The Butcher and the Wren(27)

“It’s what we thought, and it’s bad,” she says. She can hear him mutter “shit” under his breath. “Unfortunately, I’m going to need to get closer.”

Leroux uses the back of his hand to wipe his forehead. “You’re not seriously thinking about crawling under there, are you?”

“Not all the way in, but if I can just get a little closer, I’ll be able to see exactly what we are working with. She looks like she has something in her right hand.”

Wren makes her way to the end of the stage and stops to gently kick at the wood in front of her. It crumbles away, and she looks at Leroux.

“Found a weak spot,” she reports.

He bends down next to her as she pulls away pieces of rotting wood. A small hole begins to form. Leroux peers into the darkness, using his phone to illuminate as far as he can.

“You sure about this, Muller?”

Wren nods and throws her hair into a messy bun on the top of her head. She reaches into her back pocket and brings out a pair of black nitrile gloves, snapping them onto her hands.

“Positive. Now watch my back.”

She clicks on the flashlight and puts it between her lips as she dives headfirst into the blackness. The performance slams overhead as she slowly makes her way toward the body in front of her. The space is cramped and hot. There is only enough room for her to squat uncomfortably with her head bent at a sharp angle or crawl. She crawls forward and feels the ache of rocks and uneven ground rubbing against her knees. As she inches closer, the full savagery of this young woman’s death is revealed. She has a number of cuts, bruises, and wounds covering her form, including a large laceration across her neck, her dark, curly hair matted to her face and neck with both fresh and old blood.

“Jesus.”

The word almost falls out of Wren’s mouth, muffled by the flashlight between her teeth. Leroux is waiting impatiently at the entrance. He squints at the carnage.

“I imagine it’s bleak in there,” he says with a sigh.

Wren shakes her head, turning it slightly to peek over her shoulder at him. “This is really vicious work, Leroux. The worst yet.”

“Fuck. I feel like we are so close to nailing this bastard.”

Wren looks back at the assaulted corpse in front of her and shifts her gaze to the woman’s right hand, splayed outward to her side as if perpetually reaching for something just out of her grasp. The hand is curled around something, and Wren carefully begins peeling back each finger, forcing the stiffness to give way beneath her gloved hands. Her efforts unveil the unmistakable lines and symbols of a map. Wren spies marked plots and a key that labels the famous residents of notable tombs. This map is for St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.

“Someone got a bag out there?” Wren calls behind her and unfolds the map completely.

It’s the kind of map they hand out to tourists once they show up for their guided tour of St Louis Cemetery No. 1, eager to gawk at and dissect the sights in front of them. This one is detailed to a point, even including the trees that separate the paths and alleyways that line the City of the Dead. Wren traces the pathways with her eyes, searching for something that doesn’t belong, a sign to explain why this map found itself in the iron grip of a dead woman. In the cluster of gravesites toward the middle of the map, she spots a small crimson X, involuntarily gasping slightly at the discovery.

“What is it?” Leroux questions.

“There’s a guide map of St. Louis Cemetery 1 down here with a spot marked off in red. I don’t think this victim is the only present he left for us to find today.”

“Shit. All right, come on out. Let’s get her out of here and head over there. We have to contain this. Now.”

Wren nods and bags the map, sealing it shut before taking one last look at the battered body before her. In her final, solemn gaze she notices something she hadn’t before. On the victim’s right wrist is a white smartwatch, a standout because of its pristine condition. It is brand-new and bears none of the wear of the rest of the victim’s effects. There is no way that this watch was on that wrist before or at the time of death.

“Muller. Let’s go!” Leroux trills impatiently. His eyes betray the thoughts racing around his head. She can see that he is already calculating their next moves. A true veteran of this world.

Wren sees the haze of doubt and frustration hanging over Leroux but doesn’t let it impede her diligent tending to the crime scene in front of her.

“Yeah, John, I hear you. Just one second.”

She reaches out a gloved hand to examine the watch and gently taps the screen to life. A cast of blue light floods the dark, cramped space. It asks for a numerical passcode.

“Hand me the map, Muller,” Leroux barks. “Let’s move!”

She ignores him and looks desperately around the space that felt so suffocating a moment ago, but now looks hollow and deep. She uses a hand to cast the flashlight’s beam at the area around the body, hoping for more information, but sees only dirt, dust, and insects. She forces out a frustrated sigh and drops her eyes.

“Just thought I saw something,” she squeaks.

She grips the evidence bag with the map securely inside and maneuvers her body toward the exit. Wren’s eyes meet Leroux’s, and she stretches her arm out to hand him the bag. She glances at the tiny crimson X for a beat longer.