The Shattered Figurine

The Shattered Figurine

Josephine Naylor, with shoulders sagged, stares down at the frozen corpse. Even though rime covers and disguises the otherwise naked body, the Detective knows it is the missing teenager. The remains is female, about five feet, maybe a hundred pounds without the frost and it has been left in the same position as the others, all three of them, face up, ankles and hands neatly tucked together bound with what is likely to be duct tape. The same parts are missing.

This regrettable murder is beyond definitive that the killer is the same person; by the method of execution forensics had confirmed that idea with the second body. The third cadaver brought forth the criminal psychologists to graph out a profile that would tell what “type” of individual might commit such a crime, which made the scene before her extremely important so she stands well enough away. She is still able to discern an unusual shape upon the forehead which, once uncovered from its icy envelope, she guesses it will likely prove to be a piece of broken crystal similar to the pieces they found resting on the pale dead skin of the other three, in the same location.

Jo is positioned at the edge of a wide field, shadowed by the alders and tall spruces that front the extended forest behind her, the rising sun just cresting the pointed tops. The body is lying parallel to the tree line at the rim of the pasture. It’s early December. Fog in the night has turned solid as the temperature suddenly dropped below freezing, clothing everything in stark white. Jo is suddenly startled from her gaze by a creeping sensation that someone is watching her. She turns towards the open field scanning the perimeter of the woods. Nothing moves, not even a breeze disturbs the black and white photo she is in. A rise in the field shields her view to the road and her car but she would’ve heard a vehicle approach. The silence is intense, nature seems to mourn the young girl’s death; she would definitely hear the crunching of the frost under someone’s boot.

Satisfied she is alone she calms her nerves with deep breaths that turn smoky in the chill. The air is cold and without scent. She decides she will wait for the sun to melt away the victim’s icy mask before she calls her partner; she has to see what is on the forehead first. Folding her mittened hands across her slight chest she tucks her hands under the armpits of her down jacket. Keeping the body to her left and her back to the woods she thinks about the email that led her here and why she’s here alone. She has a hunch, a dreadful hunch she desperately doesn’t want to be the truth. The other bodies had been left where they would eventually be found but she has been told where this one is. It’s the reason she came alone. In her mind she can remember the message word for word.

Detective Naylor

Route 114-A. East from the Black Farmer’s Road 11.4 miles. Over the hill on your right.

Only you can stop this madness, I can’t.

Unicorn

She had been torn that she would find another victim but it was the word Unicorn that bothered her the most. She and her peers had recognized the previous pieces of crystal left behind, their only clues, as legs broken from a miniature figurine. The consensus was it could possibly be a horse but it was she that suggested it could also be a unicorn, she had one when she was a child. Her grandmother had given it to her when she turned ten. Her little brother dropped it and broke off the delicate twisted horn when she was fifteen. She sold it in a yard sale four years ago when she was thirty seven, and she remembered who bought it. Since then she had given it no thought. In her mind there wasn’t any reason to. The message this morning changed that. She can’t ignore the possibility no matter how horrific it seems. She prays silently to be wrong.

By 8:30 the sun begins to melt the icing from the cadaver, turning the white, twinkling coating into clear drops of water that pool in the cavities or run like tears. The crystal perched upon the head flashes rainbow colored rays when Jo moves. She walks a wide arc around the body knowing she should stay away but she can’t so she creeps towards the body. The frost groans with each step. She scrunches down close to the head thinking the girl might have been pretty once. She peers closely at the crystal. The figurine has only one leg and it props up the glass animal’s nose. Focusing on the tiny head Jo gasps when she notices the horn is missing, broken off with only a short stub to suggest there had been one. The image strikes her almost as if it was a fist; she shrinks back from the discovery losing her balance to fall abruptly on her ass. The shock is too great. She panics with arms flailing and feet scrambling, wanting to flee the awful truth.

Clutching a hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs, she runs aimlessly along the edge of the forest. Her moans break the eerie silence to echo through the trees. Tears stream across her temple absorbed by short dark curls that stick below her toque. Reaching the opposite corner of the field she stops. Bending over to put hands on her knees, she pants from the exertion. Deep breaths once more ease the tension she’s feeling. She needs to think clearly. Staring at the stubble by her feet she loses focus as indecision and unbelief rages in her mind. Foremost in her thinking is that it’s impossible that the person who bought the unicorn could commit such heinous crimes; it just couldn’t be she told herself. She’s known the man all her life.

Much later, perhaps forty minutes she starts walking back towards the corpse, clearly knowing what she must do. Regardless of the outcome she will be in very deep shit with the department, she shouldn’t be doing this alone and yet she knows she has no choice. She doesn’t believe he will hurt her but she’ll know soon enough. Approaching the body, she ignores the wounds, the taped limbs, the lifeless form concentrating on the crystal unicorn. Picking it up gently off the dead girl’s forehead, she grips it tightly and heads to her car. It’s a twenty minute drive to his house. She figures he’ll be home having retired five years ago from the Penitentiary, he’d been the warden for 27 years. The irony is that he’ll likely spend the rest of his life there.

Jo’s transportation is an unremarkable dark grey Crown Victoria, conspicuous in a plainness that suggests Police so she parks several driveways away. Not wanting to alert the man, she walks slowly towards the last house on the right on the cul-de-sac. The elms that line the sidewalk are thick, evenly spaced and naked of foliage. Most people are already at work or school, the street is quiet except for two cats meowing by a neighbour’s door wanting to be let in. Shading her body behind the bole of the third last tree on his side of the street she can see curtains drawn at the house. There is no movement that can be detected. Hiding behind the tree resting her back against the weathered bark she tries to decide how she will approach the house where she grew up.