Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) (21 page)

Agent Turner

I pace in the ME’s autopsy room; it helps me organize everything going on in my head. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this place. How Herb can stand being in a room with dead bodies all day long is beyond me. I figure it’s a case of
it takes all kinds
. I hate the feeling of being confined when it comes to work. There is only one time I enjoy being restrained, and that’s at the hands of my partner. Herb’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Out of all the medical examiners available, I am glad to have Herb Foster on this case; we work well together. I also prefer to work with him because he’s the autopsy man who determines cause of death. When dealing with a serial killer, knowing how he went about it is very important. Herb has worked on
Black Rose
cases with me in the past as well, which is an added bonus.

“This guy suffered an extreme amount of pain before his death.”

“What?”

I rush over to stand directly across from him.

“Don’t start that looking over my shoulder crap that you do, Agent Turner.”

“I’m standing across from you.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’ve still got that hurry up tone to your voice and that look you get in your eyes when you’re rushing me. As I’ve told you before, these things can’t be rushed. Look, I’ll give you the quick version. This guy has nicks and cuts in his intestines from eating tacks. If you think aluminum foil can tear up the person’s insides when a mule swallows a handful of dope packets, you should see what tacks do. His stomach and intestinal tract is full of them.”

I look up at the monitor Herb is using as he works. That’s another thing I could never do—work with my hands while watching what they do on a monitor. I view the various sized nicks and cuts he’s referring to and the black seepage coming from them.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“You’ve got it. The guy’s intestines leaked feces until his system overloaded, and he became septic. He was essentially poisoned by his own body. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the liquor he was forced to drink had to have caused a tremendous amount of pain when it hit those cuts. Imagine salt in a paper cut amplified a thousand times. It’s the kind of pain that would drive a man crazy.”

“So, his torture was just as much about psychological pain as it was physical pain. That fits our serial killer.”

I look down at the victim’s abdomen, and even though the tacks have been removed, red dots spelling out the word
rapist
still remain. Not only did
Black Rose
force him to eat tacks, he riddled the outside of the guy’s body with them as well.

Herb looks up at me through the medical glasses he always wears while working, and he makes a statement befitting of the situation.

“Yep, your killer was judge, jury, and executioner.”

The Killer

“I’m telling you, man! Somebody is trying to kill us all off!”

“Not,
somebody…
It’s
Black Rose
,” I answer my spazzed out friend. He’s so far beyond panicked that he’s on the verge of a breakdown, but honestly, I am too. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s terrified, and he has good reason to be. We aren’t dealing with some run-of-the-mill guy; we’re not even dealing with the average serial killer. No,
Black Rose
is very organized and clearly has the resources to find and kill us. Not only does he have the brains to be successful at what he does best, he also has the backing of the community. The public loves the bloodthirsty son of a bitch.

“You mean to tell me you know who the fuck is doing this?”

“Yep,” I slur. “I most certainly do. Go right over there to my laptop and see for yourself.”

I watch through blurred vision as my last best friend on the face of the earth looks at the blog page still pulled up on my laptop screen.

“Man, this guy has over a million fucking followers. He’s a professional killer!”

“Nope, that would be a hitman. This guy is a serial killer, but the rest of your assessment is correct. The public simply adores him.”

I make an overly dramatic circular motion with my hand.

“The guy is a fucking superhero in the public’s eyes, here to avenge the weak and victimized. All hail the fucking all-powerful
Black Rose
. You know the funny thing about it is he doesn’t even seem to care about the fame he’s garnered. No siree, he’s all about protecting the masses. All he needs is a fucking cape.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better, Richard? All of this is your fault. We never would have brought those women back to you if you hadn’t told us to do it.”

“If someone told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?”

“You paid us a lot of money to help fulfill your sick, sexual fantasies. I still have college loans to pay off.”

“You guys were gang banging chicks back in our college days. You were well schooled on slipping bitches roofies long before I came up with the idea to abduct them. Yeah,
Jenkins
,” I slur, purposely using his last name, “you were taking advantage of women long before I paid you or Tacks a dime. Now
Black Rose
, the avenger of the weak and victimized, is coming to make you pay for your sins. ”

I dramatically wave my hand in the air again due to my drunken state. It’s a habit I have when I’m drunk to overemphasize the obvious.

“That’s not funny.”

“No, but it is true. You won’t know where, and you won’t know when, but he is coming for you… and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.”

It doesn’t matter how many seminars I lead on self-confidence, I know when I’m outwitted. I’ve spent my life being a narcissistic bastard, and truth be told, I am jealous of
Black Rose’s
fame. How can someone who doesn’t even care about being famous gain the amount of notoriety that he has? It just isn’t fair. I’ve spent my entire adult life doing volunteer work. I even have my own local TV show that I host, covering philanthropy stories to try and win the public over. I deserve what he has. I’ve done a hell of a lot more for the community than he has. Why would people give their devotion to a man who kills instead of a man who feeds the hungry? Of course, there was a monster residing inside me as well, but no one knew that at the time, so it shouldn’t matter. I deserve the adoration of the masses.

Yeah… fuck
Black Rose
and the horse he rode in on.

Melanie

“How’d you know he wouldn’t be home?”

I question my husband as I follow him inside Brandon Jenkins’ home.

“Well, it’s a work night for him.”

He turns, smirking at me as he speaks.

“The bartender couldn’t make it in, so I’m even more certain he had to go in. It looks like they’re running short on employees.”

My husband is being facetious, and I find it beyond humorous. I don’t have any pity for these predators.

“Yeah, maybe it had something to do with his stomach,” I giggle, egging him on. “No, really though, how did you know he wouldn’t be home?”

He cocks his head and squints his eyes as he makes his way over to me, giving me his full attention.

“Let’s do it this way. Why don’t you tell me why you thought he
would
be home?”

“Well, home is where you feel safe.”

“You feel
safe
at home, and you’re married to a serial killer?” he teases me.

“I’m a killer now too, so yeah, I feel safer being married to one. They say opposites attract until they become the same entity.”

“Yeah, I get that. Great answer, but that’s not a saying.”

“It is now; I just made it up.”

He ignores me and just shakes his head at my rebuttal.

“Now, to answer your question, people who are afraid don’t like to be alone. Being in a public place gives them a false sense of security. Needless to say, he’ll feel more at peace in a crowded room. The bogeyman can’t come for you when you’re out in the open; he only jumps around dark corners to get you, or so our target thinks.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know you, does he?”

“No ma’am, but he will. I can assure you, he will.”

“What are we going to do when this job is over?”

“My goodness, have I created a monster? You’re already looking forward to your next kill. I don’t the pick the kills, love; they pick me. I’m joking about it, but there can be a feeling of depression after it’s all over. In an odd way, we have a purpose, and when the job is over, there can sometimes be a sense of loss. After a kill, I usually spend time making certain there is no evidence out there that can lead back to me—now us. The only person I think who is interested in or even capable of catching us is Agent Turner.”

“You’re pretty confident in yourself, aren’t you?”

“I’m not trying to be cocky. I’m simply making a statement. It’s because I’m so careful that I remain free, and even though
Black Rose’s
alter ego is a public figure, I keep him off the grid.”

“So, you have an alter ego, huh?”

“As do you, my love. You’re still sorting through how you’ll come to grips with being a killer. I accepted that I’m a monster years ago.”

“Well, that’s true.”

Now, I really just want to change the subject. I don’t like it that he thinks of himself as a
monster
.

“Look at this,” I say, picking up a framed picture of the four men standing together at one of Richard’s seminars.”

My husband walks over and takes it from my hand, speaking as if he’s talking directly to the group.

“This could very well be the last picture this little group of ghouls ever took together. One thing is for sure; with two down and two to go, they will never take a group photo again. They grew up together, so I think it’s rather fitting they should all die in the same time period.” He sets the picture down and eyes me. “Don’t you?”

“I most certainly do.”