Devour (Twisted Metamorphosis #1)

Chapter Seventeen

Helena and I drove to Melanie Crawford’s childhood home in a comfortable silence, which I was grateful for. My way of analyzing crime scenes was mentally exhausting, and I needed all the focused preparation I could get. Being this close to Helena has proven to be… distracting.

“We’re here,” I said, shifting my Mustang to park. I nervously tapped my cup of overnight oats sitting in the cup holder.

I need to remember to eat.

We exited my car, and she walked around the front to stand by my side. Reaching into the chest pocket of my suit jacket, I removed my badge and decided to wear it on its chain around my neck. Helena had her FBI lanyard on, and together we took a deep, grounding breath as if we were one.

We were outside a home in an upper middle class neighborhood. Anton and Maria were already here and helping the local law enforcement tape off the area to keep onlookers and neighbors at bay. As we approached the tape, I lifted it for Helena, letting her pass in front of me before I did.

Walking up the driveway, I noticed something was off about the front lawn, where the edge meets the cement of the driveway: a small patch was flattened in a straight line.

Strange. It’s like a car’s tire drove over the grass? I thought, kneeling down and studying the grass.

“What is it, Camden?” Helena asked, standing next to me.

“A car drove up this way.” Following the line imprinted on the grass, my eyes traveled further up the driveway, where there was another grassy area in the backyard.

I pulled out my cell phone and took a few quick photos before standing and walking toward the backyard. Helena’s high heels clicking behind me echoed in my mind, as if it was the only sound I could hear.

Reaching the end of the driveway, I turned to observe the grass in the backyard. There were definitely tire impressions in the grass back here—fresh ones, too. I took a few more photos with my cell phone as Anton jogged toward us.

“Sullivan, Doctor,” he greeted stoically.

“Good morning, Agent Stevens,” Helena replied professionally.

“It’s a rough one, Sullivan. Melanie Crawford is the Director’s niece. If this is the Norfolk Butcher, something isn’t right. This one looks staged, different. I’m hoping you can get a closer look to see what you can tell us about what you think happened. We’re going to be under a lot of pressure to get this one solved.” Anton said, his authoritative tone showing no hint of the carefree guy I’ve seen in the office and at the bar.

“Of course. I will need the room alone for no more than five or ten minutes,” I said, looking up at the modest two story home. “There was a car back here. The Butcher had to have entered through the back door.”

“The neighbors to the right said that the Crawfords kept an emergency key taped and hidden underneath the doormat. Maybe the Butcher knew it was there,” Anton said, his hands on his hips.

“We’ll need to check those,” I said, motioning up toward the security cameras hidden in the eaves of the roof.

“It looks like all the houses around here have them,” Helena added, looking around.

“Tran, we need you to check the computers for access to the house's security cameras. Then, check all neighboring houses for cameras,” Anton said into his walkie talkie.

“10-4,” Tran replied.

“Agents,” a crime scene technician said, holding out a box of exam gloves. We each took a pair and put them on.

“The back door is a likely entry,” I said to Anton, and he nodded.

“I agree. We need to check everything around this door. I want to know who went in, who came out, everything.” Anton said to the crime scene technician.

“Yes, sir,” the crime scene technician replied to Anton, turning toward the door to get to work.

“I'll check where the victim was staged. I'm ready,” I said with a sigh.

“Des, Sullivan is coming up. When he does, he gets the room alone, copy?” Anton said into his walkie talkie.

“Copy that, my cocoa boss man,” Des replied in a sassy tone.

“Cocoa boss man, huh?” Helena chuckled and Anton tried to hide a smile and stay professional.

“My apologies for that, Doctor,” Anton said, trying to hide that same smile.

“Oh, please. Don’t apologize. I like Desiree—she’s feisty. A woman like that would be good for you. You’ll never be bored.” Helena patted his arm as she stepped forward. “Shall we, Agent Sullivan?” She asked, looking over her shoulder at me with hungry eyes.

“Yes, Doctor.”

Walking side by side, Helena and I walked back down the driveway and up the walkway that led to the front of the home. It was a two story, Craftsman style home with a low, sloped roof and long, overhanging eaves. The exterior was painted an off white color with dark, stained wood accents and trimming. There were large, almost floor to ceiling windows, with elegant burgundy curtains drawn.

We approached the steps leading to the porch, and I stopped to take in my surroundings. There was a well-kept garden and an immaculate lawn. Well, with the exception of the tire marks. This home was well-maintained by someone who appreciates order.

Following Helena up the steps onto the porch, we approached the open front door and a local police officer stepped aside so we could enter, giving us a nod. Three forensic techs were in various areas of the large living room, dusting for fingerprints and collecting evidence. An older couple, in their late fifties, was sitting at a dining room table on the opposite side of the home, speaking with a detective. The woman was holding a handkerchief to the bridge of her nose, sobbing, while her husband spoke to the detective with his head in his hands. My eyes quickly scanned every piece of furniture, every window, every door, every picture frame, everything.

“Hiya Camden!” Desiree Marx greeted in a sing-song voice as she walked down the stairs. “It’s the first room on the left when you go up. We figured we’d just head to the van now to get started on our reports. Ping us on the walkie when you’re done! Good to see you, Doctor!” Desiree walked past us to head back outside, and I took a moment to gather myself.

“Is she always so…”

“Colorful? Yes,” Helena chuckled as we began our ascent. Once we reached the doorway, we stopped moving in unison. “Alright, Camden, I will wait here and observe if that is alright with your process?”

“Anything you need, Doctor,” I said, trailing off as I walked past her and into the bedroom.

Our victim was laying in bed, with her arms folded over each other at her navel and neatly tucked in. I took another one of my deep, grounding breaths, allowing my mind to relax and my senses to heighten. Welcoming my gift of insight, I let it surround me like a warm glowing light, absorbing into my body. I felt my nerves rising in me, but one glance at Helena and all my anxiety dissipated.

“Alright, I’m ready.”

Closing my eyes, I tried to focus on my heartbeat. I was anxious to see how this would work with Helena in such a close proximity. This was something I only liked to do alone, yet somehow I feel like she is my anchor to reality, my lifeline. I started to feel like I needed her to save me from this “gift,” to save me from myself.

A gentle hand found my forearm, and my body trembled. I was petrified to become this killer. When I do this, I feel what the killer does, and see what the killer does; I become him. The murders happen by my hands, and every time I see the light, the life, leave a victim's eyes, it consumes a piece of my soul.

“I'm here, Camden. You're safe,” Helena whispered, removing her hand from my arm. “I see you, Camden…”

Helena's voice trailed off in my mind as I made sure my gloves were on. Lifting my chin as if I was looking at the ceiling, I took another deep breath and allowed my gift’s blanket of light hovering over my head to fall upon me.

Opening my eyes, the world around me looked different, as if there was an eerie, blue, tinted filter over my eyes, like I was living in a nightmare. I was standing at the foot of Melanie Crawford's bed, looking upon her dead body.

One by one, everything in the room began to disappear in a puff of black smoke. Starting with the evidence markers, the fingerprint kit on the floor by the window, and even Helena. Everything around me disappeared, and the smoke surrounded me.

Once the smoke cleared, I was sitting in the driver's seat of a dark, older model car. I scanned the gauges and the dashboard, trying to figure out the make and model. The emblem was removed from the steering wheel, and the ignition was punched; a flathead screwdriver protruded from where the key would usually be.

I pulled into the Crawford family home's long driveway until I was on the grass in the backyard, keeping myself out of sight from the street. Before arriving, I had already disabled the wireless security cameras around the house and property, and also disabled those from the neighboring houses on either side and from the home on the other side of the backyard.

It was a quiet night; no one was home except Melanie’s cat, Eden. I knew it would be quiet, private, and intimate; I designed it to be this way. Melanie’s parents were at a charity dinner, and would not be home until at least eleven, giving me plenty of time to make sure my presentation—my art—is perfect.

Putting my car in park, and turning off the headlights, I turned in my seat to check on Melanie's body laying across the backseat. I had dressed her in a floor-length, white silk nightgown. It was perfect for an angel like her.

Stepping out of the car, I closed the driver's side door, but didn't latch it shut to avoid making any more noise. Opening the rear driver's side door, I pulled Melanie's lifeless body to a sitting position by her arms and positioned her petite body over my shoulder. As I stood, her body draped over my shoulder, with her hair and arms hanging down my back.

Using the hideaway key underneath the mat, I entered the home from the back door. I had to squat with Melanie's body still on my shoulder to retrieve the key, but it was easy; I've trained my body for this. After unlocking the door, I put the key on the kitchen counter, shifting to carry Melanie’s body in my arms.

I walked with purpose toward the stairs leading toward her childhood bedroom. She hasn’t lived here since she graduated from high school, but I was returning her to her rightful home.

Pulling the white down comforter toward the foot of the bed, I gently lay her body down, positioning her hands over her stomach and tucking her into bed. The bed was like my canvas, and she was my art. Beautiful.

She had a pink comb on her dresser and I combed her hair; the soft, wavy strands of midnight lay over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the white of her gown and sheets. Eden, her black cat, pranced into the room, Melanie’s familiar scent calling to her. Perfect. Now her parents will find her.

Melanie wasn’t killed here, no. I had fun with her first, just not here. I cannot kill where my finished artwork is on display; it’s disrespectful.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my ink pad and a small plastic bag with a circular piece of skin inside. Flipping the lid open on the ink pad and opening the bag, I gently positioned the skin over my thumb and pressed it onto the pad. Coating my secret fingerprint in the ink pad, I reached behind the bed post, pressing the thumbprint, my signature, into the wood.

The ink pad was made from the blood of my victims. Every kill I make, I saturate the pad with the crimson ink. My little reusable thumbprint was sliced delicately off of my previous victim, and preserved in an airtight bag until my art is ready to be seen again.

Replacing the skin in the bag and closing the ink pad, I returned them both to my pocket. I scooped up Eden, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind me, placing Eden down on the ground. She began to scratch and claw at the door, trying to get in.

This is my work, my art, and soon the world will know me, respect me, and fear me.

Suddenly, I was looking at myself through the Butcher's eyes and grinned wickedly, reaching an arm for my throat.

“Oh, I see you Camden. I see you alright.” the Butcher chuckled wickedly.

With an audible gasp, my eyes shot open. Sweat was forming on my brow, under my arms, and behind my back. I looked around Melanie’s bedroom, trying to ground myself and trying to remember where I was. Suddenly, the blue, hazy filter that appeared to cloud my vision lifted. The colors of reality began to rise from the darkness, pulling me out of my mind.

“Camden, come back to me,” Helena purred. Her voice was like a beacon, a guiding light. I closed my eyes, absorbing the sound, letting her voice surround me. The moment her soft hand found my cheek, I flinched, backing away in fear.

“Hel-Helena,” I whispered with shaky breaths. “Helena…”

“I'm here, you're safe.” Her voice was soft, gentle, and my eyes closed, absorbing the comforting sound as I tried to stop the trembling. “Shh, that's it,” she whispered, rubbing soft circles on my back with her palm. “There, you're doing so good for me.”

I opened my eyes, looking down at her. My eyes were dark, hazy with lust at hearing her praise. The way she arched one eyebrow when she's feeling mischievous would be my ruin.

“I need…need Anton, now please,” I managed to stammer, trying to shake off the way Helena praised me.

I didn’t flinch when she touched my scars, I thought with a sigh of relief. Maybe I was truly healing.

She nodded and turned to walk out of the room. After she was out of sight, I turned back to face Melanie’s body. I observed the room, looking for anything out of place. Her bed was a four-post bed, and each post was about waist level high. Each post’s top had a decorative wooden sphere, and was stained a light oak color. The headboard and footboard were both solid pieces, no exposed wood or slots for restraints, and nothing out of the ordinary.

Carefully and slowly, I looked behind the bed and studied the sides of the posts facing the wall.

“There you are,” I said out loud, when I found the bloody fingerprint on the back of one of the bedposts, facing the wall.

“Sullivan? What do you got?” Anton asked, his notepad and pen at the ready.

“It’s the Norfolk Butcher,” I said matter-of-factly, standing back up from my bent over position. “The bloody fingerprint is behind the post facing the wall,” I said, pointing to the right side of the bed.

Anton had his gloves on already and held himself up against the wall to look behind the post.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Melanie makes victim number seven.”

“Seven?” I asked, confused.

“What did you see, Agent Sullivan?” Helena asked, and Anton's eyes met mine. I quickly looked back at Melanie, avoiding his scrutinous eye contact.

“He, um, he didn't kill her here. He drove her in an older model car, most likely stolen. It will have the ignition punched. The tire impressions on the edge of the grass near the driveway look like an accident. He may not have been used to driving such a wide car.” I took a deep breath, my hands shaking at my sides.

“This is the victim's childhood home. She doesn’t live here anymore, and he felt like he was bringing her back to her rightful home. He treated her bed like a canvas, and she was his art. The bloody thumbprint was his artistic signature. He took care of her like she was precious: combed her hair, dressed her in a gown, tucked her in…”

“Now that you mention it, the other two crime scenes that had a bloody fingerprint looked as if he staged his victims with care. We didn’t find the fingerprint at the other crime scenes,” Anton said, crossing his arms. “The fingerprint has been found at every other crime scene.”

“A pattern,” I said, shuffling through my memories, trying to remember Helena's notebook. “Because it’s a cop—” I immediately stopped myself; Jacobs didn’t want me to talk about my copycat theory yet. “I mean, how sure are we that there wasn't a signature at the other crime scenes?”

“We found that the bloody thumbprint has been showing up with every other victim we find,” Anton said. “The Butcher has a different signature with the other victims; autopsies have shown organs missing.”

I was grateful Anton didn’t pick up on my near slip.

“Missing organs,” I thought out loud, my brow pinched in concentration.

“I have these autopsy reports at my office, Agent Sullivan. We can review and discuss them. However, I propose we pay Grace Kim’s home a visit first. If the Butcher has two victims, maybe she’s the next one since her blood was found with Connor Scott’s body?” Helena offered while looking at her phone screen. “I was notified earlier that my only appointment today had been canceled. I am at your disposal, Supervisory Special Agent Stevens.” Helena looked upon Melanie, then toward Anton, placing her phone back in her pocket.

“Thank you, Doctor Sullivan. While this case here is important, the senator is priority. Please accompany Doctor Lawson to Grace Kim’s house and report any evidence that could point us to where the senator is.” Anton said, pulling out his phone and turning to walk out of the room. “I will have Nichols on call to assist should you need him,” Anton stopped to say.

“Yes, sir. Shall we, Doctor?” I asked Helena with a shaky, outstretched arm, guiding her out of the room after Anton.

“The room is all yours, Des. Find me something, anything,” Anton said with his phone to his ear.

“Yes, sir.” She and David Tran entered the room behind us, and I followed Helena down the stairs.

Once on the main floor, Anton walked toward the living room, while I followed Helena outside to the porch.

“I thought you'd like to get some air. Are you alright?” she asked, scanning me with a hint of concern in her green eyes.

“Yes, Doctor. It takes me a while sometimes to just remember where I am. Every time I do this, I feel like it consumes a part of my soul, leaving behind darkness, a void.”

“I understand more than you think I do, Camden. Come, let's get to the safety of the car.”

Not giving me an opportunity to reply, she sauntered down the steps of the porch and toward my car. Even with her peacoat on, I could see her luscious hips sway from side to side. The way she took steps in her heels… Heel to toe like a fucking model.

“Coming?” she purred, stopping and turning to look over her shoulder at me with a sexy wink.

Fuck, this woman.

Clearing my throat, I nodded and followed her, begging my dick to calm down.

I needed to get my mind off of the things I wanted to do to Helena and organize my thoughts. So, as I drove toward Grace’s house, I let my mind wander to the case.

The Butcher killed Melanie Crawford somewhere else, then brought her home. If the copycat is following the Butcher’s lead, it makes sense that we will find Grace Kim at her home in bed—if she is the next victim.

Pulling out of Melanie’s neighborhood, I turned onto the main street to head toward Grace’s neighborhood.

But why did the copycat take Connor’s leg when he seems to only take organs? I need to revisit the prior victims’ autopsy reports. Fuck, I should’ve done that from the beginning. I would’ve noticed missing body parts on an autopsy report, even if I was just quickly perusing it. Huh. Why would the copycat switch from taking organs as trophies to limbs? What is the copycat doing with the organs?

Approaching a red light, I propped up my left elbow on the door near the window and leaned onto my hand. My right thumb tapped the steering wheel while I waited for the light to turn green.

Organs… I need to see what has been taken. Why organs? Do they have animals they feed? Or, no, that’s impossible, I thought, the epiphany light bulb shining bright in my mind. The copycat… They’re eating them.

The light turned green, and I continued to drive until Grace’s home came into view. I pulled my Mustang up to the curb in front of the house and shifted to park. My mind was still reeling from the idea of a cannibal serial killer.

I didn’t realize I was lost in thought until Helena placed a gentle hand on my arm. Quickly, I killed the engine and turned in my seat to face her. She studied me with an inquisitive look on her face.

“Are you alright, Camden?”

“Yes, sorry, Helena. I’m just thinking.”

Just thinking, I repeated in my mind.