The Butcher and the Wren(53)

As they turn the corner at the bottom, Wren doesn’t feel any familiarity here. She’s never been in this basement, but it is exactly how she pictured it. It’s clean, sterile, and organized.

Near the back of the basement, close to the wall, is a row of chairs. They are sturdy, with thick arms. They remind her of courthouse furniture. As Wren moves closer to them, she sees that they have been bolted to the floor, with a layer of cement keeping them in place. The arms are encircled with leather straps and solid chains, rusted, and coated with thick, red-brown blood. The seats of these chairs all have blood smeared and pooled on them, and more of it has dripped down their legs and onto the light-gray cement below.

“I’m guessing these weren’t for Bible study,” Leroux quips and crouches next to her, using a gloved hand to shake the leg of one chair, which doesn’t budge. “Make sure we get someone down here to take samples of this.”

The air is thick; Leroux uses the sleeve of his shirt to protect, almost smother, himself against the pungent stench of decaying flesh. Wren has moved on to the white freezer in the corner. The lid is open, and the plug has been tossed to the ground. The smell becomes fleshier. The layers of stink burst like grenades with each step closer. She hovers close to the freezer, willing herself to look. She isn’t scared of the dead. She’s afraid of what they have to say.

“Muller, what’s in there?” Leroux asks, still standing over by the chairs.

She sees her now. She’s young, her blond hair darkened with blood and various other bodily fluids that have escaped in this unhallowed resting place. Her red, lifeless eyes were once green or blue. But now they are cloudy and bloodshot. Her cheeks are swollen, and Wren can see where the blood poured from her eyes, nose, and mouth after some kind of traumatic injury.

“What did he do to you?” she asks out loud. She reaches her gloved hand out to touch her, but she stops herself.

“Well, at least we know where the smell is coming from.” Leroux appears next to her, gesturing for another officer to come take over. “Let’s go upstairs and maybe get some air for a second.”

Wren spins around to face him, breaking from her trance for a moment. “What? No. This is exactly why I came here. I’m the medical examiner. There are bodies to be processed.”

“Of course, Muller, but this is a lot. It’s okay if you just need to get some fresh air for a second. No one would fault you,” Leroux says and lightly bumps his shoulder into hers in a show of comfort.

“I’m okay. This is my job. I just need to go get my kit. I left it upstairs,” she replies sternly, and walks over to the stairs, sparing a glance at the chairs once again.

Her heart races in her chest, and the smell of rotting flesh and men’s cologne begins to mix into a sickening cocktail. Her head is woozy, but she shakes it off. She hears Leroux and Will follow close behind her and can hear their hushed conversation as they climb to the ground-floor kitchen.

“Don’t leave her side while you are up there,” Leroux says quietly to Will, almost too softly for Wren to hear.

“Of course,” Will answers gruffly.

As she grabs her kit on the table, she centers herself a little bit. As she turns to descend the stairs once again, an older officer emerges from the hallway.

“Do you guys hear music?” he asks.

Wren strains to listen amid all the movement in the house. Will and Leroux also perk up. She does hear something off in the distance. It’s faint and sounds like it’s coming from outside.

Leroux waves them on. “Come on. It’s outside. We have officers in the back, checking it out now.”

The three of them make their way outside, and the music becomes clearer. The ocean of trees before them remains still but not silent. It is still a bit muffled, but it is unmistakably “Black Magic” by Badwoods cutting through the organic orchestra of the bayou. The soundtrack is sickeningly upbeat, and the dissonance is haunting. Wren takes a shaky breath in, trying to rid herself of the anxiety that threatens to consume her.

“This has Cal written all over it,” she states, remembering the feeling of being suffocated by music in her most terrified moments as Emily.

“Was he a theater kid?” Leroux shoots her a subtle smirk as he looks over his shoulder.

She is thankful for the lightness he brings this moment, and replies, “No, though I imagine he’s making up for that now.”

They walk down the rickety back porch steps and step onto wooden planks that lead to a thickly forested area. Cypress trees hug one another from every angle, and the sun can’t penetrate the blanket they form over this area. This is where he took his victims. This is where they cut the skin on their legs and feet while trying to run away from him. The feeling in this place is dark and ominous, saturated with the evil that has touched it for so long.

They enter the backyard together, with one officer behind them and one in front. Leroux and Will both have their guns drawn. As they stride forward together, the music gets louder, competing with the cicadas that are humming loudly from the trees. The smell of decay becomes almost too much to take as they go deeper into this hunting ground. When they reach the water, she spots its epicenter.

“We have the source of the smell,” she hisses, pointing to the dark, crumpled body lying beside the swampy water.

The three of them move as a unit, and the smell of decay becomes otherworldly. The body is decomposing rapidly, thanks to the weather and the insects, but Wren identifies the victim as male. There is an apparent wound to the side of his temple that looks like it could be from a gunshot. Wren snaps a quick photo on her phone, and she grabs tweezers from her kit to go to work. She dislodges the bullet from its entry wound, holding it up at eye level.