Pieces of Ivy (4 page)

What brought out such wrong, such hate, in a society? Especially in a civilization with a great abundance of our baser needs: water, food, shelter. The unsettling simplicity of the word
monotony
flashed in his mind. He shuddered.

Hank looked over—from a safe distance—at the once again covered body lying mutilated on the steel table. His voice trembled when he said, “What kind of sick fuck are we dealing with?”

The fresh air was cruel respite, soothing their dusty lungs but doing nothing for their beleaguered psyches.

Vicki was looking back with more confusion than horror.

“What?” he asked.

She took a moment. “I don’t know. That space didn’t
feel
like a place of death—if that makes any sense.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Hank agreed. “I felt it too.”

She lingered on the deep shadow of the barn’s dusty, open throat.

Cooper stepped from its maw into the sunshine. “We’re going to get the body back to the lab—if that’s okay with you two.”

They both nodded, equally happy to be spared another look.

Vicki touched Charlie’s arm. “Just give us a continuous feed as you find out more. The trail grows colder by the minute.”

Hank exhaled. “Or closer to his next victim.”

“Serial killer?”

“I don’t know.” He looked back at the barn. “I seriously don’t know. Only a truly twisted individual does that to a person. I can’t see it being a one-time event.”

Vicki’s throat was too dry to swallow. “Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

“Agreed.” Then Hank puzzled out loud, “He left the body. Why not burn it—or bury it?”

“A final public humiliation,” she said. “Why do all that work and not show how she was left behind—desecrated?” Then she remembered. “You stepped away for a call back there.”

“Roscoe. The results came in as soon as he returned—definitely Ivy Turner.” He pulled out his phone. “He sent me her home address. He’s there now.”

† †
†

The forensic van blocked the sheriff’s car. A man and a woman carrying silver cases climbed the front steps as Sheriff Roscoe pushed past them into the sunlight.

He inspected Vicki’s face. “You okay? You look a little pale.”

Revulsion continued to suffuse her belly. “Not often you come across a crime scene like that.”

He cast a serious glance into space. “No kidding.” He locked his gaze onto her again. “Probably worse for you—being a woman, I mean. The perverse nature of the crime.”

“I’ve got a professional detachment,” she lied, wanting to move on.

“I’ll get over it too,” Hank said.

Roscoe ignored him, keeping his focus on the more attractive of the two. “I don’t blame you one bit. Having trouble shaking it off myself.” He leaned in and whispered, “If you need a drink later, I’m happy to offer you a stiff one.”

Click. Enter the asshole.

The inference revolted more than shocked her. Her professional persona was incensed, but the player in her knew the advantages of this game. Inappropriate as it was, this was a leash she was happy to keep on the town sheriff. She let the comment roll off her, not hinting either way, giving him line to further hook his big mouth onto in case she needed him later.

† †
†

For Hank, the whispered exchange was obvious. What disappointed him was Vicki’s response, or lack thereof. He had hoped the salacious rumors were false—her actions weren’t doing her any favors. Vicki’s strategy was obvious, but maybe his animosity made sense, because men—no matter how attractive—didn’t share the same advantage. He knew there was more to his cynicism than professional resentment. His mood soured.

Roscoe motioned to the stairs. “Shall we?”

† †
†

Ivy Turner’s home was a nice two-story, spotless and well appointed.

“Nice digs for a young schoolteacher,” Hank mused.

Vicki nodded as she scanned the open floor plan. The home had a strong female presence. Everything was about the feeling of the space: a warming fireplace, soft lights, flowing fabrics and cozy furniture.

“Book lover,” Hank said as he scanned the abundance of thrillers throughout.

The extensive collection of teas, candles and warm blankets made Vicki want to curl up beside a soothing fire with a book of her own. This girl knew how to take care of herself. The space lacked the masculine delights of a big-screen TV, massive stereo, gaming consoles or the utility decor men often preferred. This was the perfect home for a single woman. Vicki found herself absurdly envious of the dead girl.

Shaking it off, she immediately recognized the wide back and obscene butt-crack hunched over the kitchen garbage can.

“Hey, Vinnie, come here.”

“Agent Starr, a pleasure as always … well, given the circumstances.” The young heavyset man strode toward her. His skin was dark, even for an East Indian, but his voice was as white as a Mother’s Day card.

“Vinnie, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Dashel. Dashel, this is Sukvinder Sondeep—forensic specialist.”

He grabbed Hank’s hand. “Call me Vinnie.”

“Anything interesting?” she asked.

“Not yet—neat freak for sure.”

The modus operandi between Vicki and Vinnie was already in play. He tried not to get caught staring—she pretended not to notice.

“I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Thanks, Vinnie.” She gifted him a simple rub on his arm that doubled his step.

Hank picked up a picture frame and stared for a long moment. “Was this her?”

Roscoe glanced over at the photo and nodded.

Vicki took the frame. The woman was stunning. The flow of blond hair was soft against her flawless skin, framing eyes that sparkled a bright water-blue color above a brilliant smile and model nose. Vicki couldn’t take her eyes off Ivy’s. Locking onto her eyes, the photo looked back.

Hank leaned in. “Notice the eyes?”

“What about them?” Did he also see the eyes come alive, staring into her?

“They’re smiling.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant.

“She’s truly happy in that picture. Smiling with her eyes rather than her mouth—a
real
smile.”

That was it. The light in her eyes made the photograph magical. You couldn’t fake a smile like that. This girl was genuinely happy—such a rare thing.

“How could anyone take this life?” Vicki wondered aloud, drawing in the soft face of Ivy Turner. “Especially in such a sadistic way.”

“Jealousy?”

“You’re thinking jealous lover?”

“People can be vicious when they don’t get what they want—especially if it’s so near perfection.” Then he shook his head. “But seems far too brutal for something as obvious as jealousy. The time the killer took—” He stopped when Vicki turned away from the photo, placing it back down on the table.

She turned to the sheriff. “Speaking of jealousy, where’s the bedroom?”

† †
†

The luxurious bedroom offered a fireplace on the wall next to a hand-wrought four-poster bed laden with a heavy down comforter and far too many plush pillows. An iPod alarm clock—paused on Rihanna—rested next to offerings by King and Koontz on the nightstand. Like elsewhere in the home, well-used beeswax candles were placed throughout the room, and there was a subtle fragrance of lavender and vanilla beans.

Unlike the rest of the house, the bed was unmade. “Dashel, come here.”

“What is it?”

She leaned over the mattress. He looked closer.

“They’re not all hers,” she said, pointing at the pubic hairs scattered across the sheet.

“You can tell?”

“I can tell there’s a variety. Call Vinnie.”

Vinnie stepped into the bedroom. “Find something?”

“Pubic hairs—multiples.”

“I have a trichology kit in the van. I’ll do a quick check for you.” The tiny hairs leaped up as he waved the electrostatic wand over the mattress. He slid the wand into a new plastic sheath. “I’ll be back in ten.”

“That fast?” Hank asked.

Vinnie grinned. “It’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

Then buy a toothbrush,
Hank mouthed to no one.

He continued to search the bedroom as Vicki made her way into the open lavish bathroom. A spacious glass shower sat next to a large jetted tub in the corner. Flower petals and more candles were scattered throughout.
She knew how to pamper herself
, Vicki thought.

She noticed Agent Dashel hunched over a large wooden chest. “What did you find?”

He jumped. “Oh, I—um—” His face was paralyzed, pretending to be expressionless as his cheeks flushed a pink hue. She was accustomed to seeing grown men blush, but this was a touch more.

“What is it?” She stepped forward, doubly intrigued.

She couldn’t fight the smirk on her face when she saw the contents. The handcrafted chest was lined in plush red velvet to protect its treasures. Dashel took a brisk step back, swallowing hard, as he made room for Vicki’s gloved hand. If Ivy had been a mother, she would have certainly selected a box with a lock.

Hank’s efforts to act calm only served to showcase his discomfort. “Wha—”

“It’s high-end—Pyrex glass. Pricey.” She lifted the curved, crystalline dildo, turning it in her hand, appraising it approvingly. “Looks like a good one.” Stifling her smirk, she returned it gently and pulled out another device. “Now this, on the other hand, is like a party in a box.” She traced the two penis-size probes and along the various nubs around the base, and then placed it back, allowing herself some small delight at her partner’s obvious discomfort.

“Wow, she has the whole deal here.” She glanced a finger across bottles of oils, lotions and gel lubricants; various instruments of desire and heavy leather cuffs attached to black braided ropes. She didn’t have to guess what was likely in the matching wardrobe in the corner. She would get to that next, saving Dashel from another startling surprise.

Dashel’s voice cracked. “Should we get that to Vinnie?” He motioned to the general vicinity of the chest.

“Yeah, probably.” She held her grin inward as best as possible. Vicki was amused by how such simple things could turn strong men to jelly—even in the twenty-first century. “She obviously took excellent care of herself.” She closed the lid and left the room with a parting shot at the fragile man. “Bigger collection than mine anyway.” She grinned fully now, imagining, correctly, the dumbstruck gaze on Dashel’s face behind her.

“What’s so funny?” Vinnie asked.

“Nothing. There’s a rather large box of sex toys back there.” The familiar flash of restraint stretched across Vinnie’s face, as he tried not to show his more-than-professional interest. “Do you have something for me?”

Vinnie took a moment to snap to attention, as Dashel joined Vicki from behind. “I matched the sets of hairs from the bed to those found in the shower—five distinct sets altogether.”

Vicki raised an eyebrow. “From the bed and the shower?”

“Yes, fairly recent, as the shower’s been cleaned within the past week.”

“You go, girl,” she whispered.

“I matched one set to hairs I found in the laundry hamper so it’s likely the victim’s. I’ll confirm when I get a sample from the body.” Then he glanced from Agent Starr to Agent Dashel with a delighted, conspiratory stare. “Of the other four sets, two were
female
.” He tried not to smile.

Vicki felt Dashel shift beside her. She turned straight on, speaking matter-of-factly. “So she had a taste for the ladies as well.” Vicki could tell her sexual candor was uncomfortable for Hank. She liked that.

“Maybe,” Hank said, failing not to look as intrigued as he was. “Should we tell Roscoe? It’ll make his week.”

“If he doesn’t already know.” She wondered just how public the schoolteacher’s sexual explorations were.

† †
†

Hank made his way back down the stairs, infuriated by Agent Starr’s overt frankness—more so, her comfort with it—fighting his own vexing arousal. His juvenile reaction was frustrating. What was wrong with him? Sure, part of his self-inflicted isolation had included a hiatus from sexual liaisons—gratification was only for the worthy. Vinnie’s reactions he could move past, but Hank was more than experienced enough to garner a less childish response.

He picked up another frame. Ivy was much more alluring in this photo. Revealing only her face and naked shoulders, her appeal remained haunting. A quintessential goddess—sufficient enough to stir a maddening intoxication in the male beast.

Women like that frightened Hank. He had spent untold hours speaking with experts, trying to understand this brand of old hate. Some men couldn’t help but resent such astounding beauty. These women were always above their station—unattainable. Without offering a single word or gesture, these women had such beauty that it alone could stir deep-rooted hate within the wrong men. Feminine magnificence so astonishing that it exposed the deep seeping wounds in their feelings of masculine inadequacy. To be in their presence triggered unworthiness to bleed into the empty belly of their incomplete souls.

Far too often these men succumbed to the festering insufficiency, nurturing the unwarranted shame, resentment and hate—growing into a physical manifestation of violence.

As she searched a desk, Vicki wore a hint of a smile, no doubt at his earlier expense, making her that much more attractive. He glanced from the photo of Ivy to Agent Starr. She held the same infuriating beauty—the captivating presence. The anger that secretly brewed was not directed at the two beauties in this room. Instead, it churned toward the kind of men who would rob this world of such splendor for their own selfish failings.