Chapter 7 - Lila
The folder opens with a whisper of aged paper against my fingertips, releasing the faint scent of newsprint and time. The first thing I see is a headline that still has the power to stop my breath:
DECORATED OFFICER SLAIN IN OWN HOME
"Harry embodied everything we stand for—integrity, courage, and unwavering commitment to protecting the innocent," said Police Chief William Morrison at a press conference Wednesday morning. "This is not just the loss of an officer, but the loss of a pillar of our community."
Jenkins, who lost his wife Sarah in a tragic car accident two years prior, was described by colleagues as a devoted single father who "lived for his daughter.
" Detective Mark Rivas, who worked closely with Jenkins on several high-profile cases, said, "Harry was the kind of cop who made us all better.
He never took shortcuts, never compromised his principles.
Whoever did this didn't just kill a good man—they killed a hero. "
The murder scene showed signs of prolonged assault, with multiple stab wounds indicating what investigators describe as "extreme brutality.
" Details of the investigation are being withheld pending further analysis, but sources close to the case suggest the killer may have spent considerable time at the scene.
Neighbors on Oakwood Street described Jenkins as helpful and quiet, often seen coaching youth baseball at the community center or attending Sunday services at St. Michael's Methodist Church.
"He was always there if you needed him," said Margaret Patterson, who lived next door.
"After Sarah died, he threw himself into being the best father he could be. Delilah was his whole world."
Funeral services will be held Friday at St. Michael's, with full departmental honors. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to the Harold Jenkins Memorial Scholarship Fund, established to support Delilah's college education.
The investigation continues. Anyone with information is asked to contact Detective Mark Rivas at….
I set the clipping down with hands that want to shake, but won't let themselves. The words swim slightly in my vision—not from tears, because I haven't cried over Harry Jenkins in nine years—but from the pure, visceral disgust of seeing him canonized in black and white.
Hero. Pillar of the community. Devoted father.
The lies taste like ash in my mouth.
I flip through more clippings, each one building the mythology of Saint Harry Jenkins. Photos of him in uniform, accepting commendations. A feature story about how he'd "overcome personal tragedy to serve others." An editorial calling for swift justice for "one of our finest."
Every word is a slap in the face of the sixteen-year-old girl who lived with his fists and his rage and his casual cruelty.
Every glowing tribute is an erasure of bruises carefully hidden under makeup, of apologies whispered to empty rooms, of a mother whose "car accident" happened after she'd finally worked up the courage to threaten leaving.
"Harry lived for his daughter."
I actually laugh at that one, a sound sharp enough to cut glass.
He lived to control his daughter. To break her down systematically until she was too small and scared to fight back.
To make her believe that love and violence were the same thing, that she deserved every blow because she wasn't good enough, wasn't quiet enough, wasn't invisible enough.
But the community never saw that man. They saw the charming facade, the helpful neighbor, the grieving widower doing his best. They saw the performance he perfected over decades of practice.
Just like they'd see Dr. Lila North if they looked at me now. Another carefully constructed lie, another mask worn to hide the damage underneath.
I find the funeral coverage next, and here—finally—I see myself. Sixteen years old and hollow-eyed, dressed in black that makes my pale skin look corpse-like. Janine's arm around my shoulders as we walk away from the graveside, both of us surrounded by a sea of blue uniforms and sympathetic faces.
The caption reads: "Delilah Jenkins, accompanied by her aunt Janine North, leaves her father's funeral service. The brave teenager spoke movingly about her father's legacy of service."
Brave teenager. Another lie for the collection.
I remember that speech, remember standing at the podium with my voice steady and my hands clasped to keep them from trembling.
Remember the words I'd practiced in Janine's mirror: "My father taught me that good people stand up to evil.
That justice matters more than comfort. That sometimes the right thing is also the hardest thing. "
Every word was true. Just not in the way the audience understood them.
The crowd had heard a daughter honoring her father's memory. But I'd been speaking directly to Kent, wherever he was in that church full of cops and mourners. I'd been telling him that I understood what he'd done, and why, and that I was grateful for it.
I'd been thanking a killer for setting me free.
More clippings follow the investigation's progress—or lack thereof. "JENKINS MURDER: NO SUSPECTS, NO LEADS." "POLICE BAFFLED BY HERO COP'S DEATH." "KILLER STILL AT LARGE AFTER THREE WEEKS."
Detective Rivas, younger then but with the same tired eyes, quoted repeatedly: "We will not rest until Harry Jenkins's killer is brought to justice. This department takes care of its own."
Three weeks became three months. Three months became a year. The case went cold not because there were no leads, but because there was no evidence. Kent had been a ghost, appearing just long enough to excise a cancer from the world, then vanishing without a trace.
Until now.
I'm reaching for the letters—cream-colored envelopes that represent the most honest relationship of my life—when my laptop chimes with an incoming email.
Casey's name appears in my notifications, and I click it open with fingers that suddenly feel unsteady.
Subject: Chen crime scene photos - comprehensive collection
Hey Lila! Here are all the digital files from this morning. I included multiple angles and some close-ups of details that might be relevant for your analysis. Dr. Martinez wants the preliminary report by Monday, so let me know if you need any clarification on what you're seeing.
Hope this helps with your profile!
-Casey
I download the attachment and open the first image, Marcus Chen's body arranged with that terrible, familiar precision. The positioning hits me like a physical blow—not because I've seen it in crime scene photos, because those don't exist in my collection, but because I remember.
I remember walking into our kitchen nine years ago, expecting to find him drunk and angry as usual, and instead finding him laid out like an offering. Arms extended at perfect right angles. Head tilted exactly fifteen degrees to the right. Legs straight, feet precisely twelve inches apart.
I'd stood there for a full minute, not understanding what I was seeing. He looked peaceful for the first time in my memory, his face smoothed of the perpetual rage that had defined my childhood. The blood was still wet, the surgical incision gaping open like a mouth trying to speak.
But it was the positioning that had told me this wasn't random violence. Someone had taken time with him. Someone had cared enough to arrange him with the same attention he'd given to destroying my mother's spirit and mine.
Someone had made art from his ending.
Now, staring at Marcus Chen's body, I see that same artistic sensibility. That same careful attention to angles and presentation. Kent's signature, written in flesh and death across nearly a decade.
But something's wrong.
I flip through more of Casey's photos, studying the chest cavity, the suture patterns, the way Chen's hands are positioned.
The arrangement is perfect, identical to my memory of finding my father.
But there's something missing, something that should be there according to the old news coverage of the Carver killings.
The tape recorder.
Kent's methodology, his true signature, wasn't just the positioning or even the surgical precision.
It was forcing his victims to confess their crimes on tape, then sealing the recording inside their chest cavity like a black box waiting to be discovered.
The ultimate evidence of their guilt, preserved in the very body that had housed their cruelty.
But Casey said the chest cavity was clean.
I need to know for certain.
My phone is in my hand before I fully decide to make the call. Casey answers on the second ring, her voice bright with the kind of energy that comes from successfully completing a complex crime scene.
"Lila! Did you get the photos okay? I wasn't sure about the file size—"
"They're perfect," I interrupt, forcing casualness into my tone. "Actually, I'm just reviewing them now and wanted to clarify something for my report. During the preliminary examination, was anything found inside the chest cavity? Foreign objects, personal items, anything like that?"
"Oh! Actually, that's interesting that you ask.
" I can hear Casey shuffling papers in the background.
"Dr. Martinez specifically checked for that because of similar cases he'd read about.
The Carver killings from a few years back—apparently that was part of the signature.
But no, Chen's cavity was completely clean. Just tissue damage and blood loss."
My stomach drops, but I keep my voice level. "The similar cases—were those recent?"
"I don't think so. Martinez mentioned them as historical reference, not active investigations. Why? Do you think there's a connection?"
"Just being thorough," I say, the lie sliding out smooth as silk. "The positioning suggested ritualistic behavior, so I wanted to rule out any…totemic elements."