The Butcher and the Wren(26)

Together, Wren and the young technician cross the barrage of festivalgoers.

“What the hell are you eating?” A woman holding a plastic cup cranes her neck to look at the paper plate her companion is foraging through, and he shrugs his shoulders before pulling it away defensively.

“Some kind of bourbon chicken and rice. I don’t know. Why?”

“Smells like hot garbage,” she answers and wrinkles her nose.

“No, it doesn’t smell like anything but bourbon sauce,” he declares emphatically and shoves the plate under her nose as she prematurely recoils.

Wren passes by before hearing the women’s response. The stench of human decomposition is starting to permeate the air, and people are taking notice. She drags her colleague past a man playing the trumpet. He blasts cheerful notes through the air like a fine mist. Several people around him have broken into dance. They pull and spin one another with that genuine kind of laughter that only comes with a truly carefree moment. But Wren knows that under the shiny exterior of this scene, there is rot. She blinks and pushes toward Leroux, stopping next to him and turning her head to the side to muffle their words.

“We are close. I’m sure you can smell it too.”

She flicks her eyes to meet his, and he nods, scanning the crowd. They move together to follow the scent. The technician trails a bit behind as she pretends to scroll through her phone. Leroux’s eyes are wild as he searches for the source. He usually rigidly regulates his emotional responses, and it is horrifying to see this crack in his armor. Wren takes a deep breath and wills her mind to focus.

“Your eyes look like they are going to fling themselves right out of your head. Chill,” Wren offers to Leroux, shocked to find him looking at her with authority. She hides the desperation from her own face and tries again. “Look for flies.”

“Flies at a nasty music festival, in the middle of the summer, in Louisiana. Got it.”

“Do I need to give you a quick refresher on the tenacity and discipline of the blowfly?”

“Absolutely not. I got it. We’re looking for a shit ton of flies.”

She nods and returns her eyes to the crowd. She scans the herd quickly, trying to take note of everything that she can. They squeeze through a large congregation of revelers, approaching one of the smaller stages. It’s small only in comparison to the massive main stage. The wood that holds it up, forming the foundation, is bent, scuffed, and faded from many summers baking in the sun. Now, a lively jazz ensemble sways and stomps on the stage’s ancient floor, playing a buoyant tune. The music dances, teasing at a crescendo before finally swelling up in a chaotic wave of sound. The afternoon sunlight bounces off the instruments hoisted in the air, making the trumpets and saxophone shine like solid gold.

A thin black cloud emerges on the left side of the stage, toward the back. If she wasn’t already so close to the metal barricade separating the crowd from the stage, she wouldn’t have been able to see it, let alone hear it. The cloud buzzes like a field of wildflowers being pollinated. Except this is no pastoral field, and those aren’t busy bees. These insects are looking for something far less sweet-smelling, preferring the foul bouquet of decaying flesh instead.

Without taking her eyes off the circling parade of flies making their way between the crumbling wooden slats, she grabs a handful of fabric from the side of Leroux’s shirt and twists. He stops immediately.

“What is it?” he asks without looking at her.

“Beneath the stage, left side, toward the back.”

He darts his eyes to the location and draws in a sharp breath. “Follow me.”

He pushes sideways toward the end of the barricade. A security officer sits on a tall, wooden stool. He has one leg bent up on the rung beneath him and is absentmindedly bobbing his head to the music. Leroux approaches him and leans close to his ear.

“NOPD,” he declares just above a whisper.

He opens his jacket to provide an inconspicuous visual of his badge. The security officer’s eyes flit down to it, and he nods. Leroux peeks behind his own shoulder.

“We have to check out the stage area, but we don’t need to have the entire crowd panicking. Can you help us with that, Officer …?”

“Blum,” the young officer finishes, clearing his throat and straightening up on the stool. He runs a hand over his stubble-covered jaw before resting it on his thigh. “No problem, detective. Come on through. I will stick around and try to keep everything calm.”

Leroux claps a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, we appreciate it. Come on, Muller.”

He waves Wren and the technician through, and the three of them walk around the left side of the stage. The odor is unmistakable. As they near the flies, the air becomes thick and hazy. It’s like walking into another realm, one filled with death and decay. Wren drops to a knee and peers between the slats where a portion of the wood has rotted away. It’s dark under the stage. Her eyes adjust to the curtain of blackness, and a familiar form takes shape. Crumpled and motionless, laying almost directly in the center of the area beneath the stage, is the source of the blowflies’ gathering. The smell is unbearable as she moves closer to it.

“Is there a way to get under the stage?” Wren straightens up, stifling a gag.

“There is a door back here.”

Wren walks around to the back, where Leroux is already crouching low. His hand clicks open a latch. She removes the small flashlight from her back pocket and flicks it on. The beam of light casts forward and comes to a stop, bending itself around the motionless object. Illuminated in front of her is the distorted body of what appears to be a woman in her twenties. She is lying on her stomach with arms outstretched beneath her as if freefalling from a plane moments before the parachute opens. Wren quickly sees the mangled mess of flesh and bone where her right knee should be. She pans the light from legs to head, and her breath catches briefly as the victim’s half-open eyes light up like a demon’s. They stare directly back at Wren, staring but seeing nothing. Her face is filthy, painted with dirt, blood, and grime. Wren clicks the flashlight off and takes a moment to compose herself, crouched at the small door.