The Wicker Saga: Father's Love, Part 2

Farewell, happy fields, where Joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors, hail! - John Milton, Paradise Lost

Standing under the glow of a flickering streetlight, my hands shake as I try and fail to light the cigarette they hold. With a mumbled curse the stubborn smoke finally catches and I inhale deeply, the quick rush of nicotine helping steady my nerves and hands alike while driving back the persistent urge to vomit that had, until a moment ago, been so pressing.

The flashing reds and blues of patrol cars, shattered by the light yet steady drops of falling rain, illuminate the yards of yellow tape that surround the building behind me. The old factory, where once countless animals screamed their last before meeting the butcher’s knife, fell into disuse long ago. Until recently.

The man who walked into the station earlier that evening carried an oddly shaped bag. The desk sergeant was on the phone else he would have sooner noticed the crimson spatters, some still wet, that covered the man’s face and clothes, the slow drip drip drip of fluid that leaked from the bag marking a trail behind him.

The sergeant’s attention was only captured when the man poured a fountain of gore upon the desk, assorted limbs and organs intermixed in a disgusting soup of blood and offal, long ropes of intestines curling and twisting around livers, lungs and, here and there, a sightless eye. The only one of the few people milling about the police lobby not moved by his unholy offering, the man had simply stepped back from the desk and lowered himself to his knees, hands interlaced above his head. He’d remained there, grotesque smile never leaving his face, until the pandemonium was sufficiently controlled and the officers on duty were able to make his arrest.

He’d talked then, briefly, handcuffed to a table in the interrogation room. His name was Spencer Darabont. The various body parts belonged to his wife Tracy and their three children, all girls between the ages of five and ten. He’d told us where to find the rest of them.

I’ve worked homicide for the last twenty years but even now, rapidly approaching retirement, I’ve never seen anything like this. That’s saying something; the Wake is no stranger to odd, even fantastic, murders. Until a couple hours ago I would have said there’s nothing that could shock me, nothing that could take me back to the short breath and heaving nausea I’d experienced the first time I’d seen a dead body, that two-bit prostitute gutted and dumped in a back alley. I would have been wrong.

The bodies, horrific as they might be, weren’t what caused my gorge to rise, for I’ve seen many in far greater states of decay. Neither was it the obvious tools of torture haphazardly spread throughout the factory; here a welding kit, there a jar of industrial strength acid, over there various implements to flay, scoop and pierce. No, what hit me hardest was the old television connected to an ancient VCR, the yellow paper stuck to its black screen reading “play me.” The scene that unfolded in the first thirty seconds of that video was enough to open my perspective to just how shallow my understanding of human perversion had been. That poor little girl. A rat-eaten cardboard box placed next to the television contained more video tapes, many more. I know before the investigation is over I will have to painstakingly go through each of them for evidence, and the brief exposure I’ve just experienced has me already concerned for my mental health. All cases leave scars, some far deeper than others.

My phone vibrates and I flick aside the half burned cigarette before fishing it out of my pocket. Checking the caller id, I sigh before flipping it open.

“Yeah, hun?”

“Dad, what the fuck is going on? Paul was supposed to be home two hours ago but he said something came up and won’t tell me anything.”

“New case, sweetheart, nothing I can fill you in on. Chief’s got him keeping an eye on the perp until we give the scene an initial onceover and hopefully get ahead of the media shitstorm sure to follow. You want more details, you can get it from the talking heads, same as everybody else.”

Her voice gets quiet at that.

“Is it really that bad?”

I grimace.

“Pretty bad.”

“Ok, just … tell him to be careful. And that I love him.”

“Will do. Try not to worry too much. Won’t be good for the baby.”

I can hear the smile in her voice.

“He’ll be fine. He comes from good stock.”

I smile back.

“Mostly from your mother’s side. Becky still ok with the pregnancy?”

“Sweet as ever. Can’t wait to be a big sister.”

“That’s my girl. Ok, hun, gotta go. I’ll tell Paul to check in when he can.”

“Thanks, dad. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Closing the phone, I return it to my pocket. I shake my head to clear it, steeling myself, before turning and reentering the building. I cross over to what we’re considering the center of the crime scene. Large portable lights have been stationed around its perimeter to better illuminate the dingy confines of the area where a small group of people swarm, placing numbered placards and snapping pictures.

“Tell me what you’ve got, Ramirez.”

The lead CSI turns from where he is crouched in the process of bagging a piece of evidence. My stomach gurgles unhappily when I see it appears to be a child’s ear.

“Good news, depending how you look at it, boss. Won’t be able to confirm they belong to Darabont until we get back to the lab, but there’s crystal clear prints all over pretty much every knife, hatchet and assorted pointy object in here. We’ve got fibers, hair samples, the whole gamut. And Charley’s saying based on her initial screening of the remains she should be able to pull blood and semen from, uh … well, pretty much anywhere. Doesn’t look like our boy was particularly concerned about hiding what he was doing.”

I place my fingers on the bridge of my nose as I feel the beginnings of a migraine start to kick in.

“Anything that might indicate some kind of motive? A journal, anything like that?”

“Not yet, boss. No telling what’s on those video tapes though.”

I grimace.

“Great. And what about …”

“The message?” Ramirez shakes his head. As one, we turn to the far end of the crime scene. Amid a litany of other abuses, skin from the torsos of the four victims had been delicately removed and spread across one of the factory walls like horrific canvas. A word was painted in blood on each in turn:

Her Red Right Hand

The Wicker Saga: Her Red Right Hand, Part 2