Page 4 of The Butterfly Killer

Marcus could feel his mocking eyes behind him. He could barely see Blevins from the corner of his eyes, smugly standing there as if seeing Marcus struggling to not pass out was the funniest thing he’d seen in his life.

“He has the weakest stomach I’ve ever seen. In the academy, we use to hock loogies in a cup and pass it around—as soon as he saw it, he’d hurl.”

Mercer squinted. “I see. You two you were in the same academy. And you’re a detective?”

Blevins straightened. “I’ve put in the work and I’m qualified. Are you trying to imply something?”

“No, not at all.” Mercer turned his attention back to Marcus. “We can discuss this down town.”

Marcus gave a little shake of his head. “I’m okay. Just need a second.”

He pressed the back of his and to his mouth. His eyes watered. He blinked away the unshed tears.

When he felt good enough to walk, he moved into the living room.

“I didn’t notice at first but…”

Mercer followed him. “But?”

Marcus had to keep covering his face. “Look at the curtains. They’re perfectly mirroring each other. And look at the bookcases. They’re dusted and cleaned. Miss Calloway was a hoarder. If you look at any of her closets or tucked away cabinetry, you’ll see she even hoards trash.”

“Except the whole house has been scrubbed clean,” Mercer agreed while nodding.

Blevins scoffed. “So what? You think the killer cleaned the house before he left?”

Marcus stared at the woman’s blank face. “Yeah. I do.”

Mercer gave Marcus a long look. Marcus didn’t move as the agent left the room with Blevins.

“He’s always like that,” Blevins was quick to say even though Marcus could still hear them.

Mercer ignored the comment. “We’ll meet you two down at the station. We’re going to check around the neighborhood.”

Marcus felt like a fool. Still, he didn’t move when the front door closed as everyone left.

Until he saw a fly crawl into her nose and he had to rush out the door to puke onto the front steps.

Blevins laughed loudly.

“Told you.”

2

Marcus staredat the coffee machine. He imagined it blew up and killed him right where he stood. Instead of doing what he wanted, the old machine made a gurgling noise and spat out a sputtering stream of black liquid. He curled his lip in disgust.

When the machine stopped dispensing, he grabbed a packet of sugar and headed back to his desk. Though, calling his desk a “desk” would be exaggerating. It was a repurposed side table wedged into the corner of the bull pen.

There hadn’t been enough room for him to have a real desk so the janitor had pulled this up from the basement and thought it was adequate. He remembered everyone laughing at it while he tried to find a folding chair to go with it.

Marcus had thought about quitting many times throughout the fives years on the police squad. Most of it had been through training. The academy had been worse than high school. He was one of one “Mexican” to attend that year (Mexican being broad because not even his grandparents were Mexican. They just happened to be brown).

He sat his coffee down on his small desk. He was about to sit down when someone slung their arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, I didn’t catch you this morning. I saw the feds turned up.”

Medical examiner Patrice Maguire was the only person besides the chief that didn’t treat Marcus like he had leprosy. He was also the only person Marcus would call a friend.

Marcus smiled though it was weak and didn’t reach his eyes. He was exhausted and he felt like shit. “I got an early call. I’ve been out there all day. It’s the Butterfly Killer.”

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