Page 18 of Corrupting Ivy

I turned to the next photo, showing the same thing, only different bones, and the next and the next until I reached photo number twenty-six. The sticky note attached to the file said, ‘woman, mid-to-late twenties, missing fibula.’

They were dealing with an active serial killer, and he was using my town as his dumping ground. And, judging by the number of bodies here, I’d say for quite a while.

I flipped the picture over, wanting to study it in more detail but not giving in to the desire. Besides, there was one, in particular, I hoped I didn’t see. I stared at the twenty-seventh image and sighed with relief. A young woman, like all the rest. Black hair, naked and lean, her skin covered in deep cuts, blackened with dirt. Her left breast, missing, and her lips removed. The woman’s drab, lifeless body had very little decomposition, which meant in this Texas heat—it was very recent. She’d been in the ground at most a week before they took this picture. I picked it up, giving in to the curiosity. Before I could lay my eyes back on the dead woman, another image of skeletal remains caught my attention lying underneath.

“Twenty-eight?” I said, staring at the bones of another person as I put aside the photo in my hand. “I thought there were only twenty-seven?”

“We aren’t so certain this individual is part of this serial killer’s body count.”

“Why is that?” I asked, studying a little harder. This one didn’t have a sticky note, but the skeleton was much larger than the others.

“Because he’s male.”

“Male?”

I sat back in the old chair and gripped the armrests, waiting for the shoe to drop.

Sheriff Kennedy thumbed through a few more folders until he pulled out another file and plopped it down on the one I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

The words, Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, inscribed in dark ink across the top page and directly below read, Report of Postmortem Examination, in all capital letters. I set my jaw as I peered up at him, then back down to the report.

Name: John Doe

Sex: Male

Age: Mid-to-late forties

Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma of the head

Manner of Death: Homicide

The image of a skeletal man with a metal rod attached to his right femur, his skull caved in, broken ribs, missing all fingers and teeth, plus a left foot.

Exactly as I remembered it, aside from one minor detail.

“Interesting,” I said, keeping my expression blank.

“Know what else is interesting?”

I inclined my head for him to continue, my jaw aching from clenching so tight.

“Only one man I know fits this description with this exact injury to his leg. Want to take a guess at who I think it is?”

He figured that out quickly.

“No. Who’d you have in mind?”

“I’m sure you do, but I’ll tell you anyway, son. This fellow is your father. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

“I don’t have a father,” I said, stiffening. “I’ve never known him, don’t care to know him, and if it is him in the ground, then so be it.”

Doug G. Randall was a useless, despicable human being who I am unfortunate enough to share a name with. He was always an absent figure in my life, and I preferred it that way. It was never a good thing when he came around.

Sheriff Kennedy pulled his glasses off his nose, then let them hang around his neck by small strings attached to the earpieces.

A rooster crowed in the distance as I sat with tension on my shoulders, waiting for him to respond.

“This doesn’t look good, son. Someone tortured him and didn’t want us to discover his identity. They cut off his fingers and pulled his teeth. Now, I understand you and he didn’t exactly have the best relationship—”

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