The Killing Vision - By Will Overby Page 0,34
the trunk of the car.
The next day when he was sure he would be alone for awhile, he went back to her. Her skin was pale and blotchy and a bit of blood and other fluids had leaked from her torn throat and pooled into pink ice at the bottom of the freezer, but otherwise, she was perfect. He wrenched the wooden handle from her, and saw with breathless excitement that she stayed open, molded to the shape of the wood, just as he had hoped. From a small metal box on a high shelf, he pulled out a vinyl dildo and worked it into her while he touched himself. He did not take long; he was too excited.
He used her several more times over the next few weeks, but the thrill soon began to wear thin. For one thing, the fact that her throat had been cut detracted from her beauty; she was spoiled. At first he tried hiding her throat with an old scarf or a corner of the sheet, but it didn’t help; he knew the cut was there, and soon it was all he thought about while he was with her. For another thing, he was terrified of being caught, of someone opening the forgotten freezer and finding her there.
So one night in the middle of June, he took her out for the last time. He looked her over for any loose hairs or threads that might be attached, then took his pocketknife and carefully scraped underneath her fingernails. If someone found her downriver, he wanted to be sure they would not be able to connect her with him.
He took her down to the same spot at the river where he had dumped the animals. For a terrifying moment, he was sure she wouldn’t float, that she would sink to the bottom into the muck and someone would find her the next morning. But she did float. He covered her with loose branches and set her adrift, watching as the pile moved away from him in the moonlight, agonizingly slow.
He waited anxiously for the next few days, listening to the news for any word that her body had been found, but there was nothing. He began to breathe easier. Maybe she had drifted on down to the next county; maybe she would never be found.
But a week later during the Fourth of July fireworks those kids had stumbled upon her. Again he was terrified, sure that she would be linked to him, and he had braced himself for the arrival of the cops at his door. But there had been nothing so far. They were all perplexed. Although they had mounted a massive search of the shoreline on both sides of the river for more than a mile, they had been unable to find where he had dumped her. Their investigation seemed to have stalled.
Then, on Saturday, when he had been on his way to the park to have another look at the river landing, he saw Carmelita. She was walking along the deserted drive into the park, her long black hair trailing in the breeze, her hips moving seductively with her every step. He pulled up beside her. She noticed him and smiled. He asked her where she was going. To the park, she said. What a coincidence, he told her, so am I; I’ll give you a ride. My name is Carmelita, she said when he asked, her tongue dancing across the syllables like a dream. That’s beautiful, he said. She didn’t seem to notice when he slipped on his gloves. Then, just inside the park gate, right beneath the sign that said $500 FINE FOR LITTERING, he turned and grabbed her throat. She was dead in just a couple of minutes.
Again he anxiously monitored the details of the investigation into her disappearance, but as before, he had been extremely careful. There had been no witnesses. No leads. No trace of her.
And now he opened the lid of the freezer and peered down into her angelic face. This was the second night he had visited her, and it almost seemed as if she became more beautiful each time.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “There’s no need to be afraid.”
TUESDAY, JULY 10
9:40 AM
For the first time in five years, Joel called in sick. He had not had much sleep last night; his mind had been too busy turning over what he would say to the mayor when he saw him today. So, when his alarm clock blared