. I would’ve been. Job security was a bitch.

I removed my gloves and the extra set of gloves. It was always smart to kill in the nude. No fuss, no muss. As I drove away from the immaculately landscaped property and pulled onto the main road again, I turned on the radio. I started surfing. Talk radio, Christian rock- the irony- classic 80’s, talk radio again and then finally, Bach. It was his cello suite number one. Fantastic! I was raised on the Upper East Side in New York City. I went to private schools, studied cello for my entire youth, had two different nannies, attended Brown and then Yale. I had the perfect resume. I was the right combination of sex appeal and brains. The music really embodied my light and pious mood. I thought perhaps I’d hit a fast food drive-through and treat myself to unhealthy garbage for a change. Maybe I’d even have a milkshake. I normally ate enough for three men after a kill. The adrenaline sure did work up an appetite. I strummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I drove and hummed along as the music swelled.

Chapter Two

Lorena

She rolled over onto her back, letting the sunlight from the expansive bay window filter through onto her bare skin. Lorena knew last night when she’d ordered that third Bacardi-and-Diet that she’d have a headache in the morning. The beer prior to it also hadn’t helped. She wasn’t much of drinker, but last night she’d needed one. Or several. After all, it wasn’t every day when a cop from their precinct was killed in the line of duty. They’d all gotten a little drunk. Actually, some got a lot drunk. Her partner got totally head-in-the-toilet wasted.

Aunt Lo? Gracie’s voice came from the hallway. Aunt Lorena, you ready? I’m gonna be late for school. Again!

Uh, yeah, Lorena called back to her fourteen-year-old niece of whom she had full custody. Gimme’ five minutes, Grace.

’Kay, her niece yelled back. Oh, hey! You got like four texts in like the last half hour.

Crap, Lorena swore and bounded from her bed. She ran to her bathroom, popped two aspirin into her mouth, used the sink water to down them. Then she brushed her teeth and splashed water onto her face. Her hazel eyes stared back at her with two, punishing dark circles of sleeplessness under them. She pulled on some halfway decent clothing. Some of it came directly from the bedroom floor. Her black blazer looked badly wrinkled so she tossed it back to the bed and grabbed a fresh navy one from her closet to go with her jeans. She’d never been much of a clean freak. Being a detective didn’t exactly demand Armani suits and Manolo Blahniks. A detective’s salary also didn’t supply a surplus of cash for shopping splurges at Saks. A couple swipes of a brush through her dark hair and a plain rubber band secured it into a ponytail. Good enough. The captain was used to her by now anyway, so she jogged down the curved staircase to the first floor.

When she arrived in the kitchen, Gracie already had breakfast waiting for her. She guzzled her protein shake, ate two bites of a PopTart and grabbed her coffee in her travel mug. Her niece stood by the door with a rotten grin on her tiny face the whole time.

Smartass, Lorena chided as she exited through the kitchen door to the three-car garage with her precocious young niece.

You look like one of those anti-underage drinking posters that say something like ‘don’t drink or this is what happens to you,’ Gracie teased.

Thanks, I know, Lorena agreed. That’s why I never do it. Sorry I got in so late last night. I had to drop Bob at his house. He probably looks worse than me today. At least, he’d better look worse than me. He’s an old fart. He’ll look like a zombie, and I’ll look like a younger zombie. So… there’s that.

He better look a hell of a lot worse than you if you think that’s gonna make you look better, her niece joked.

Hey! What did I say about swearing? Lorena corrected her. It had always been hard to do. She never liked being the tough parent. Unfortunately, for a long time she’d had to be the only parent. Her sister and brother-in-law were killed in a car accident six years ago. That was right before Lorena made detective. Killed by a drunken and high-on-meth loser. Lorena was the only one of her screwed up family who could’ve taken in Gracie. She’d been glad to do it. Her sister had obviously wanted it that way, too, because she’d left instructions in her will that should anything ever happen to her or her husband then Lorena should get full, unadulterated custody of Grace until she turned eighteen.

Sorry, Aunt Lo, Gracie apologized.

It’s ok, Lorena murmured and pulled on her dark amber aviators to guard against the sun’s bright glare. She climbed into her dark blue, unmarked sedan, care of the police station where she worked. The humid, Cleveland heat had made the dark interior like a stinky sauna.

Hey, on the bright side, you could be an extra for a zombie movie, Grace added as she clicked her seatbelt.

I told you not to watch that crap anymore. They just give you nightmares, Lorena scolded.

Me and CC watched a movie her dad rented last week. It was stupid, though. Not so scary this time. Besides, I’m getting older. I don’t get as scared by movies as I used to.

I gotta call in, Grace.

It’s cool. Go ahead, her niece said as she pulled her long, blonde hair out from behind her to rest over her shoulder.

Lorena smiled to herself. Grace had always been an easy kid. Thank God. Otherwise, Lorena would’ve been screwed.

Captain, what do ya’ got? she asked into her phone once she was transferred directly to him. She listened patiently as he railed at her for a few moments about not answering her phone sooner. Then he got to the point. There was a murder. Another one. It was in her jurisdiction. Her partner, Bob Peterson, was already at the station and waiting for her. Strange. He usually had her pick him up in the morning at his house.

After she dropped Grace at school, waited until she made it into the building safely and tried to ignore her niece’s rolling of the eyes drama, she headed for her precinct. She sped along the city streets toward the station as her mind went through her recent case files. This was the third murder in the last three months that she’d been handed, and she knew that wasn’t by accident. She pulled right up to the front of the police station and left the car running. Lorena ran up the front steps of her precinct where Bob stood out front awaiting her.

How ya’ feeling this morning, big guy? Lorena teased and got a groan and a sneer in return.

I blame you, he complained, adding the familiar hangover moan of agony.

Me? What the heck?

Yeah, you’re supposed to be my partner, have my back, he jeered with good-natured humor in his tone.

Lorena noted his equally wrinkled apparel and figured he got the same rude wake-up call this morning.

I got your back, but I ain’t your momma, she teased. So where we headed on this fine, sunny morning?

Cedar Hills, he said as they walked down the front steps of the precinct to the car.

Oooh, fancy! Lorena joked as they both got into the dark sedan.

Yeah, even rich jerks can get themselves killed, Bob said as he sipped his coffee, always black, no cream, no sugar.

To say that her partner was cynical would be a gross understatement. Sometimes Lorena worried that she was going to turn out the same way after twenty years on the job, that she wouldn’t be able to see the good in people anymore.

M.E. there yet? Lorena asked as she turned south toward the suburbs.

Yeah, I guess the old bat beat us there, he joked.

Lorena knew how much Bob didn’t get along with their Medical Examiner. It was always like a clash of the egos, but he liked to say that she’d insulted him one year at a Christmas party.

Ease down, tiger, she soothed his ire. She’s a good ME, Peterson. Take it easy on her.

Yeah, yeah, he complained. She’s still a pain in my ass. Probably has issues with men, a real man-hater or something.

Uh-huh, well, tell that to her husband… and four boys, Lorena razzed.

Alrighty, I got ya.’ Let’s just go over the victim, he said irritably as he flipped open the file.

You said asshole so I’m assuming our victim’s a man, she said as she pulled down her aviator shades. The sun was already up and high and hot. It was going to be muggy as hell again.

Righto. Vic is a dude, a Mr. Antony Sarchione- or however the hell you pronounce it, Bob related. Millionaire vic, owned some food manufacturing plant or some shit. Probably all sugar and GMO garbage food. The kind of shit my kids eat.

Kind of shit I eat, she teased and received a laugh.

Yeah, well we’re not all young pups like you anymore. Some of us have to worry about shit like high cholesterol and BMI’s.

Gimme’ a break, Peterson, Lorena chided. You don’t worry about any of that. Louise worries about that for you.

He chuckled and gave a shrug of resignation. They’d been partners for a little over two years, and there wasn’t anyone that Lorena trusted more. Grace even attended the same school with Bob’s kids.

Yeah, you’re right. I really don’t care, he admitted on a smirk. So anyways all we’ve got is the landscaper who found the vic dead in his bedroom. He called it in and now we’re on our way there.

Another ten minutes and Lorena pulled in the gated driveway, passing two patrol cars monitoring the end of the lane. A half dozen plain, unmarked vehicles were parked in the street. Nosy neighbors and reporters, no doubt.

Lorena took in the scenery around her, studying the layout of the property, noting the security cameras as she drove past them and the additional camera attached above the front double doors of the stately mansion. Why would someone drive through the front gate and murder the owner with so many cameras on the property? Her immediate gut feeling was that it could’ve been an inside job.

Two uniformed officers came up to them, greeting her and Bob on the cement steps leading to the front doors. She recognized them from her precinct.

Hey, guys, Jeff Rancic said. This one’s rough. I mean, it’s really friggin’ bad.

Thanks, Jeff, Lorena said to him as she removed a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and pulled them on with a snap. She and Bob also pulled on sterile shoe covers so as not to contaminate the scene.

The other uniformed officer, or unie, of whom she couldn’t remember his name because he was fairly new at the station, stepped forward.

Fuckin’ sick if you ask me, he said. You might not wanna’ go in there.

Chris, man, she’s cool, Jeff said, defending her.

Chris was his name. She remembered it now. He was a real prick.

He looked directly at Lorena as if he was some sort of knight in shining armor trying to protect her from… from what? Her job? Good grief.

Jeff jumped in and verbally jabbed at his partner, Yeah, dipshit here puked in the downstairs bathroom.

Are you serious? Lorena said. Don’t come to a crime scene if you can’t handle it. I don’t need you messing up my evidence. Did you flush the toilet, too? Think, dude. Everything you do in there could tamper with the crime scene.

Chris glared angrily at Lorena. She’d gotten used to that sort of reaction from some men at the precinct over the years. It just proved there were still some sexists out there.

I didn’t mess up anything, he argued.

Stay out here, Bob demanded. Both of you keep an eye on that crowd out there by the front fence. Don’t let anyone back here, especially non-relatives and press…or goddamn blood-sucking lawyers.

Lorena smirked. Bob liked lawyers as much as he like the M.E.

Yes, sir, Jeff answered. We’re on it.

Lorena didn’t miss the glare he gave his partner, Mr. Sexist. Jeff worked hard, studied harder and wanted to make detective. This wasn’t exactly a huge setback for him, but it could be if his partner dragged him down.

Lorena kept going, passing CSI units spread out all over the expansive, richly-appointed home. She nodded to her partner, and he nodded back. Lorena put the earbuds of her iPod into her ears and turned it on. It helped her to think without the distraction of people’s voices in her head. It helped to keep out the chatter that would interfere with her first impression of the crime scene. It’s what she’d always done. Bob never judged her. He had his tricks; she had hers.

Reaching into her bag, in the small front pocket, she found what she was searching for. She opened the piece of candy and popped the Atomic Fireball into her mouth. For some reason, these also helped her think, to find her focus.

She and Bob split up, and Lorena meandered around the first floor taking notes as she went and listening to indie rock. The home office was trashed, computer smashed, everything fried with bleach according to the forensic team.

Security cameras? she removed one earbud and asked Noel, one of the forensics nerds.

Yeah, he has cameras all over this place, but someone knew it, Noel answered from her knelt position near the wreckage of equipment. Hard-drive’s gone.

Lorena frowned. She hated a thorough murderer. But lucky for her they always managed to trip up somewhere.

Anything missing? she asked Noel.

The other woman shook her head, Nope. Not that I can tell yet.

Lorena strolled into the kitchen from the office, noting the bloody footprints on the nice bamboo floor set off with evidence markers along the way. The spicy candy in her mouth was making her eyes water a little. Red crime scene markers were placed next to each print, and a forensic specialist was meticulously measuring each to ensure efficacy. The kitchen was a disaster. The back door appeared to have been the entry point since a potted plant lay on the kitchen floor where it had been thrown through the glass partition on the top half of the door.

A door to the six car garage was unlocked. She let herself in, noting the expensive vehicles all still parked in their stalls. One stall was empty, probably the wife’s car. A few of the forensic guys were in there working. She didn’t miss the comments and ooh’s and ahh’s over the collection. One of them noticed her and waved. Lorena just lifted her chin in camaraderie before leaving the garage. Just the brand new, sleek silver BMW 7-series alone cost more than a year’s salary for her.

She made her way through the rest of the downstairs rooms, checked the finished basement complete with a theater room. Two crime scene specialists were cataloging videos and DVDs.

Anything of interest? she asked one of them.

The young man raised his head and replied, Nah, not really. Unless you’re into a lot of porn.

What kind?

He furrowed his brow at her and answered, Some kinky, a few bondage titles, gay porn, gang bangs and a few that are in CD sheaths labeled X. As if the rest wasn’t?

Lorena raised an eyebrow and noted the porn stash in her notebook. It wasn’t anything that unusual. She’d seen it all as far as the inner workings of other people’s sexual tastes went.

Thanks, she said. Send these to my office.

The other guy answered for his partner, You got it.

She headed upstairs to the crime scene. She passed her partner in the hallway where he was talking with one of the forensics specialists. He’d snookered a coffee from someone because he was holding a paper cup of it.

Lorena breached the doorway to the master bedroom and immediately noted the dead man on the bed. He was bound at his ankles to the thick posters of the bed. His hands were similarly secured to the metal scrollwork of the headboard. He was completely nude, covered in his own blood. Paula Sandberg, the city’s Medical Examiner, was working on the body, so Lorena didn’t bother her. Paula was performing the most important part of their investigation. Evidence collection could be crucial to their case. Missing something because she was distracted by people in the room could crush their case before they got it off the ground.

The message on the wall caught her attention next. She added more notes to the little leather-bound pad she carried and took pictures with her cell phone to review later. Moving around the ME’s team, Lorena peered closer at the dead man. She stood back and paused, looking around slowly, taking it all in. She noticed a few of the younger assistants pulling sexual aids and toys from a dresser drawer.

The crime scene seemed like it had sexual overtones, but something just didn’t add up. It was all so convenient, too convenient. She theorized that it wasn’t a random act. It made ruling out a burglary gone bad rather easy to do. This was planned and very well-orchestrated. Perhaps it was a professional hit or a murder for hire by the wife.

She wandered over to the walk-in master closet that was bigger than most of the homes in the older neighborhoods in Cleveland. Lorena reached out and ran her fingertips along the neatly pressed shirts and trousers that must’ve belonged to the vic. Something metallic caught her eye, and she pushed some of the clothing to the side. A shotgun rested against the back wall. A massive, built-in safe with an etched picture of ducks and weeds on the front of it was beyond the clothing. She knew it was a gun safe.

Rounding the corner at the end of the long hallway of closet space, she came to the wife’s section. She thought the husband’s was expansive. The wife’s closet space was at least double in square footage and included a feminine bathroom with a claw-foot style tub, marble walk-in shower and a vanity table full of more anti-aging products than the entire beauty department of Nordstrom's.

Nothing seemed out of place. A few articles were on the floor including some used towels, a pair of women’s white slacks, a Lacoste polo shirt in bright pink and a pair of leather dock siders. Mrs. Sarchione obviously figured the maid, which Lorena was sure they had, would pick up after her.

Questions started buzzing through her mind as Creed jammed in her ears from her iPod. She exited the closets and made her way to his nightstand, opening it. Right there in front of her was a Glock 9 mill. She picked it up, pushed the magazine release. Fully loaded, one in the chamber.

That’s weird, said one of the forensic geeks.

He wasn’t exactly new, but he’d only been with the precinct for a short time. He looked so young and naïve. She gave him a brief nod and left the bedroom. Hell, they probably thought the same about her.

Catalog it, she tossed over her shoulder to the kid. And catalog the clothing on the floor of the wife’s bathroom. It’s probably just hers, but bag it all anyways. And print the door jams and toilet handle in her bathroom in case our killer touched anything back there.

Yes, ma’am, he said and grabbed the shirt sleeve of another team member to help.

She went into the other bathroom, the more masculine one that was located right off of the bedroom on the other side of the room. Blood was splattered on the stone floor as if it had dripped from the killer’s fingertips. Perhaps it dripped from his knife. Bright white towels were discarded on the marble floor and were covered with blotches of dark blood. The killer hadn’t cleaned up after himself or attempted to hide evidence by cleaning any of the crime scene. Apparently their killer had wiped up his own blood or wiped away the blood of the victim from his body with these towels, but he’d certainly left enough everywhere else. There could be skin cells on the towels.

The same forensic specialist followed her to the bathroom and now stood at her shoulder.

Log these, too. They might have his blood on them or our victim’s. Might get some transfer DNA, she told him. He immediately left the room to get more evidence bags as Lorena stuck her earbuds back in again.

There were traces of blood on the faucet handles and on the countertop. The kid returned a moment later and carefully added the towels to individual bags. When he left the room again, Lorena studied the blood splatter in the bathroom. Sometimes she could collect very valuable information from looking more closely at the patterns and droplets. Sometimes it told her where the victim was positioned and how. Was he facing away from the killer or looking directly at his killer? This also gave great insight into the mind of the killer. Did he like watching them die? Did it bother him when the life was snuffed out of them and preferred not to see it? Long arcs of blood against a wall or around a room could tell her if the killer raised a knife or similar weapon high and stabbed down repeatedly with deadly force. This would also lend to the theory of being in a rage at the time of the murder. Little droplets indicated that the blood was dripped from waist height or lower.

She squatted and balanced on her haunches to catch a better angle. She studied the blood patterns and noticed a slightly smaller smear. This was different than the splatterings and droplets.

Son of a bitch, she whispered to herself.

What is it? the kid asked, startling Lorena. She hadn’t heard him return again.

I think we might have a partial print. Not sure. We need to get someone in here to lift it. See here? she pointed with the tip of her pen. I think that’s a partial print from a foot or a toe or maybe even a finger pressed into the blood.

On it, he said and fled the room quickly.

Lorena stood and opened and shut drawers and cupboard doors in the huge bathroom. Nothing stood out as anything of importance. She made a note of the killer’s use of the towel. If he wiped the vic’s blood from his own body, then it might be a tell. He might not want the vic’s blood on him. He might look at it as inferior. He might have been trying to wipe it from his clothing to hide evidence for when he got back home to the wife and kids. Stranger things have happened. Lorena had seen it firsthand.

Team found stray hairs, Paula said from the doorway.

Lorena removed one of her earbuds, effectively cutting off Bono in the middle of some righteous tirade or another.

Yeah? she asked Paula, one of the best Medical Examiners with whom Lorena had ever worked.

Yep, long red one, Paula said with a nod. Got a few black ones, too.

Interesting. The wife’s blonde, Lorena said, having seen the pictures of him and his lovely, cosmetically frozen in time wife in his office. She wondered if there were more people than just Mr. Sarchione and his murderer in this room. Perhaps there were two killers.

These are long, as long as your hair, Paula noted, indicating with her pen toward Lorena’s eighteen-inch ponytail.

Lorena nodded. When will you have something?

Won’t take long, Paula said. Obviously stabbed to death. At least a few dozen times or so that I can tell. I’ll get you an exact number soon enough. Been dead about sixteen hours give or take, I’d say. Ligature marks around the neck would indicate strangulation first and then the stabbing. Who knows? Maybe it was a sex romp gone bad. There were traces of semen on his stomach, probably his. Maybe it belongs to whoever was in here with him.

Lorena nodded again and furrowed her brow as she pondered what Paula was insinuating.

Man, I hate the stabbings. Those are always the worst, Paula admitted.

Messier. More intimate, Lorena commented, earning a nod from the M.E.

I’ll get you a report as soon as I can, Paula acknowledged before leaving.

Good, she hadn’t talked to Bob yet, Lorena thought with a grin. If those two got into it again, Paula would purposely stall out a few extra days on the official report.

Lorena walked around the vic’s bathroom again and paused in the middle of the room. None of this added up in her brain.

Watcha’ thinking, kid? Bob asked from the doorway.

Sometimes he called her ‘kid’ or ‘kiddo,’ but Lorena had no idea why. She was hardly a kid. After the things she’d seen working as a detective, that air of youth was long gone. Just because she was technically young by age, didn’t mean she was youthful anymore.

Doesn’t add up, she answered.

Break-in robbery gone bad? Maybe they thought he was away with the wife, Bob said as they both considered the situation.

Huh-uh, Lorena contradicted. I think the back door was meant to look like a robbery or meant to look like someone broke in. It was too staged. Same as the kitchen.

Yeah, I wasn’t buying that bullshit, either. Doesn’t explain why the gate was open. The front door was open, too, according to the landscaper, Bob said. Maybe he did it. The prints look like a big size, maybe work boots.

Lorena shook her head and removed her pen from her jacket again. She fumbled and it fell to the Carrara marble floor. Bob just continued to chatter theories. That’s just how he worked. She was more introspective. It’s why they made a good team.

Why not? Killer could’ve known him. Maybe knew his passcode for the gate. Thought he was gone with the trophy wife.

The vic let him in, Lorena said as she bent to retrieve her fallen pen. As she stood again, she caught a glimpse of a smudge behind the toilet tank. What the…?

She scooted closer, careful not to disrupt a small speckling of blood near the commode with the toe of her shoe.

Paid male escort gone bad? Picked him up at a night-club? The team found some gay pornos stashed in the media room in the basement. Coulda’ been getting his perv on while the wife was away, Bob suggested.

She leaned forward and tried to see behind the toilet. When that failed, she pushed the tank forward the scant half inch it would budge and looked closer.

What the hell are you doing? Bob asked, stopping in the middle of his pervert theory.

Look, Lorena said and pointed with her pen.

What the fuck is that supposed to be? her eloquent partner asked, clearly perplexed.

It’s not really a stick figure, she remarked as she peered closer.

Nah, it’s fat. It’s a fat dude, Bob said. Some kind of statement about the vic?

Lorena shook her head, disagreeing with her partner. I don’t think that’s what he’s saying. It’s… something else.

Bob knelt beside her and looked closer, as well. What is it, kid?

Lorena took her phone out and snapped a picture to look at later. Sometimes it was just easier to take her own pics. Until now, there hadn’t really been much at this crime scene that had piqued her interest as anything unusual or very picture worthy. People killed each other every day. It wasn’t anything new to her. Except this. This mark was different.

Lorena stood again. She positioned her hands on her hips and stood there looking at the unusual shape of the iconic, beloved Christmas cookie shape, minus the buttons and smiley face. It was drawn in dried, browning blood behind the commode in the million dollar mansion of horrors.

She answered her partner, A gingerbread man?

Chapter Three

Jack

The dick swinging should start anytime now. It was his first day on the job in a new city. Sometimes the male testosterone kicked into high gear when he started in a new precinct. This was his third move. He’d worked in Portland, Oregon, for a few years, but had grown tired of the damn rain. So he’d moved on, taken a promotion and flown south like a snowbird. He was a homicide detective for four years before switching to the narcotics division down in Miami. He’d only made it two years in narcotics. Handling drug dealers, coping with the repercussions of families being destroyed and the feeling of being in constant danger had left him with a bad taste in his mouth. It got to the point where it was difficult to find anything in the world to be positive about. Watching homeless kids selling their bodies for enough money to buy their next fix had left Jack feeling sick to his stomach.

Narcotics had aged him dramatically. He was only thirty-three years old, but he looked fifty most days. Or at least, that was how he thought he looked. The silvery gray at his temples came from the stress of the job. He threw in the towel, took a transfer to be closer to his family and went back to homicide. Good old-fashioned murder was better than the narcotics department any day of the week in his opinion.

They showed him where his office would be, a small room where two other desks stood. The lighting was bad, and the room still smelled like strong coffee and stale cigarette smoke from back when people used to be able to smoke anywhere they wanted. It felt like home.

Apparently everyone else was out on a call because the other two detectives were missing. He didn’t have a partner yet, so the captain said to just pair up with two detectives named Peterson and his partner, Evans.

Bob Peterson’s cool, the detective who’d shown him the room and his empty desk had said. His son plays baseball on my son’s team.

Jack gave him the perfunctory nod and half grin.

And Evans? Jack asked after the partner of Peterson, not really caring, though, but making small talk just the same. He liked to form his own opinions about people, but the detective seemed to want to offer his.

The other guy didn’t answer but gave Jack a telling look as if he found this Evans guy distasteful. He left the room right after he smirked so Jack couldn’t prod any further. No matter. He would find out soon enough.

Jack cleaned out and wiped down the old desk of debris and even a cobweb. He set up his own articles which wasn’t much. Apparently the A/C was as old as the metal desks in the department. He removed his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair and rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. Late August in Cleveland, Ohio, still wasn’t as sweltering as Miami any day.

The phone on his hip rang, the sound shrill and loud in the empty room.

Foster, he answered the way he normally did.

Hey, Jack, his sister said.

Crap. He cringed. If he’d known it was one of his sisters, he would’ve hit the ignore button.

Hi, Aislinn, he replied with a sigh.

How’s it going? she asked. Making new friends?

She was being a smartass, as usual.

This isn’t grade school, Aislinn. It’s my job, he said with a frown. What do you need?

Growing up with four sisters, sisters who liked to take checking on him to epic phone-blowing-up proportions, had made Jack loathe telephone conversations over the years.

Just came from Mom’s, she told him.

How’s she doing? he asked with a frown.

There was a soft sigh on the other end of the line before his sister answered, Not great. She’s pretty depressed.

That’s understandable, he told her. You need to give her some time, give her some space.

He rolled his eyes. That was never going to happen, not with four daughters bugging their mother.

Yeah, maybe, she lied through the phone. The kids wanna’ know if you want to come with us Saturday.

Saturday? Hm, I’ve got plans, he lied.

An irritated snort came through the line, Jack, I didn’t even tell you what we were doing!

He didn’t have his boxes unpacked at his house yet, and here she was trying to get him to do the family-time thing.

Look, there’s this girl I know… she started.

He cut her off, I need to unpack, Aislinn. Gimme’ a break. You girls don’t need to start with the matchmaking crap already. Don’t make me move back to Miami, he lectured. Damn, he sounded like his dad.

She gave him a full-blown harrumph through the phone. He chuckled.

Ok, fine! she exclaimed with irritation. But next weekend you are coming over. I’m gonna make a nice dinner and invite my friend. You need to get back out there. She’s…

Gotta go, he exaggerated. They’re calling me for a meeting.

He disconnected and hooked the phone back onto the clip on his belt. He’d be more careful next time and check the caller i.d. Soon, the other ones would be ringing for their daily check in. Why hadn’t his parents had more boys instead of two girls, him and two more girls? He sure had drawn the short straw.

He looked around the office, taking note of the other desks and the differences between the two. One was very neat, had family photos resting in silver frames on it and tidy stacks of organized files. The other desk looked like a tornado just blew through the room. He wanted to start sifting through the files on the other detectives’ desks, but that would be a mistake. Not such a good way to get off on the right foot with them. He knew it wouldn’t take long for case files to start stacking up on his desk. They always did. There was never a shortage of murderous thugs and criminally-mind creeps out there killing one another or killing for sport.

It was after lunch when the conversation of two people coming down the hall toward his office permeated his thoughts about the most important reason he’d taken the lateral transfer to Cleveland from Miami.

Yeah, but what do we know about this guy other than he likes to cut off other dude’s dicks and stick them in their post-mortem mouths? asked the woman with the dark hair as she entered the office.

She spotted Jack and froze in mid-sentence. Her partner bumped into her from behind.

You hope it was post-mortem. Poor bastard, the man said.

Jack was expecting dick swinging machismo but not an actual discussion about dicks, especially not one of this manner.

Who’re you? she asked bluntly.

Foster. Jack Foster. I’m partnering with you two until your captain can find me someone else, he informed her.

Jack watched her hazel eyes dart to her desk, the really, really messy one apparently. She was obviously one of those types. The ones who liked their chaos and disorder and nobody to touch it or interfere with it.

The other detective squeezed past her and gave Jack’s hand a firm shake.

Bob Peterson, he said, introducing himself. Good to meet ya.’ We were out on a call. Looks like you got yourself settled in. That’s good.

Bob actually nudged the woman.

Oh, hey. Lorena Evans, she said and extended her hand.

Her hand was small in Jack’s, frail almost. She was a petite person. He wondered how she would’ve fared on the beat. At six-three, Jack was slightly above average in height, but she couldn’t be more than five-four or so. In her other hand were her car keys, a file, and a bag of Taco Bell fast food. Diet of champions.

Nice to meet you. I don’t want to interfere with your case. Just here to observe and help if I can till they move me where they want me, Jack offered to break the ice.

Cool, Bob said. We’re backlogged as all get out and this shit just came up this morning. Long Gut here, he indicated Lorena with his thumb, had to stop for her garbage food before we got back here.

What? she asked as if surprised. I was hungry.

I don’t know how you can eat after looking at that, he turned to his partner and said.

Well, she started with dry humor, I have to look at you every day and I still manage, so….

Bob laughed, and Jack managed a chuckle. Lorena Evans didn’t crack a smile or grin. She apparently did the poker face sarcasm thing well. Or else she really didn’t like her partner. He’d seen that a lot over the years on the job.

You know you love me, kid, Bob joked, getting a grin from her this time as she rounded her desk and plopped into her seat.

What’s the case you were called out to? Jack inquired, wanting to dive in.

A short time later, he was totally invested in working on their latest case with them. It was certainly one of the more bizarre ones he’d ever heard of. They threw out ideas and angles, twists and curve balls at each other. Bob was very open to working with him and seemed pretty cool. Lorena was much more reserved. She worked quietly for the most part with her earbuds in and her nose in her computer doing research. Every once in