Page 45 of Girl, Fractured

‘It’s okay.Comes with the territory, right?We see the worst, we carry it.Someone has to.’She took a step back towards her room.‘See you at eight.’

Ella watched Ripley take that step back towards the sterile solitude of Room 214.The words were right, but the delivery was wrong.The usual Ripley, the one who could compartmentalize Hell itself and ask if anyone wanted coffee, wasn’t standing there tonight.This Ripley looked scraped raw.Seeing Diana Jewell, another career cop, another woman her age, ending up headless in a fishpond, had scraped her raw.This was a mirror, and Ripley hated mirrors.

‘Mia,’ Ella said before she could talk herself out of it.‘Do you want me to just… you know.Stay in your room tonight?’

Ripley stared at her for a long moment, then looked away, as if the panel on the door required intense scrutiny.

‘Yes.I’d like that.’

The admission seemed to physically cost her.Ripley almost never asked for help, let alone accepted it when offered.

Ella followed Ripley inside and set her bag down.Tomorrow they’d dive back into the investigation, but tonight they’d have a moment of human connection in a world that kept trying to strip it away.

At least that’s what Ella told herself.She closed the door and left the paradise-that-wasn’t behind them.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

He never imagined one day he’d be driving around Palm Harbor with a severed head in his trunk, but life had a way of exceeding expectations.The stars above were hidden by storm clouds, and the late-night traffic had thinned to nothing.

Perfect conditions for his grim errand.

With each bump in the road, he winced and checked the rearview mirror as if Diana Jewell’s head might somehow roll into view.The radio droned softly as the newscaster babbled about a tropical storm warning.Nothing about a headless cop or an elderly man with stones for eyes.The media machine hadn’t caught on yet, which was disappointing and relieving in equal measures.

Frank Sullivan’s death would hit the headlines first, probably.A former FBI profiler found dead in his home, white stones where his eyes should be.A callback to the Jennifer Marlowe case – but only a handful of people would recognize that connection.Then Diana’s body would hit slightly later, once the cops had run out of ideas and started appealing to the public.Given that Diana was on the phone when he’d plunged that axe into her neck, chances aresomeonealready knew Diana was dead.

Two members of an obscure cold case discussion group, both murdered in ways that mimicked the very cases they’d obsessed over.

What a story.

He turned down an unmarked dirt path that cut through a dense cluster of palms.Perfect darkness enveloped the car as he killed the headlights and relied on moonlight for the final stretch.The vehicle bumped and rattled across uneven terrain until he reached the spot he’d chosen days ago.Remote.Secluded.Far from curious eyes or random walkers.

He checked his watch: 3:17 AM.The dead hour, when even insomniacs surrendered to exhaustion.

When he stepped out of the car, the night air hit him with that distinctive Florida cocktail - salt, vegetation decay, and lingering humidity.He popped the trunk and retrieved his tools first: shovel, tarp, work gloves.Then he lifted the black garbage bag with its macabre contents.Heavier than expected.The human head weighed about eight pounds according to some documentary he’d watched, but Diana Jewell’s seemed to weigh twice that.

He dragged his equipment toward his chosen spot and laid out the tarp on the ground.He pulled the work gloves over his hands and tested the shovel’s weight.The spot looked ordinary enough.He’d selected it for its unremarkable qualities, but also for what it represented.

His shovel hit soft earth again and again as he worked in the darkness.The physical labor helped clear his mind.Diana Jewell had been a necessary chapter in this story, but completing that chapter had tested him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.He had a newfound respect for the original Ferryman, because whoever he was, he must have possessed serious upper body strength, or perhaps specialized knowledge.

One clean strike to Diana’s neck had killed her, thankfully.He wasn’t a sadist, after all.But severing a human head proved far more difficult than his research suggested.The spine presented the biggest challenge, that central column of bone and cartilage that was designed specifically to resist separation from the body.He’d hacked and sawed, sweated and cursed.The clinical term ‘decapitation’ failed to capture the sheer physical labor involved, and given that Diana had been on her cell when he attacked her, he knew he had to get in and get out before someone arrived.

No wonder that case had haunted Diana for so long.

It wasn’t as smooth as the Frank Sullivan scene – and came with a lot more blood – but the story demanded completion, not perfection.But now the Ferryman story was complete, twenty-three years later.Just like Jennifer Marlowe’s tale had found its ending through Frank Sullivan’s death.Old stories, new conclusions.The only conclusions, really.

Having to adapt his M.O.to reflect the historical cases had been the most challenging part.Serial killers found an approach that worked and stuck to it.And here he was, utilizing two completely different approaches on his first two kills.It was unheard of in the realm of true crime, but again, that was just another layer to the story he was building.

The hole reached three feet deep when he deemed it sufficient.He set the shovel aside and wiped his brow with his forearm.He reached for the black garbage bag and untied the top.The smell hit him immediately.He’d double-bagged Diana’s head, but even plastic couldn’t fully contain death’s perfume.With gloved hands, he placed the entire bag deep in the earth.

The earth shifted as Diana’s head came to rest at the bottom of the hole.He arranged it face-up, so she could stare at the stars for eternity.It seemed appropriate somehow.He didn’t do it out of respect for Diana – that ship had sailed when he’d planted an axe in her skull – but he maintained respect for the narrative.Every story deserved a proper ending, and every character deserved a fitting final scene.Perhaps it was a final dignity for someone who’d spent her career looking for answers.

When he finished, he tamped everything down with the flat of the shovel.Twenty feet to the northwest, buried in a similar fashion, rested Frank Sullivan’s eyes.In a few weeks, everything would decompose, and that was fine, because this was one part of the narrative that wasn’t intended for the public.

Done.He gathered his tools, walked back to the car and left the clearing to the insects and the memory of violence.Another loose end tied off.Another chapter closed.He felt a sense of calm, of accomplishment.The stories demanded it.And he was, if nothing else, a good storyteller.

The best stories, after all, were the ones with definitive, unforgettable endings.

He just had a few more to write.

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