Page 19 of Corrupting Ivy

“I didn’t have a relationship at all, Kennedy.”

He swallowed and hung his head with a slight nod. “I apologize. Wrong choice of words. But understand how this may look from my position, son? Doug got mixed up in something bad, and these people thought they might have taken care of that problem. Now, who knows what they may do… What I’m saying is… it may be best for you to lie low for a while.” He pulled out a small flask from his desk drawer, then took a swig. He adjusted the threads on the lid multiple times, trying to put it back on until it went on properly. “You have made yourself into something, Randall. I don’t want people coming to take advantage of that,” he said, his voice quiet as he winced. Kennedy cleared his throat, his eyes tinged with sadness.

“I’ll hire a security detail.” I had the best of the best on speed dial, and it would only take a few hours for my men to get here, but there was no reason to waste their time when I knew someone wasn’t coming after me. “They’re so good you’ll never see them.”

“That’ll put my mind at ease. Just stay outta trouble.”

“I can do that.”

“Now, I showed you these photos because you always have a keen eye for detail,” he said, changing the subject. “I thought maybe you’d see something we missed and could help me out for old times’ sake? We’re way outta our depth here, and the FBI doesn’t have any leads.” He put the flask back in the drawer. “I think these three are in over their heads. Even Aguilar suggested they call in another team for help.”

I tapped my fingers together, contemplating getting involved. There was enough on my plate at the moment, but I suppose offering advice wasn’t a commitment to the case. I picked up the cream folder, reminiscing of the times I’d sit with him at his kitchen table and go over case files with him until Ma came calling for me to get home. I opened it up to the first victim.

Her skeletal hand covered her face while her right lay across her chest in a fist. Did he put her this way to depict a certain emotion? A woman in mourning or showing the raw grief so painful she clutched her chest. The next woman lay in the fetal position, her head placed on her knees, her arms wrapped around them. He’d positioned each one with careful detail, repeating positions throughout the twenty-six victims.

The fresh body, number twenty-seven, had her arms bent, fists clutching her shoulders, head tilted back, and her toes artificially curled, almost as if she were mid-orgasm. He’d curled her black hair in tight ringlets, something the killer took time to do for her. There’d be no way that her hair would stay so perfect after he took her. No, this was his doing.

“He took care of them, groomed them. Bathed them after they died, he didn’t want them tainted by their blood—dirtied for their final goodbye.” I pointed to the hair. “This hair is clean, all things considered. Assuming he held them for extended periods of time because it takes time to do this amount of damage, you would think her hair would be greasy—bloody even. If it was, the dirt would stick to that area, but it doesn’t.”

They were dealing with someone who enjoyed being around the deceased body well after the person had left this world. A specific type of Necrophilia. There were several types of necrophilia. Not all were sexual in nature, but I was willing to bet this one was.

“Every man to his taste. Mine is for corpses,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Henri Blot. He was a famous necrophiliac in the late 1800s.” He grimaced as I continued. “The way he grooms them and makes sure they are in pristine condition tells me he enjoys the silence as much as their screams. He gets off on their fear, and then when they are dead and can’t move… that’s what really gets him.” It was a disgusting kink if you asked me but to each his own. I couldn’t exactly point fingers at him because I was no angel. “I’ll let you know if I can think of anything else,” I said, wanting to put this conversation to rest.

He nodded. “So far, you are spot on with the FBI profiler. But why do you think he enjoys the silence and the screams? That wasn’t something they mentioned.”

“Why would you torture someone if you didn’t enjoy hearing them scream?”

He tipped his head to the side, raised his brows, and drew in a deep breath. Then a young deputy burst through the door, spoiling the moment.

“Sir. We need you. Now,” he said, eying Kennedy and then ran his gaze to me, examining me, then back to the sheriff.

The blond-haired deputy, with freckles dotting his cheeks and nose, breathed hard, trying to catch his breath.

Kennedy rose from his seat and raced out the door while I stayed in my chair, looking over the photos and autopsy reports.

Would this mentally disturbed man stand out in society, or would he be charming like Dahmer? Just the thought of this man running around this town, prying on innocent women, much like Ivy, made my blood boil.

I clenched my fist, causing my knuckles to pop with the strain when Kennedy walked back in.

“I need to go.”

He waved me out of his office, ushering me out. I stood and plopped the file on the table, following him out into the deserted department.

“What’s going on?” I asked while following Kennedy.

“We think we have another victim.”

Her blood splashed ontothe floor, splattering smaller droplets here and there as it collided with the black and white tile. She’d even left a smeared bloody handprint across the top portion of the glass door, where she’d pushed it open. Mud caked her long matted black hair and bare feet. Knicks and cuts ran along her naked body, from shoulders to feet, causing streams of blood to flow down her petite frame. But worst of all was the long slice from elbow to wrist that gushed blood. She looked like a living, breathing Carrie. But not for long if she didn’t get medical help.

The woman wrapped her hands around her body, covering her breasts while shivering. Her chattering teeth echoed in the now silent room as everyone gawked at the poor woman, frozen in place.

I raced towards her from behind the counter, shoving open the small swinging partition that kept customers out. “Someone call an ambulance,” I yelled. The woman, no older than I, stood wide-eyed and shaking like a leaf.

A woman who had turned in her booth seat to see what the commotion was all about, rested her arm along the back of the booth, her mouth gaping. “What happened to you, honey?”

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