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My hand flies to my mouth. “Dear God.” So many things are going on inside me. Shock. Fear. Rage. “He was here. He saw us.”
“No, Dominique, you don’t know that…”
“Of course, he did! Why do you think he left that poor woman’s head there? It’s probably exactly where we…” my God! “He watched everything!” Nausea curls thick and hot at the pit of my belly at the thought of the psycho seeing Ignatius take me like he did. The begging for more. Then beheading this woman and leaving her for us to find in the same spot.
“Dominique, we can’t know that for sure.” He says the words, but he doesn’t mean them. He’s only saying them to placate me, they’re flimsy and without emotion.
Steeling myself, I start to walk to the front of the house. “I need to see it. I have a job to do,” and I have to see his message. The one I know he left for me.
Ignatius is already in front of me as we make our way to the front of the house. “You’re lucky I’d be thrown in jail for obstructing justice if I dragged you away from this horror show,” he growls.
There’s a very big part of me that wishes he would.
When we turn the corner at the front, and are about halfway to the door, Ignatius’ steps slow. “Who does shit like this? How could anyone be so sick?”
Thankfully, I can’t see anything but his broad, bare back in front of me. Not yet anyway. It gives me a few extra seconds to prepare myself. I already know what’s there, however, I’m sure nothing can prepare me for the visual.
“Fuck,” Ignatius snarls when we’re just about there.
I can’t stand it.
I make my way around his large, formidable frame, because he can’t keep me from this.
Instantly, I get sick. I fall to my knees on the ground before my feet can take me away. On hands and knees, I regurgitate, heaving until my body is spasming in reaction, my internal muscles locked so it’s one constant heave. When the contractions finally slacken, and once my head clears, I realize Ignatius has my hair pulled back and is rubbing my back in gentle circles.
I close my eyes, steel myself and prepare to stand. I push to my feet. Then face the porch.
Right in front of the door sits the dismembered head of the victim in the outbuilding.
Please give me the strength to do this.
The perimeter is already sectioned off with yellow police tape. An officer is taking preliminary photos as I slip on the protective booties, then climb the few steps onto the landing. I step under the tape barricade and approach the evidence. That’s how I have to think of it, because at this moment I’m Detective Chavelle working the Voodoo Burning homicides. I tell the uniform with the camera, “Make sure Sergeant Harris gets those photos.”
He gives me a once over before replying, “Sure thing.”
I take cautious steps, making sure not to disturb anything. When I’m close enough to read the words I knew would be here, I almost pass out.
Mine! is smeared in the victim’s blood on the porch floor.
This just got personal.
