the kitchen and noticed that the blood trail led to the porch. He followed the droplets of crimson liquid to the back door. He noticed the spotless condition of the mudroom and entertained the ludicrous thought of how angry the grandmother would have been that the killer had tracked her blood across the immaculate floors.
He twisted the knob, but a deadbolt secured the back door. He undid the lock and left the house of pain behind.
As he exited, he felt as if a pressure lifted. Once again, he was surrounded by blue skies and open spaces. He wondered if the house would always carry the stain of blood and the smell of death, a taint that no amount of cleaning or coats of paint could conceal.
Once again, he stood surrounded on all sides by the beauty of nature, but the world didn’t seem as bright to him as it had before entering the grandmother’s house. He had felt that his new home was immune to the evil that plagued the rest of the world, but now he knew that darkness and ugliness could thrive and grow even in the center of the brightest light and the most breathtaking beauty. Somehow, such knowledge made the light seem dimmer and the beauty less magnificent.
The trail of blood had stopped, and he knew that the killer could have gone in any direction. As the adrenaline faded, he realized that his prey was long gone, and the hunt was over. He saw a few buildings scattered behind the house but decided not to bother searching them.
Although he would have preferred to never set foot in the house again, it contained the closest phone. He decided that it couldn’t hurt to call the authorities, in case Maggie couldn’t obtain a cellular signal.
He re-entered the tainted house and dialed nine-one-one. The operator asked about the nature of the emergency. “Send the police to…” He stopped and realized that he didn’t know the address.
He remembered the stack of mail on the dining room table. “Hold on.” He rushed to the table and returned with one of the unopened letters. “Send the police to 91244 Foxbrook Road in Asherton, the home of Maureen Hill.”
He heard the rhythmic click of a computer keyboard. “I’m not showing that address anywhere in the county, sir. Are you at the location where the police are needed now?”
“Yes.” He looked back down at the envelope and noticed something strange.
“Ok, I have your location. Do you need an ambulance, sir?”
He considered the request and said, “No, but tell ‘em to bring the coroner.”
CHAPTER 8
The Sheriff stared at the body of Maureen Hill and gazed into her milky, dead eyes. He clenched his own eyelids shut, but the tears found their way free, nonetheless. The look of pain in the lifeless orbs was familiar to him. He had seen the same fear the last time he looked into the eyes of his wife, Kathleen.
The memories flashed through his mind. Coming home. Finding her mutilated body in their living room.
She had been dead for two days. Two days, and he hadn’t even noticed that her calls had ceased.
He had been in Kansas City at the time of her death, consulting on a missing persons case. But most of his time there was spent contemplating another active investigation, a serial rapist and murderer in the Virginia and Washington D.C. area. He had put a profile together for the investigators. The police used his analysis to isolate a suspect, but the man avoided capture and was on the run.
He was proud of his work on the case. The lead investigator had even thanked him personally during a press conference, stating that his profile played an integral role in identifying the possible killer. He remembered the feeling of pride he felt at the mention of his name on television. Human nature , he supposed. Everyone wanted his or her fifteen minutes of fame. More than that, everyone wanted to be recognized for his or her hard work and diligence.
And he was most definitely recognized for his role in the case, not by his superiors, but by the rapist and
He twisted the knob, but a deadbolt secured the back door. He undid the lock and left the house of pain behind.
As he exited, he felt as if a pressure lifted. Once again, he was surrounded by blue skies and open spaces. He wondered if the house would always carry the stain of blood and the smell of death, a taint that no amount of cleaning or coats of paint could conceal.
Once again, he stood surrounded on all sides by the beauty of nature, but the world didn’t seem as bright to him as it had before entering the grandmother’s house. He had felt that his new home was immune to the evil that plagued the rest of the world, but now he knew that darkness and ugliness could thrive and grow even in the center of the brightest light and the most breathtaking beauty. Somehow, such knowledge made the light seem dimmer and the beauty less magnificent.
The trail of blood had stopped, and he knew that the killer could have gone in any direction. As the adrenaline faded, he realized that his prey was long gone, and the hunt was over. He saw a few buildings scattered behind the house but decided not to bother searching them.
Although he would have preferred to never set foot in the house again, it contained the closest phone. He decided that it couldn’t hurt to call the authorities, in case Maggie couldn’t obtain a cellular signal.
He re-entered the tainted house and dialed nine-one-one. The operator asked about the nature of the emergency. “Send the police to…” He stopped and realized that he didn’t know the address.
He remembered the stack of mail on the dining room table. “Hold on.” He rushed to the table and returned with one of the unopened letters. “Send the police to 91244 Foxbrook Road in Asherton, the home of Maureen Hill.”
He heard the rhythmic click of a computer keyboard. “I’m not showing that address anywhere in the county, sir. Are you at the location where the police are needed now?”
“Yes.” He looked back down at the envelope and noticed something strange.
“Ok, I have your location. Do you need an ambulance, sir?”
He considered the request and said, “No, but tell ‘em to bring the coroner.”
CHAPTER 8
The Sheriff stared at the body of Maureen Hill and gazed into her milky, dead eyes. He clenched his own eyelids shut, but the tears found their way free, nonetheless. The look of pain in the lifeless orbs was familiar to him. He had seen the same fear the last time he looked into the eyes of his wife, Kathleen.
The memories flashed through his mind. Coming home. Finding her mutilated body in their living room.
She had been dead for two days. Two days, and he hadn’t even noticed that her calls had ceased.
He had been in Kansas City at the time of her death, consulting on a missing persons case. But most of his time there was spent contemplating another active investigation, a serial rapist and murderer in the Virginia and Washington D.C. area. He had put a profile together for the investigators. The police used his analysis to isolate a suspect, but the man avoided capture and was on the run.
He was proud of his work on the case. The lead investigator had even thanked him personally during a press conference, stating that his profile played an integral role in identifying the possible killer. He remembered the feeling of pride he felt at the mention of his name on television. Human nature , he supposed. Everyone wanted his or her fifteen minutes of fame. More than that, everyone wanted to be recognized for his or her hard work and diligence.
And he was most definitely recognized for his role in the case, not by his superiors, but by the rapist and
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