Page 1 of The Butterfly Killer

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Officer Marcus had beenon duty for exactly twenty minutes when he got dispatched to a homicide two blocks away. That same morning he’d spilled coffee on himself not once but twice, had arrived to the station to find a stack of papers a foot high, and tripped on his way out of the station.

To put it simply, he was having a bad day.

With an anxious sigh, he grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Officer Marcus. I’m on my way, over.”

The sun just now broke over the quiet and quaint suburban neighborhood. He parked in front of the house the call had been made about. It looked no different than the other tan painted homes built evenly along the road. In fact, it was the most bland one out of all of them. There were no bikes, no cars, and nothing personal about it.

The only thing different about it was the crying woman sitting on the front steps.

Marcus got out and immediately the water-sprinklers turned on. They sprayed him from the knee down. He winced but kept moving.

“Morning ma’am.”

The woman looked up from where she’d buried her face into her hands. She held a bundle of stained black tissues. Her mascara ran down her face in an almost comical way. Marcus kept his face cool.

“S-She?—”

“Can you stand?”

She managed to get to her feet with Marcus’s help. He lead her away from the house and to the cruiser.

“Is anyone in the house?”

The woman started to nod then shook her head. She began to sob. “Just Angie. God. She’s dead.”

Another cop car arrived. Marcus motioned them over.

“Stay here, ma’am. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He winced at his words. Not exactly the best thing to say in this situation. The other cops headed toward them. Marcus took off toward the house before they got too close.

As much as he hated being around death, he hated socializing more. Especially with other police.

The woman’s sobs followed him into the eerily quiet house. The hair on his arms stood up. He had to force himself to put his hand on his gun though he knew there was no one inside the house.

The smell of death was high in the air. It tickled his nose. His face flushed as a lump started to form in his throat. His heart sped as his boots echoed on the linoleum.

The house was smaller than it looked on the outside. The entryway made him feel cramped. He couldn’t tell if the ceilings were just low or if it was his nerves causing his eyes to play tricks.

Something about this house reminded him of his parents’ home. It was long gone now. It had been condemned ten years ago when it had been devoured by mold. But the layout of the house struck a chord within him.

His hand went slack on his gun. But he and everyone who knew him knew he was never going to draw it in the first place. Just as he hated socializing more than death, he hated guns more than both of those things.

The morning sunlight drifted in from the living room from the right. He followed the path of light. The death smell grew stronger as the linoleum changed to off-white carpet.

The buzzing came next. It was static in his ears, right there next to his eardrums. He threw a hand over his nose as the smell turned pungent. He could hardly breathe it was so strong. It wasn’t just strong either—it was thick. He could almost swallow it.

He closed his eyes briefly to get a hold of himself so he didn’t end up puking all over the crime scene. He didn’t need to go much further than this to get a good look at the body, but it was the small nagging voice in the back of his head that made him do it.

Each step closer to the body made him feel like he was sinking another inch into quicksand.

The body of the older woman was spread out. Her arms and legs were positioned as if she were making a snow angel. Her wide-eyes stared up at the ceiling, her head perfectly aligned so she wasn’t looking at anything else.

Marcus stood at the end of her body. He forgot when and how he’d gotten over here. The time was lost between then and now. He gazed down at her body—not bloody but extra clean. Someone had paid close attention to her. They’d put time and effort into her like she was an ornament piece.

He stared into the large hole in her chest. She’d been cut open, filleted like she was a piece of meat being sold at a butchery. Two clean criss-cross cuts had been made at the center of her chest. The four triangle shaped pieces of skin were pulled back to reveal the inside of her chest.

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