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As for the movie theatre incident…
I’m not proud of that one, so I just won’t go there right now.
Jack doesn’t want to go there either, even if he doesn’t realize that fact.
“I can’t have the crime scene in my head when all I hear is your voice,” I add. “Do you understand?”
He does a zip his lips motion over his mouth and nods.
I say, “I hope this lasts.” I look skyward and say, “Please, Lord, make it last.” I rotate away from him and start walking, and I’m already reaching for my zone, finding that headspace that allows me to step into what I call my Otherland and just be in the moment. Because when I’m there, nothing affects me. Well, almost nothing. We’ve already established I have a thing about rivers of blood. I don’t even know why. And I’ve only had to deal with it two times in my career, anyway.
We round the corner and there’s a plastic tent set up, which is never a good sign. “It must be messy,” Jack observes. “Really messy. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Unfortunately, I have. And it was a bloodbath.
My stomach rolls and I will myself to get the fuck over this weird phobia of mine. I study dead bodies all the time. Hell, I have conversations with dead bodies. I remind myself of the case where the victim was tied to the chair and holding his head. None of that bothered me beyond the obvious sick fuck who needed me to catch him and lock him away. Or kill him. Which is how that story ended.
We close the space between us and the cop standing guard. Both me and Jack instinctively pull our badges from our jumpsuits. The officer, who is a beautiful shade of green right now, eyes our identification. He doesn’t offer words of advice or words of remorse, he simply motions us to the door. I eye Jack and lift my chin, directing him to take the lead. “Go do your job.”
His lips curl and I can almost hear him swallowing his words. He also does as I’ve instructed—which is a miracle in and of itself—and enters the apartment. A moment later I hear, “Dear God. Oh my God. Dear God. God, please be with us and protect us from this evil.”
The officer exhales and gives a little shake of his head.
Alrighty then, I think. Otherland, here I come. I step inside the door, where blood splatters the walls and sloshes around my feet.
Chapter Twelve
The scene comes at me with the force of a wrecking ball.
There is blood everywhere, so much blood—on the walls, the light fixtures, and all over the furniture. And I don’t have to ask where it came from, either. Body parts are laying in random areas of the room. From what I see, it appears to be one body.
“Leatherface,” Jack murmurs. “He kills with a chainsaw, and this has to be a chainsaw.”
I process his words, and even the idea of a chainsaw being carried up the elevator and then back down unless the weapon is still here, with a fair amount of clarity. Unlike many of the cops here today who might see one murder every few years, if that, this is what I do. When this is what you do, you learn to separate yourself from the crime scene. I’m about to tell Jack to find the murder weapon when the realization that my feet are covered in red slush washes over me with sickening understanding. I look down and study the several inches of what appears to be a mix of blood and water slopping around my boots.
This is where my dislike of an excess of blood comes into play. It’s actually more than a dislike. It’s some kind of weird phobia I’d call trauma in anyone else but no trauma for me connects to a river of blood, which is what I am standing in. I swallow the bile in the back of my throat and straighten my spine.
Preserve any and all evidence, I tell myself, which isn’t going to be easy in this situation.
“I’m Special Agent Lilah Love-Mendez,” I call out to a group of about ten. “I need all boots and jumpsuits bagged for evidence, and yes, I know it’s a long shot that this helps, but we’re doing it anyway. And, no, I don’t give two shits if those are now your favorite rubber boots. They’re evidence now.”
“Where the hell are the boots?” a tech calls out. “I don’t even have a pair.”
Holy mother, I think, and eye Jack. “Tell them to get boots up here.”
He nods and actually obeys my command for once, and based on his excessively persistent personality, he’ll figure out where to get the boots and fast.
Ultimately, the boots are more for people’s safety and sanity than evidence protection. The chances anyone’s shoes have anything but blood and water on them at this point are next to zero, but I never take risks with evidence collection. And we can’t risk losing anything that might point to this monster and put him away.
I’m about to force myself to wade through this hellish river when a tall, fit Black man wearing a forensics jacket steps in front of me. “There are no rubber boots. I was first inside the apartment and when I realized what happened, I asked. I was told to do without and process the scene quickly. Apparently, some big senator lives here in the building. They want this situation controlled and quickly.”
“I don’t care if the President lives here. I care about the person who is chopped into pieces and deserves our best and this is not our best.”
“I agree,” the tech says. “It’s a shit show.”
Which is him insulting Rollins. And while I’m not a buddy to Rollins or anyone for that matter, I respect him. This guy does not or he wouldn’t be openly talking trash about his crime scene.
“Who told you to move forward without proper gear? Was it Rollins?”
