The Butterfly Killer

Chapter 3

3

Marcus slapped the files down onto the large printer. He typed in the number of copies and pressed start. He slammed the now cold cup of coffee on the bench beside the copier. The contents sloshed over the side and splattered over the bench.

He was such an idiot for thinking the FBI wanted anything to do with him. Even if they wanted his help, Blevins would laugh him off the case in a heart beat. It would only take a couple minutes for Blevins to make Marcus out to be the stick in the mud.

Maybe it was better to be on the outside of the case anyway. While the detectives and the feds were nose deep in the evidence, he could be looking at the big picture. He knew this killer better than anyone else. He was the only person who was dedicating their life to the murders. His uneventful weekends were a show for that.

He glanced down at the papers flying out of the copying machine. He had to take a double look to realize the copies he was making was of the case file made on the recent murder.

He chuckled out of disbelief. He wondered if Agent Mercer had…

He didn’t let that thought go on any further. He’d rather say it was a strike of luck than Mercer throwing him a bone.

He picked up one of the copies and started rifling through.

The pictures were nauseating. He glanced over them. He didn’t need to see most of them so he skipped them. The other things pertaining to the case was what he wanted.

The forensics lab had come up with no fingerprints.

There were however traces of the substance pepsin in the victim’s eyes.

Marcus stared at the information.

“Pepsin?” He’d never heard of it and none of the previous cases had it. He looked it up on his phone and found that it wasn’t deathly toxic to humans so it wouldn’t have been used to try and kill her.

He read further into the report. The medical examiner revealed that the victim had red and irritated eyes. That might be the pepsin since it could cause that. It was strange it was found at all.

They also found borax. It was toxic. He knew that.

There was little trace amounts found on the floor beside her but not on her. Again, it didn’t seem like it was meant to kill her. Why would someone have these two things on them? And why hadn’t they been found at the other scenes?

The copies finished. He stood there for a moment, pondering what all the information meant. But he was running out of time. He gathered the papers and walked out of the small closet space reserved for the photo copier. He flipped through the documents until he neared the room where the agents were in. He knocked on the door.

Blevins answered it. He looked Marcus up and down. “What?”

Marcus held the files up. He couldn’t speak as his throat tightened. Leave it to Blevins to take all the wind out of his sails.

Blevins snatched the files and shut the door in his face.

Marcus slowly turned to go back to his desk. He still had those papers to fill out for tomorrow. Maybe he would be able to get out of here in the next hour or so.

He left three hours later—a quarter after nine. He was dead on his feet when he arrived to his small studio apartment. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. He threw his keys onto the small coffee table with only had three legs. He tossed his coat and bag onto the couch with more holes in it than the grunge jeans he used to wear in high school.

He fought with his uniform to get it off. He chucked that into the top drawer of his dresser by his bed. He didn’t bother to take the belt out of the loops, knowing it would be easier to slip the whole thing on in the morning when he was half-asleep. He’d do laundry on the weekend when he wasn’t fried to a crisp.

The moonlight drifted through the one window above his bed that also lead out to the fire escape. He would sit out there when the cramped room became too much even though the fire escape was a flimsy piece of metal that could give way at any second. He was too tired to sit out there right now, but he thought about it.

In nothing but his underwear—his socks somewhere with his shoes but he couldn’t tell where—he laid on the tops of his thin sheets. He stared at his ceiling, his racing thoughts quiet for a second as he watched the passing car lights dance across the popcorn textured ceiling.

He slowly closed his eyes.

A moment of peace passed. That was how long it lasted.

The day, starting from the very beginning when he opened his eyes, replayed in his head. The morning was top speed until he was arriving on the scene of the murder. He was walking through the front door and he was smelling death again.

He couldn’t get that out of his head. The smell. There was something different. No, it wasn’t even just the smell that had made him think about this murder differently. It was everything combined. Something about it was off—so different from the other murders that it would be laughable to think they were the same.

He laid there in silence for a few minutes. His thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. And when he stopped thinking about the recent murder, his mom’s face, when he found her laying on the kitchen floor, haunted him next.

He fell asleep to that face. It morphed into his nightmares and instead of being in his small studio apartment, he was back in their small two bedroom house with no AC, standing over his mom’s body.

It was a hot summer’s day. He’d been over at the neighbor’s house mowing their lawn for a measly five dollars—anything to earn extra money to help with the rent even though he had a full-time job during the weekdays.

The screen door swung back and forth with a gush of wind. Which seemed off because it had been hot and muggy the whole day without the reprieve of a breeze. But now it seemed like it was flinging the door right off the hinges.

His movements were sluggish. He tried to kneel at her sides, but his feet were moving him away from her. He cried out but his voice was muffled—he wanted to be at her side. He wanted to make sure she wasn’t still alive and suffering in her last moments.

She’s already gone. His thoughts reasoned with him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that, long before he even walked through the door. His thoughts were playing tricks on him.

His feet carried him away from her body, her chest ripped open and her guts laying out beside her—his first kill. Or the first time he found what made him feel that buzz. The first time he realized he needed to keep recreating this moment over and over until that need was sated. But he and Marcus knew that craving would never be fulfilled.

Marcus stepped toward the backdoor. He moved to grab the swinging screen door. The handle slipped out of his hand. The hinges broke. Or they were already broken.

His brows furrowed. That’s right. The hinges were broken. They used to have to wrap a wire around the handle and a nail in the wall to keep it closed.

He stepped out onto the porch. But as his foot hit the concrete, he was pulled back to the start of the scene. He was standing over his mom’s body. He was horrified. Or he had been. He’d seen this image so many times in his nightmares he was almost used to it.

He looked over her. The back door swung again in the wind. The squeaking annoyed him. He tried to stomp over to the door, but something was holding him back.

Stop! He screamed in his head, finally looking up at the door.

A shadow. It appeared in the sunlight on the kitchen floor each time the door swung open. Everything was frozen except the door. And when Marcus could move again, the moment unfreezing, the shadow was gone.

He’d been here. Marcus had interrupted him.

The scene changed. Marcus was standing in front of Miss Calloway’s home. The door was ajar. That wasn’t how it happened. The door was shut and that woman had been crying on the stoop.

He pushed the door open. The sunlight streamed through the large living room windows and flowed into the small entryway. His boots made thudding noises on the floor as he walked into the living room—the thuds turning to softened thumps.

She was laying on the ground. And the killer was there. He was cutting her open.

His movements were precise. He took his time with her because he knew he had time to spare. The house was clean. He’d been here awhile before he set out to do his main task. He wanted to make this special. Something was special about this kill.

Marcus stepped closer. The man—he had no face—looked up at him. Though he had no face, his eyes still met Marcus’s.

“I want to show you how I do it,” the man said.

Marcus didn’t feel sick like he usually did. He merely nodded and crouched on the opposite side of the woman, across from the man.

“I sedate her,” the man murmured. He waved his hand over the woman’s face. She didn’t flinch, but her eyes darted between the two of them.

She was alive.

Marcus felt nothing. It was like all the feeling he had had been sucked out of him the first time he saw her corpse. Much like his memories of his mom’s desecrated body.

“She’s doing very well.” The man’s voice was soft. It was muffled, but Marcus could hear it loud and clear.

The man pulled out a knife. It was clean and sharp. It had to be if he wanted to get the precise cuts he wanted. He moved the blade to her skin.

“I take my time.”

The woman couldn’t scream—not with her mouth anyway. She screamed with her eyes. The man held her gaze even as he cut through her flesh.

“I don’t want to look away but I have to.”

The man focused on his cuts. Blood was pouring from her chest.

“There’s a mat under her. I don’t want to make a mess.”

As he said it, it appeared. Marcus looked down and there was a clear tarp underneath them. The man was also wearing gloves now and a mask.

“What clothes are you wearing?” Marcus asked him.

The man shrugged. “Whatever I have on.”

Marcus’s brows furrowed. “Why do you care so much? After all this time? Why are you paying so much attention to the details? The set up?”

The man stopped what he was doing and laughed. “Why wouldn’t I? This is special. It’s my anniversary.”

Marcus shook his head. “No it isn’t. Your first kill was?—”

The man laughed again. “My first kill? This is my first kill!”

Marcus was yanked out from the room and through the front door. It slammed shut as he was pulled from his dream.

He gasped awake. His alarm was blaring. He reached over the side of the bed and grabbed his phone. It was on four percent. He’d already missed three alarms. The sun filtered through the small window.

“Fuck,” he gasped as he ran a hand over his sweaty face.

He took a minute to just sit on his bed. He was already late. What was a few more minutes? It wasn’t like anyone cared.

He pushed the self-deprecating thoughts aside and pulled himself out of bed. His dream came to him in little bits. The thing he remembered most was the shadow by the screen door. Had that really happened? Did the killer never get to finish what he started?

He was in the shower when the last part of his dream hit him.

“Holy shit!”

He jumped out of the shower with suds still in his hair. He quickly toweled off, yanked his clothes on, and rushed out the door.

Marcus was frantic as he quickly walked into the department building.

“Woah! What’s up with you?” Patrice put his arm out to slow Marcus down.

Marcus almost barreled right through him, searching the heads of people already in the bullpen. “Have you seen Blevins or Agent Mercer? Anyone working the Butterfly case?”

Patrice gave him a strange look. “No. Why? Has something happened?”

Marcus panted. He gave the room another look over before he met Patrice’s eyes. When he saw the worry in his friend’s eyes, he realized how crazed he must have seemed. The breakthrough Marcus had might not be that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. But someone on the case needed to know before they chased after the wrong guy.

Or the right guy. God, he didn’t know if he was even right about this. He might just be blowing smoke up his own ass.

“I just got to tell them something,” he finally said. He took a ragged breath.

“Okay,” Patrice said with a pinched brow. “Take it easy. I’ll see you later.”

Marcus nodded. “Yeah.”

Patrice walked out to do whatever he was doing that day. It seemed like he was always busy doing something. It must have been all the people who weren’t available for work and he was picking up their jobs. Marcus understood how that felt. He was doing it almost daily.

He cursed at himself as he walked further into the offices.

“Marcus!”

He stilled when he heard Chief Williams’s voice calling him from his office. Marcus slowly turned to meet the Chief’s gaze.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?”

The other officers at their desks looked up. Marcus’s face burned as he walked toward the Chief’s office. Chief left the door open as he walked toward his desk. When he sat down, he motioned at the door.

“Close it.”

Marcus did. His heart sunk as he started to think this was really bad if Chief was sitting down. He only delivered bad news when he decided to sit down. Otherwise, he’d tell you out right in the middle of the room where everyone could hear.

“Sit down,” Chief ordered.

Marcus didn’t think twice about it. He sat his ass in the uncomfortable leather chair in front of Chief’s desk.

Chief ran his fingers over his short beard.

“I know how important the Butterfly Killer case is for you.”

Marcus inwardly cringed. This could not be good. Chief rarely brought up Marcus’s connection to the butterfly case. He made sure anything personal was left at the department’s door when officers walked in. It was an unsaid policy that “feelings” and “emotions” were not tolerated.

“However,”—Chief leaned forward and placed his clasped hands on the desk—“that does not give you permission to impede on the investigation.”

Marcus gaped. “But I?—”

Chief held up his hand. “I got a formal complaint from Detective Blevins that you not only started looking at the Calloway residence without permission, but you also were hanging around the room reserved for the FBI agents on the case.”

“Sir, may I explain?”

Chief sighed as he tapped his fingers. “Before you do, I want to make myself clear. I value your work. You are one of the most upstanding police officers this department has seen. You alone make the district look good. But I won’t tolerate this behavior. It could jeopardize the whole case.”

Marcus felt like he’d been shot in the gut. It took a lot of power for him to take his next breath. His hands were clammy when he opened his mouth.

“I will apologize for overstepping at the Calloway residence,” he said, pausing. “I didn’t mean anything by it. And it was Agent Mercer who asked me to make copies of the case file for him.”

He left out that he’d been stalking the outside of the room, but that wasn’t a crime. He could have just been going to the bathroom—as he made up to explain to Mercer.

Chief gave him a doubtful look like he knew Marcus was leaving out something. He didn’t mention it though.

“You should apologize to Blevins too. He’s been yapping about it all morning to anyone who will listen.”

Marcus took that as permission to leave. He shot out of the chair, already knowing he wasn’t going to say jack shit to Blevins.

He was about to head out the door when chief stopped him.

“Oh and thank Patrice for the coffee this morning. He mentioned you need a new desk.”

Marcus hid his horrified look with an awkward smile. “S-Sure.”

Chief quirked an eyebrow. “He is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

Marcus nodded, his smile going tight.

Chief nodded and that was Marcus’s queu to get the fuck out of there.

When he saw Patrice again, he was going to tear him a new one.

He made it a couple feet out of the office when Blevins decided to show up and make his day even worse.

Marcus started to walk faster and hoped Blevins would take a hint to leave him alone, but he already knew he was done for.

“Well, well…” Blevins sounded like a villain character from a cartoon. “Chief had a talk with you, didn’t he? Are you going to stop meddling in others’s work?”

Marcus gave him a dark look. He tried to walk by Blevins, but the detective stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“What do you want, Blevins?” He gave the detective a tired look. He couldn’t believe he thought about sharing what he thought about the case with the man. Of course Blevins would laugh in his face and call him crazy.

Blevins crossed his arms over his chest. “Just stay off my case.”

Marcus didn’t break eye-contact with Blevins. He wasn’t going to be intimated by the jerk. However, he needed to keep some peace between the two of them. They did work in the same building and Blevins dad could probably wield some damage to Marcus’s already dead career.

Marcus bit his ego. “Consider it done. Now, may I please get to my desk.”

Blevins looked a little put out that Marcus wasn’t going to fight tooth and nail with him. He was probably power hungry to ruin someones life. Marcus hadn’t gotten this far for a rich brat to ruin it all for him. He’d deal with enough people like him in his life—he wasn’t going to fail because of them.

He ignored Blevins stare as he made his way to his embarrassing desk.

The only good thing he might get from his this morning was a new desk. Maybe.