Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
With every intake of breath, Lee prayed to an unknown entity that seemingly hated her that the air in her lungs would feel like enough to sustain herself.
Alas, as she sat with her legs up to her chest upon the bed, and breathed in, she was never completely satiated, as if her brain had replaced all the crucial, subconscious parts of survival with fear, causing her to forget how to do even the simplest of tasks.
And then the anxiety set in that she would never be able to breathe properly again.
She picked at the fingernails on her left hand, her right hand pressed firmly against her leg.
Upon drawing blood from one of her cuticles, she switched to the other hand instead as her eyes focused on the wall in front of her.
She stared at it until her vision blurred, and then shook her head as if the act would return everything back to normal, as if she could erase the memories of the past much like an Etch A Sketch erasing lines upon its screen.
With an act as simple as breathing, she would return to their apartment on their five-year anniversary, and they would indulge in the meal she had cooked for them both.
Lee Holmes was fully aware of Morgan’s crimes, had been aware the second everything went to shit, for lack of a better term.
And yet, hearing it spoken through the voice of another in her podcast, an unknowing individual who saw her girlfriend as nothing more than a monster, didn’t just throw her through a loop, it threw her out of a plane and into perilous icy waters below.
Perhaps that was why she was struggling to breathe.
She also couldn’t help but ponder the fact that if her girlfriend had a method of disposal that was well-and-truly hers, being so confident as to place a hyacinth upon each of their bodies, then why had she allowed Lee to devise her own plan for Edward Beckett?
Was it just to see what she was capable of?
“I know it’s my actions that got us here,” Morgan said, practically whispering beside her, as if scared of her own words.
“But I think the next action should be yours. I could sit here with you and listen to the rest of the podcast. Alternatively, I could leave the room, or the apartment even, and you can listen to it alone. You also don’t have to listen to it at all, which is also an option in itself.
If you need some time to think, that’s okay, too. ”
Lee shook her head, albeit not to wipe away the slate, taking her back to her apartment on their five-year anniversary.
“I don’t need time to think. I know what I want,” she said, regretting her use of phrasing as she ushered the word ‘want.’ “We will listen to the podcast together. If I need you to leave at any point, you will, and you will close the door behind you.”
Morgan nodded as a rock formed in her throat.
She picked at her own fingers, now, an act in which she wasn’t accustomed to doing usually.
Her own form of anxiety often came from playing with her hair, pushing it back, even when there was nothing there to push back in the first place.
For a moment, it was as if Lee’s own mannerisms had bled into Morgan’s, like the worst kind of painting.
Morgan Finch perched herself on the edge of the bed, nervously, allowing herself an escape at any moment, as if Lee was about to hear her sing for the first time, or read a poem she had written aloud, perhaps.
Instead, the room was about to be filled with sounds of another variety, as Lee Holmes turned up the volume on her phone, exhaled everything that was once inside her lungs, and hit play once again on the podcast.
On December 28th, 2021, the body of one Isabelle Jacques would be discovered in close proximity to Graniteville Quarry Park.
What had once shaken up a suburb in New York would soon evolve into public disarray as more bodies were discovered across the state, all with the same key thread binding them together—a singular purple hyacinth placed directly across their torso.
Isabelle Jacques, 36, was the first amongst a confirmed nine killings, with many more believed to be undiscovered.
With little connection amongst the victims beside the hyacinth calling card, it begs the question, what do we know about the suspect?
Well, we know that their M.O. seems to be inconsistent.
Toxicology reports highlight this finding, with cyanide poisoning perceived to be linked to three of the victims, a strangulation linked to one singular victim, and multiple stab wounds linked to the remaining five.
This is deemed irregular in the world of serial killers, but I suppose leaving a hyacinth on each of the bodies could also be perceived as equally unconventional.
Local police have estimated the killer to be male, in their early thirties, single, and likely a recluse.
With few leads, law enforcement has taken to exploring nearby florists in the area, reprinting receipts for the purchase of hyacinths, to no avail.
The suspect is believed to be highly intelligent and pragmatic, with an attention to detail likely prominent in other aspects of their life.
Victim ages range from 36 to 58, Isabelle Jacques being the youngest victim, whilst Walter Pritchard is believed to be the oldest. “I just don’t understand it,” Emma Pritchard said, having spoken to Best Served Cold directly.
“Everyone loved Walter. He was just a kind and down-to-earth human being. I’ll remember my uncle as the beautiful soul that he was. ”
Lee Holmes paused the podcast momentarily, leaning back against the headboard as if positioning her face upwards would stop any tears from falling.
She didn’t know Walter Pritchard, though she could imagine he wasn’t truly the beautiful soul that his niece deemed him to be if he was on the opposing side of Morgan’s knife, and yet this had been the first time since Edward’s murder in which she saw the other side of it—the pain, the tragedy, each victim's family may or may not be feeling. Morgan Finch was the tornado that came into their lives and turned everything they knew upside down, and whilst Lee could not hold herself completely responsible for that, she couldn’t absolve herself from all culpability either.
After all, she had allowed Morgan to remain free if only by helping her.
When Morgan placed a supportive hand upon her leg, her instinct was to retreat, positioning her body further towards the other side of the bed, away from her, feeling much like a gazelle parading as a lion.
She was scared, just like Morgan’s victims had been scared, and yet she had lost the right to feel that way the moment she helped her dispose of Edward Beckett.
Perhaps she had been the lion all along, parading as a gazelle.
She exhaled viciously and hit play on the podcast once again.
With no clear methodical reasoning as to the selection of victims, officials believe the killings to be opportunistic, only random to the extent in which the killer seized a moment of circumstance such as a potential victim being in a secluded environment with no witnesses.
However, this begs the question, if all the murders were simply random, with no preconceived intentions, is the suspect believed to always be prepared, or do they prepare their weapons and calling card prior, only to search aimlessly until striking at the correct opportunity?
Detective Bell of the NYPD had another line of reasoning.
Whilst he is unavailable to make comments on this particular podcast, we retrieved a quote from an interview conducted just last week for the New York Times, September 11th.
“I think this killer is the farthest thing from opportunistic. These kills aren’t random.
There’s intent behind each victim. We just have to figure out what connects them all together.
Whilst we are uncertain as to what binds them at present time, what I am certain of is that this killer lacks empathy, or remorse.
They are likely psychopathic in nature, with deeply rooted familial issues.
I would estimate them to be of a muscular build, and tall stature.
They potentially live near a florist, or know a florist personally.
I understand that this is little to go on, but please, if you know anyone that matches this vague description, please contact us as soon as you can.
The sooner we catch this monster; the sooner we can prevent any further loss of life. ”
Certain phrases stuck in the back of Lee’s mind, falling directly into the back of her throat as she attempted to inhale. Lacks empathy, or remorse. Psychopathic in nature. Catch. This. Monster.
“Were you ever going to tell me the truth about who you were if I hadn't found out myself?” Lee said, surprising herself at the area of intrigue as the words spilled out of her like discarded ink. She had a thousand questions at that time, and yet somehow, despite new information coming to light, the oldest question she’d had since this all began reared its ugly head.
“Was this always going to remain a secret?”
Morgan went to place a hand on Lee again before raising it towards her own hair as if she had never attempted to do so in the first place, remembering the boundaries that her girlfriend had set only moments earlier.
She sighed. “It’s not like pretending to like mushrooms, Lee.
It’s like throwing a grenade into a dinner party and expecting the guests to stay seated. ”
“Maybe that’s just it,” Lee said, a tear finally escaping as it rolled down her cheek. “I don’t have a death wish, Morgan. I can’t have my life blown up just because you want me to stay seated.”
The suspect they spoke of in the podcast murdered multiple people in ruthless fashion.
The predator, never the prey. The woman they spoke of who supposedly showed no signs of empathy or remorse began to cry.
“Do…do you want to stay?” she said, quieter than Lee had ever known her to speak, her fingers trembling against the fabric of the duvet.
Morgan's own tears only spurred hers on further. Through broken sobs, Lee opened her mouth to speak, closing it again when nothing but breathless sounds fell out. She placed her hands upon her legs, as if the act would somehow steady herself despite sitting down. Exhaling gently, she closed her eyes, opening them again only when she was ready to face Morgan directly. “I don’t know.”
“Well, fuck,” Morgan said, taking Lee by surprise at the brutishness of her words despite the situation unfolding before them.
However crude, Lee could sense the emotion at the back of her throat—a sense of breathlessness, as if her own surprise was choking her. “I guess I’ll start packing my things.”
Morgan stood now, turning away from Lee before wiping her eyes on her forearm. The pair had been vulnerable with one another countless times before, and suddenly it felt as if Lee no longer had the luxury of sharing that vulnerability with her the second that she said “I don’t know.”
Covering the upper half of her body, as if feeling naked, Morgan Finch stepped out of the room, and only then did Lee let her emotions become all that she was.
A guttural noise escaped her throat, as if her body was being torn apart like one of her girlfriends’ victims. Only, she wasn’t her girlfriend.
Not anymore. What remained was her heart, like a hummingbird, breaking underneath the weight of it all, as she erupted into tears.
The first thing she wanted was for Morgan to re-enter the room upon hearing her cries; for her to wrap her up in her arms and comfort her.
The second thing she wanted was for Morgan to walk out of the apartment entirely, if only so she didn’t have to relive this moment again by her re-entering the room, only to mourn the loss she felt for a second time.
What had once provided her with comfort, namely, her podcasts, had now ended her relationship, the thing she had been most certain of in this world.
And, if that truly was the case, how could she be certain of anything ever again?
She was sure of her relationship just as she was sure that the leaves browned in autumn, and apples were primarily either red, or green, only, she had just found out that colors were perceived based on the way that they reflected the light.
Lee had been seeing the world in browns, greens, and reds, only to be told all of a sudden that colors were a perception crafted by the mind.
Perhaps this was how things would always be from now on, because the thing she had been most certain of in this world was dead and buried, and an inescapable reality had emerged in its place—the unrelenting, black and white truth.