The Butterfly Killer

Chapter 17

17

Medical examiner Patrice Maguire was pulling his hair out as he stared down at the documents. He read the information but for the life of him he couldn’t take any of it in as his mind was far away from his job as it had ever been.

Marcus had been missing for a little over two weeks. Each day started with Patrice wondering if he was ever going to see his friend again and it ended with Patrice crying himself to sleep. He’d never been a big crier, even when his grandfather, a man that had been his idol, had passed when he was a teenager. Perhaps it had been different. His grandfather had lived to be in his eighties. He’d passed in his sleep, a smile on his face the coroner had proclaimed.

This was very much different. Marcus had been taken by a serial killer—obviously because he was working on the case and because his mother had been one of the first victims. The things Marcus must be going through…

Patrice shook his head. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

With a deep sigh, he forced himself to think back to his work. There were many autopsies he had to finish the paperwork for. It was going to be a long afternoon.

As he went with the motions, his mind drifting to Marcus once or twice throughout the remaining hours of his shift, he was grateful that when he worked he became extremely absorbed in it. However, it was easy to lose track of time when he was nestled into his homey office and even more easily when he was forcing himself to focus harder.

He was startled when there was a knock at the door. He lifted his head from the bundle of documents he’d been accessing. He blinked rapidly as he noticed the room was cast in a warm glow from the setting sun. He lifted his wrist to look at his watch and made an audible sound of surprise when he saw it was already after seven.

The knock came again.

He cleared his throat as he moved the papers to the side. “Come in.”

The door cracked open just a bit. Trinity Coleman, an autopsy technician, poked her head in.

“I finished Catherine Yoltz’s autopsy,” she said though she didn’t make the move to come into the room.

“Ah. That’s great.” Through his sleepiness, he was able to feign some enthusiasm. He tried to keep his cool about the now open Butterfly case, but it was hard to when every little advancement made him hopeful they would find the bastard who’d taken Marcus.

It was unprofessional to get giddy. He schooled his features as much as possible when it felt like they were on the cusp of a breakthrough. The last thing he wanted was to be pulled off the case. They were short staffed as it was. Pulling Patrice off the case would only slow down the investigation.

Trinity finally took a step into the room, but she still hung by the door. Patrice frowned when he noticed she was clutching the autopsy file close to her body.

“What is it?”

She opened her mouth for a second longer before she spoke. “I-I need a second opinion.”

Patrice cocked his head, his brows furrowing. He stood up, now knowing that something was really wrong if Trinity was asking for help. She was a medical examiner in training and the only time she asked for help was when there was definite cause for concern with the body.

He crossed the room, his worry and curiosity now growing at the expression on her face. She lowered her gaze to the file in her hand. She opened it up as he stood next to her.

He took the pages with a delicate hand. He felt as though if he made any sudden movements, she’d scurry off like a deer. However, she held her place. It seemed that whatever had made her uneasy was safely tucked away in the folder he now possessed in his hands.

He opened the folder and scanned the information. His brows rose and then furrowed as he squinted in confusion at the test results.

“The strings of DNA match.”

Trinity nodded. “Not only that. I ran the test again and looked what I found.”

She flipped the page to the next and pointed to a string of letter and numbers. “The DNA pulled from the previous scenes all have this specific marker. There are variants in the second DNA from the newer murders, but they contain this same marker. They’re related.”

This was major. This meant the copycat might intimately know the original Butterfly Killer. They might even be working together.

Patrice closed the folder. He shouldered around Trinity to step out into the hall.

“Go back to the lab. Tell Destiny to find how closely related the two are,” he said over his shoulder, already walking down the hall.

Trinity started after him but stopped. “Where are you going?”

He held up the folder. “To tell those FBI agents personally. They need to know right away.”

They needed all the information they could get to catch this asshole.

Most importantly, they needed to find Marcus.

It was dark by the time Patrice made it to the other side of the police station. The labs and the morgue were located two floors up with a little more security than the rest of the station. The elevator was deserted as well as most of the all the stations. It was well past the time for people to leave though there were still plenty of people around for the night shift.

He nodded to a couple officers as he made his way through the bullpen. He knew exactly where the FBI agents and the local detectives had taken their workflow. The room was down a hall only next to one other office and the bathrooms.

Patrice held the file close to his chest as he stalked toward the door. His footsteps echoed in a rhythm that synced up with his pulse as he neared the room. He chastised himself for drinking so much coffee this morning. It was probably also why he’d had a lasting headache from the night before.

He shook the needless thoughts away as he knocked on the door and waited. The few seconds it took for someone to open the door felt like eternity. The files burn into his chest. He was bubbling on the inside to do something about the information he now had.

When the door opened, he expected to see Agent Mercer or at least Agent Burns. However, the person on the other side of the door was Detective Blevins.

Though he tried, he couldn’t help the grimace he made.

“It’s good to see you too,” Blevins said. “What do you want?”

Patrice looked passed the detective and into the room. There was no one else. The white board was scrawled with different colored markers. The words were too small and far away for Patrice to make out, but he wasn’t interested in any of it.

“Where are Agent Mercer and Agent Burns?”

Blevins shrugged. “Probably resting. We’ve all been working hard.”

The way he said it was almost pointedly. Like Patrice was nagging them.

Patrice’s face darkened as he frowned. “So have I. I got some test results all of you might like to see.”

Though he said that, he didn’t remove the folder from where it was pressed to his chest. Blevin’s gaze lowered to it. There was a passing of an awkward moment which Patrice’s heart skipped and he held his breath. He realized that he wasn’t moving though he was thinking about doing so.

But he was also thinking about the agents. They should be here. For some reason, he didn’t want to leave the information with Blevins.

As if Blevins could hear his thoughts, he held his hand out. “I can take it. I’ll let them know in the morning.”

Patrice still didn’t move. He held Blevins’s gaze. “I’d like to call them if that’s okay.”

He didn’t have their numbers, but he was sure it wouldn’t be difficult to get them.

“Don’t bother them. They need to rest,” Blevins pressed, still holding his hand out.

Patrice felt like even if he took a step back, Blevins would come after him. Instead of holding the folder hostage like he wanted, he slapped the file down onto Blevins’s open palm.

Blevins smiled. “Would you like to give me the run down?”

He flipped open to the documents. He scanned them, but Patrice knew he didn’t understand any of it.

Again, he was hesitant. He really wanted to wait until Mercer and Burns were present.

He gave a little sigh, hopefully soft enough that Blevins didn’t hear.

“Initial testing found the two different sets of blood we found in the first string of murders and the recent ones are a match.”

Blevins nodded. “That’s great.”

The way he said it, gave Patrice the impression that it wasn’t “great” as Blevins said it was. Patrice ignored it, chalking it up to being his own aversion to the detective himself.

“Well, turns out they’re not an identical match.”

Patrice thought he saw a hint of a smile on Blevins face. He ignored it once more, sure his eyes were playing tricks on him.

“They are related though. I’m having Destiny do another test, this time checking how related they are.”

“So you think they might know each other?”

Patrice nodded. “You see this DNA marker? The more they share of it the more related they are. We might even be able to definitely say how related if the test goes well.”

Patrice had thought Blevins would be at least interested in what he had to say. This was a big break through in the case. Connecting the two murderers would definitely help them track down at least one. It might even give them a motive for the second killer.

“That’s awesome. I have some other things I need to finish for the night. Thanks for bringing this down.” Blevins all but pushed Patrice out of the way as he closed the door.

“But—”

The door closed and Blevins’s silhouette moved to sit at the empty table. Patrice could see the detective throw the folder down like it was a little more than a piece of trash.

Dishearteningly didn’t even come close to what Patrice was feeling. He stared at the door for some time, coming to terms as to what had just happened. He’d always known Blevins to be an asshole. Marcus had to take the man’s shit everyday, but Patrice had never been on the side of it.

Frowning, he walked back to his office. It was dark now. It was a long drive home and now that his hope had been swatted like a fly, he was ready to lay in his bed to wallow. Crying never helped, but it was all he seemed to be able to do. He couldn’t even help in the investigation like he wanted. That wasn’t a skillset his possessed like Marcus.

He gathered his things and locked up for the night, saying goodbye to Destiny before he left.

He hoped tomorrow would bring about some better news.

Across town, Agent Mercer and Burns poured over newspaper clippings until the next beginning librarian shift started. Mercer had left to pick up coffee and food to tide them over another couple hours when it became apparent Burns wasn’t going to budge until they found something revolutionary.

Mercer wouldn’t say he didn’t get sucked into a workload here and there again. However, Burns was doing it out of guilt, something Mercer had never experienced. He didn’t understand the emotion—not when he didn’t believe anything could be his fault—and he definitely didn’t understand it when it was directed toward a stranger.

Burns was the good-to-the-bone type of agent presented in media. He was an empath to the point of not recognizing when it was draining him.

Usually, it was Mercer who noticed the signs first. He could see when Burns was investing himself a little too much into a case or was empathizing with victims a little too much. Understanding people was certainly an excellent quality to have in their line of work, but when it started to cross personal boundaries, that was when judgment became cloudy.

Burns was susceptible and that was why Mercer believed they made a great partnership. Mercer helped to regulate Burns’s martyr tendencies and Burns…well, he helped Mercer not destroy bridges with his less than palpable personality.

This all lead to Mercer letting Burns tire himself out over research. It was certainly much better to supervise the obsession he was currently going through. It was going to happen either way and Mercer would rather Burns do it under his watch. He didn’t know what he would do if Burns got in too deep, but he wasn’t against physical restraint.

Something stirred within him at the thought of tying Burns up. He adjusted in the uncomfortable wooded chair, turning the now lukewarm cup of coffee in his hand. Burns didn’t glance up from the book he was flipping through.

“If you’re tired, you can go back to your hotel.”

Mercer thought about that, but he wouldn’t be going alone. Then he thought about Burns tied up on his hotel bed, spread eagle like an offering.

“I can handle myself. Did you forget Albany?”

Burns gave a tired snort as he leaned back in his chair. He wiped a hand over his face as he smiled. “I swear you were on drugs.”

He stretched and yawned. His shirt, which he’d untucked from his pants, rose to expose a bit of skin. Mercer’s eyes darted to the flesh.

“I wasn’t,” Mercer spoke though he was half paying attention. “Needless to say, I can stay awake for days with the right amount of caffeine.”

Burns rolled his eyes. “And still look good doing it. Have you done your daily child sacrifice yet?”

It was Mercer’s turn to snort. He drank the rest of his coffee though it tasted ten times as awful than when it was piping hot, burning all his tastebuds and making the beverage tolerable. He sat it back down, his brows pinching.

“Have you found what you’re looking for?”

He almost expected Burns to make a sound of frustration like he usually did when things weren’t going his way. However, he was met with silence.

Mercer stopped staring at the cup of coffee and shoving thoughts of a naked Burns from his mind as he turned his head.

Burns was scanning two articles, his lips moving as he read them off under his breath. His eyes darted between the two of them, his face becoming more confused the more he read. When he got to the end of one of them, he turned to the other. He read them over and over until Mercer couldn’t stand it anymore.

“ Burns . What have you found?”

Burns finally pulled away from the papers. His eyes were the last things to detach themselves. They met Mercer’s. The look in his eyes caught Mercer’s breath in his throat. The pad’s of his fingers pressed hard into the paper cup as he waited for Burns to drop the bombshell on him. He knew it had to be something big to give Burns that look.

It was anger and determination. It was almost akin to the type of darkness Mercer knew dwelled inside himself.

“Take a look.”

Burns pushed the newspapers that had gotten his attention toward Mercer. It took a second for Mercer to look away from Burns’s eyes—he didn’t want to look away at all but he folded.

The articles that had transfixed Burns so much weren’t at all what Mercer expected. The headlines didn’t at all contain what they were looking for, however, all the information was in the side columns or even on the third or fourth page into the newspaper.

“Michael O’Donell dead at sixty-five. Rosie Etenburg dead at thirty-two…just what am I looking at?”

The smile that stretched over Burns’s face was humorless. It was dark, hinting that what he was thinking was going to be gruesome.

“These deaths are announced one month before—wait for it?—”

Burns flipped over another newspaper. The headlines announced the death of a prominent cartel figure. “Killed at approximentally at six am on O’Donell street. His birth name? Michael. And another murder two weeks later. Killed on Etenburn street at two thirty in the afternoon. Nickname? Rosie.”

Mercer took his time reading each paper, soaking up the information. “Well, Burns, you’ve certainly found something.”

A huge grin stretched across Burns’s face. “Good. Because we’ve got reason to believe Mr. Cortez is harboring our suspect.”

Burns flipped the newspaper over to reveal a picture of an older man. Just about everyone—cop and agent alike—knew him. Dante Cortez ran the American side of the Mexican cartel.

And it looked like he was holding a fundraiser.