high-heeled shoes. While they radiated out in various directions, the majority of them were clustered around a far more solid stain, upon which the victim’s body was currently resting.
Someone had placed an open body bag over the top of the remains. I assumed that party to have been someone from the coroner’s office since one of their official vehicles was in the parking lot. Why they had simply covered him and not transported him from the scene, I wasn’t certain. In any case, he was still here, and I couldn’t help but stare.
The rubberized bag covered his face and torso, but his arms and legs were still exposed. The one wrist I could plainly see was shackled into a wide leather cuff, which appeared to be snugged so tightly as to be biting into his flesh. If that weren’t enough, it was attached to what looked to be a metal bar that ran beneath his back. I assumed it ended in a like manner at the unseen hand. A similar apparatus had been used on his ankles, rendering him more or less immobile. She definitely hadn’t wanted him to get loose.
Two of the fingers on his exposed hand were bent up at an odd angle, visibly broken. A number of ragged holes were torn in the back of the hand as well as his forearm. His legs hadn’t faired any better as they were covered in long gashes that were now crusting over. His knees appeared to be buckled backwards, hyperextended to the point of shattering the joints.
As I stared, the rage continued spreading through me, punctuated by twinges of satisfaction. I knew in that moment, there had been nothing at all sexual about this kill for Annalise. There was no arousal or gratification on the physical level. It was purely emotional.
This had been all about revenge.
I heard a new voice and looked up from the horrific tableau. A man around Ben’s age was entering the room from a doorway near the back. “Yeah, bag that but get pictures of the whole thing first.”
He turned toward us after completing the statement, and a look of mild surprise flitted across his features. Continuing into the room, he looked over at Ben and said, “Hey, Storm.”
“Martin,” my friend replied.
The detective glanced over at me with an odd look on his face then said, “Hey, Rowan. How are you doing?”
“Hello, Mike,” I replied. “Getting by. And you?”
“Better than the stiff I guess,” he grunted then looked back over to Ben. “Storm… Can I see you back here for a minute?”
“Yeah,” Ben returned then looked over at me as he followed him deeper into the apartment. “Wait here, Row.”
I answered with a quick nod.
Detective Martin was one of a handful of cops on the Major Case Squad who actually took me seriously, so I hadn’t actually expected to be getting the “what’s he doing here?” treatment. However, that was exactly the look he had on his face, and I knew it probably had quite a bit to do with the fact that I had been banned from the investigation by the powers that be. My reception told me that Ben was going further out on this figurative limb than I wanted, but there was nothing I could do. I was already here, so the damage had been done.
After a handful of minutes, the two of them came back into the main room, Detective Martin trailing along behind my friend. He didn’t look particularly excited, but at least he didn’t look angry either. I didn’t know what was actually discussed while they were out of earshot, but it wasn’t hard to guess.
Ben asked, “So, you got anything new?”
“Not much,” Martin began, gesturing toward the covered corpse. “We’re pretty sure the victim is Lewis, but we don’t have a positive ID just yet and probably won’t until the M.E. gets done.”
“That bad?” Ben asked.
“Not much of his face left,” he offered. “Not to mention the missing part you already know about. Rest of ‘im isn’t much better. If you think what you can see is bad… Well, trust me, you don’t really want to look under the bag. I don’t think she stopped working him over for a while, even after he was dead.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Ben grunted. “They gonna transport the body soon?”
Martin nodded. “Yeah. The restraints he’s wearing are attached with padlocks, so they went to get some bolt cutters. Until they get those off ‘im, he won’t fit in the bag.”
“Lovely,” Ben replied. “So, what about the rest of the apartment? Anything helpful?”
“Well, not really.” Martin pointed toward the floor, indicating several points in succession. “As you can see, we have a fairly clear trail to follow. It pretty much gives us an idea everywhere the killer went inside the apartment. Residue in the tub indicates she might have showered or bathed after she killed him. Hell, it looks like she might have even had herself a late night snack.”
“Why do ya’ think that?” my friend asked.
“There was a gallon jug of milk sitting on the back of the toilet. What little was left of it anyway.”
“She didn’t drink it,” I offered. “She added it to her bath water.”
“What makes you say that?” Martin asked, looking over at me.
“Voodoo. Given her religious leanings, bastardized as they are, it’s something she would do for purification,” I explained.
Ben grunted, “Ain’t nothin’ pure about this bitch except that she’s evil.”
“True, but she would have wanted to cleanse herself after this murder.”
“I don’t remember there being anything like that at any of the other crime scenes,” Martin added. “Why this one?”
“There was no need in those cases,” I said. “This is different. She didn’t kill him for the sexual high like she has with her past victims. She was exacting vengeance, and the ritual bath would be her way of ridding herself of any leftover emotions.”
He nodded. “Okay. So, what was she getting revenge for?”
“I’m not sure.”
“She sent his tongue to your wife, or at least we think it’s his. Do you think it has something to do with her?”
“Possibly.”
“Why his tongue, though?”
“That’s hard to say. My best guess would be that since the tongue is associated with speech, the obvious answer is retribution for something he said or she feared he was going to say.”
“Okay, but why send it to your wife?”
I shrugged. “To frighten her maybe. Again, I’m not really sure. I’m just telling you what I’m seeing and feeling.”
“So this is coming from one of your gut instincts?” he asked.
“Some of it. The rest is pretty much just a hypothetical application of what I’ve studied about Voodoo and hoodoo.”
“Okay, well since we’re on that particular subject, Storm said the real reason you came here is to have a look at what we found in there,” Martin said, as he nodded toward the half wall that divided the main room of the apartment.
We followed him as he stepped around the tented evidence markers that were lined across the floor and headed in the direction of the small kitchen. It was no big surprise that a fading trail of bloody shoe prints marked the path we followed.
Detective Martin guided us through the doorway then pointed toward the counter near the sink. “Don’t touch anything,” he instructed. “The techs haven’t gotten to this yet.”
“No problem,” I replied, an absent tone in my voice as I scanned the area where he indicated.
Whole cloves were scattered across the floor where they had fallen from a large pile on the countertop. Next to the pile itself was a plastic container lying on its side, the dried flower buds spilling from the open mouth in a dark brown spread. The sharp aroma of the spice was even thicker here in the small room.
I edged around the mess on the floor and leaned forward to peer closely at the other remnants of magick occupying the space near the sink. A slag of red wax with a small piece of blackened wick sat to one side. Near it was a pattern of drips, which at first glance also appeared to be wax but was black and had a much glossier sheen. Upon closer inspection, I could tell they had come from a very different type of candle besides simply the color. Next to these sat a bowl, which contained a rusted red substance that had the distinctive look of slowly coagulating
