Come Kill Me

Spencer came to a stop at the curb. The sound of dueling lawnmowers and rustling trees filtered through his rolled-up windows. He frowned at the slow-swaying shadows of palm trees that fell across the narrow residential street and took a deep breath. Even after all this time, he still had to fight against the urge to drive away. He tried to convince himself that if he weren’t here, there was no way anyone would get hurt. But he knew that was a lie. Bad things happen, whether or not he’s around. It was an obvious truth, evidenced by the scene unfolding in front of the million-dollar home he had just arrived at in Manhattan Heights. He didn’t cause this. It had nothing to do with him. But someone was still dead. Not just dead. Murdered. In a most heinous way.

“It’s not my fault,” he told himself.

He gazed through the driver’s side window at the sky. The sun appeared fierce with its relentless heat. Southern California was enduring a sweltering heat wave, and spending time outdoors was the last thing he wanted to do. But work called, and he had been assigned to this case.

As he opened the door and stepped out of the company-issued slate-gray Ford Crown Victoria, the smell of melting plastic hit him. He looked at the forest green stucco house, loosely wrapped in yellow police tape like a mummy. For a moment, his thoughts drifted to random colors he thought would be better for police tape. Shaking his head slightly to refocus, he scanned the area. Patrol cars were haphazardly parked at the end of the block, creating a zigzag barricade of black and white like discarded toys. Police chatter echoed from the few cars with open doors. He noticed a crowd gathered across the street, comprising men, women, and children, all curious about the commotion. Among them, a group of high school kids with cell phones stood to one side, maneuvering for a better view of the front door. Judging by their expressions, he could tell they hoped to catch a glimpse of a dead body, a spontaneous act of police brutality, or anything else that might grant them fleeting internet fame.

The single-story house stood out as unusual on the packed block, especially given that most lots in Manhattan Heights featured two homes to maximize profits. This property even boasted a decent backyard, large enough to easily accommodate a standard two-story, cookie-cutter residence with extra space to spare.

He ducked under the flimsy, criss-crossed tape barricade at the front gate and spotted Al Turney, one of the patrol officers, on the porch. "Hey, Al,” he called out loudly. “ What’ve we got?”

Al turned when he heard his name. “Oh, hey, Spence. It’s the same M.O.,” he said. “They carved the number 100 into her forehead and taped a $100 bill over her mouth, and so on. But I tell ya man, what they did to her is just… I don’t know. Whoever is behind this is seriously twisted.”

Spencer nodded. “Did they move anything?”

Turney shook his head. “Nah. Forensics guys were told not to touch anything until you got here.”

“Thanks, Al.” Spencer patted him on the shoulder and walked past him, headed inside.

“Sure thing, Spence,” Al responded.

Spencer stepped inside the front door. The white walls suggested that the occupant either wasn’t the owner or had recently moved in. To the left of the door was a cherry-stained wooden shelf filled with self-help books, jars of candy, and several basket-filled cubbyholes. When he knocked on the shelf and could tell it was solid wood. “A quality piece,” he mused, “but probably not overly expensive.” He walked into the living room, where the television was still on, displaying a woman from the Weather Channel predicting an unusually hot summer for Southern California. As he navigated between two couches positioned against opposite walls, he spotted Hamilton and Girbaud from forensics near the kitchen entrance.

“It’s ugly,” Hamilton said as he approached.

“Always is,” he replied.

As he turned the corner into the dining area, he spotted a naked woman in her late 20s, positioned on the kitchen table. Her body contorted unnaturally, with her knees drawn beneath her belly. Her arms were extended and draped by her sides, with her palms facing up and tied to her ankles. Her eyes were propped open, yet her nose and mouth were sealed with duct tape. Spencer glanced around and found no signs of a struggle on or near the table. This was a presentation. She’d been killed, stripped, decorated, and placed here for the police to find. He gazed at her pallid face. Blood continued to seep from the jagged marks etched into her forehead. Six thin streams of crimson ran down her nose and cheeks, collecting in a small glass bowl placed under her chin. Her dark brown hair was matted and had an oily sheen to it.

Turney strolled into the kitchen and made his way over to Spencer. “The victim is a 32-year-old woman named Madison Ashberry," he shared.

"Ashberry. That name sounds familiar," Spencer replied, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

"It might be. Until this afternoon, she co-owned a lovely restaurant with her ex-husband called “The Teapot.' It’s one of the popular spots on the Strand in Manhattan Heights," Turney explained.

"Oh, I’ve been there a few times. Did she have any children?" Spencer inquired, eager for more details.

“None that we’ve discovered so far," Turney answered.

“What about her next of kin?" Spencer pressed on.

“No siblings, but her mother lives in Miami, and her father has passed away," he replied, maintaining a compassionate tone.

“And what about the ex-husband? Has anyone reached out to him yet?” Spencer asked.

“We’ve got his contact info, and we believe he’s at the restaurant right now," Turney responded, turning to one of the other officers and gesturing for her to join them.

“Two officers headed down to the restaurant about an hour ago to check in,” the other officer chimed in, keeping the conversation moving smoothly.

“Good. Let me know when you reach him.”

“Will do, Spence.”

As Spencer moved through the kitchen toward the back of the house, he almost stumbled out the door. He glanced down.

“Wow, they killed her dog too?”

Spencer stepped over the battered corpse of the dog lying at the top of the stairs. The poor creature’s head was nearly unrecognizable, with one eye hanging from a broken socket. He glanced down at it for a moment.

“I suppose barking dogs attract unwanted attention,” Turney commented.

“I suppose they do,” Spencer answered, raising an inquisitive brow as he glanced from the dog to Turney through the open door.

“On their way," Turney confirmed with a nod.

The back lawn was immaculate. A lime green carpet of grass that seemed as if it should be cordoned off, accessible only to a curator. Tall arborvitae lined the salmon-colored brick fence in tightly packed rows at the yard’s edge, effectively blocking the view from any nosy neighbors and providing isolation for the house on all three sides.

He pinched his brow in frustration. Aside from a few officers strolling along the back fence, it appeared that people seldom visited the backyard. It was perfectly arranged for display in its ornamental precision. Even the dog house seemed to have been carefully measured, positioned perfectly to cast a long, symmetrical shadow across the lawn.