Page 3 of Saving Meadow

When the screen came to life, a crime scene photo appeared. Brutal didn’t quite describe the image. The woman was a mangled mess. The level of violence screamed extreme rage.

“Lauren Marshall, twenty-four, single, worked as a book publicist,” Kristy started and switched the image on the screen to her driver’s license photo. “She was last seen at Cheers, an upscale wine bar in Woodbridge. Her friends told police they’d met there after work for a drink. Lauren stayed to listen to the Jazz band, which wasn’t unusual for her to do. Her body was found in a parking lot less than a block away.”

Shit, Woodbridge was less than twenty minutes from Quantico. Despite what TV dramas about the FBI portrayed, it was rare we went to the crime scene. It’s not possible for local police to keep a body at a crime scene for the length of time it would take us to get there. We relied on law enforcement to collect evidence and present it to the team. But, with this kill being so close, there was a likelihood Kilby would want to go to the site.

“Toxicology?” Mike asked.

Kristy looked up from her tablet to answer, “Ketamine.”

“Offical cause of death?” I asked.

“Exsanguination. I’ve emailed you all the report,” Kristy said.

“No sexual assault,” Ben noted as he scanned the information on his tablet.

“Stab wounds to the abdomen and face,” Mandy added.

Stab wounds was barely scratching the surface; Lauren’s face was demolished. She was unrecognizable.

“Only one stab wound to the lower abdomen. No sexual assault. Face annihilated. Ketamine. Exsanguination.” I listed some of the facts of the case.

“I know where you’re going with that. You think he’s back,” Mike said.

“Copycat?” Ben asked.

“The ketamine was never released to the public,” Mandy piped up.

“Four years between kills,” Kilby added.

“After body eleven and the seventh of the following month passed we’d assumed he’d been locked up on other charges,” I reminded him of our initial profile. “The Butcher is back.”

The Butcher was my first case with the BAU, and four years later it was unsolved. The offender had up and vanished. Eleven kills, all on the seventh day of the month, all dumped in a public location, all had ketamine in their system; all had a single stab wound in their lower abdomens, their faces disfigured, nothing taken, nothing left. The new homicide fit the victimology. Pretty woman mid-twenties, low-risk lifestyle. The common factor was they were all what society would consider beautiful.

Today was the twentieth of the month.

The wait had begun.

2

Pretty Face

“Good morning, Meadow.” Beth stopped at my desk, her eyes went wide, and I braced for what would come next. “Oh, I’m happy you finally decided to stop trying to cover up the awful scar. By the end of the day, your make-up just wears off and you can see it anyway. It’s such a shame; you were such a beautiful girl. I mean you still are, even with the scar on your face.” Beth smiled a bright smile as she continued by my desk as if she wasn’t just a royal bitch.

Who says that?

Beth does, that’s who. And most everyone else. At least she makes comments to my face instead of whispering them behind my back. I should’ve been used to it by now. From the moment I’d woken up in the hospital with this hideous scar marring my face, people have been making comments.

Oh, you poor thing.

Does it hurt?

So sad to mark such a pretty face.

I’ve heard it all, and mostly I ignored the stares and running commentary about how my scar came to be. People comment as if I don’t know I have a six-inch scar running from my ear to my chin. I knew it was there; I saw it every day. A stark reminder that I was lucky to be alive. My flesh had been flayed open with such force two of my teeth were dislodged, and I have dental implants. Unfortunately, even after plastic surgery, the scar was still prevalent.

These days I chose to view the mark as a symbol of what I lived through. I’ve not always felt that way. There were many dark days after the attack happened. I was too afraid to leave my house, horrified I looked like a monster, and there was a time I’d contemplated ending it all. I might’ve if it wasn’t for a very special woman, who’d I clung to like a lifeline. VeronicaVenus21 was my savior even though I’d never met her in real life. She was a member of a message board I joined after I was released from the hospital. The group was for victims of violent crimes. We’d spent hours in the online chatroom. She’d survived a horrific ordeal, much worse than mine, and she’d made it through. She gave me hope.

“Good morning to you, too, Beth. I put your new sales reports on your desk.” I flashed what I hoped was a normal-looking smile. Because in my mind I had jumped on her back like a spider monkey and knocked her to the ground, banging her pinchy face into the cheap Berber office carpet.