While we waited, I studied the slashes in the body's abdomen. They were certainly animalistic, and one area on its left; side had what looked like a claw mark—four ragged slits, about an inch apart, that extended nearly a foot toward the belly. This ' was the work of the demon, of course, though we still didn't know that at the time. How could we? Back then, none of us even suspected that demons were real. I placed my own hand over the marks and guessed that whoever made them had a hand much bigger than mine. Mom frowned at me, and was about to say something when Margaret grumbled angrily.
"Dangit, Ron!" she shouted. She didn't have much respect for the coroner. I ignored her and looked back at the claw mark.
"What's wrong?" Mom asked, walking over to her.
"We're missing a kidney," said Margaret, pulling my attention immediately. Serial killers often kept souvenirs of their kills, and body parts were a pretty typical choice. "I've gone through the bag twice," said Margaret, "you'd think Ron would manage to send us all the organs, for crying out loud."
"Maybe there wasn't one to send," I said. They looked at me, and I tried to look nonchalant. "Maybe whoever killed him took it."
Mom frowned. "That's ..."
"Entirely possible," I said, interrupting her. How could I explain this without mentioning serial killers? "You saw the size of that claw mark, Mom—if this was an animal going through his innards, it's no stretch to think that it ate something while it was in there." It made sense, but I knew this was no animal.
Some of the slashes were too precise, and of course there was the orderly pile of innards. Maybe a serial killer who hunted with a dog?
"I'll check the papers," said Mom, peeling off her gloves and tossing them in the trash as she went up front. Margaret searched through the bag one more time, but shook her head; the kidney wasn't there. I could barely contain my excitement.
Mom returned with a copy of the papers Lauren had handed the coroner. "It's mentioned right here in the comments section:
'Left kidney missing.' It doesn't say they're holding it for evidence and testing, it's just missing. Maybe he had it removed or something."
Margaret held up the remaining kidney, pointing to the severed tube that led to the missing one. "This is a recent cut," she said. "There's no scarring or anything."
"You'd think Lauren would have mentioned something," said Mom irately, setting the papers down and pulling another pair of plastic gloves from the box. "I'm going to have to talk to her."
Mom and Margaret went back to work, but I stood still, a buzz of energy filling me up and emptying me out at the same time. This was not an ordinary murder, and it was not a wild animal.
Jeb Jolley had been the victim of a serial killer.
Maybe he'd come from another town, or maybe this was his first victim, but he was a serial killer just the same. The signs were obvious to me now. The victim had been defenseless, with no known enemies or close friends or relatives. His friends from the bar said he'd been peaceful and happy all night before he left, with no fights or arguments, so it wasn't a crime of passion or liquor. Someone with a need to kill had been waiting in the lot behind the Wash-n-Dry, and Jeb had been a target of opportunity, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The newspaper and the crime scene itself had told a confusing story of fury blended with simplicity—of mindless animal violence giving way to calm, rational behavior, The killer stacked the organs in a pile and, apparently, took the time after tearing the body apart to slow down, and remove a single organ.
Jeb Jolley's death was practically a textbook example of a disorganized killer, lashing out ferociously and then remaining at the scene, devoid of emotion or empathy, to ritualize the body—to arrange it, take a souvenir, and leave the rest for everyone to see.
It was no wonder the police hadn't mentioned the stolen kidney. If word got out that a serial killer was stealing body parts, it would cause a huge panic. People barely felt safe as it was, and this was only the first death.
But it would not be the last. That was, after all, the defining trait of serial killers: they kept on killing.
4
It was early October—leaf-burning season. Fall was my favorite time of year, not because of school or harvest vegetables or anything mundane, but because the citizens of Clayton County would rake up their leaves and burn them, flames soaring high into the crisp autumn air. Our yard was small and treeless, but the old couple across the street had a large yard full of oaks and maples, and they had no children or grandchildren to take care of it for them. In the summer I mowed .their lawn for five dollars a week; in the winter I shoveled their walks for cups of hot chocolate; and in the fall I raked their leaves for the pure thrill of watching them burn.