“Tommy, you touch my son one more time and I’ll cut off every one of your fingers, don’t you forget it!”

The kids ran off, laughing.

Jason’s mother slammed the door shut and the neighborhood became quiet. He was alone on the porch again. He wondered if his mother would protect him from bullies like Jason’s mom. He doubted it.

A butterfly fluttered into the yard. It flew from one dying flower to another, searching for something it couldn’t find, its black-and-orange wings pumping up and down. When it finally landed on a wilted petunia near him, he leaned forward and captured the creature in his fist. It trembled against his closed hand, the insect’s little body moving frantically.

The screen door slammed behind him and he jumped.

“You can go back in now, kid,” the man said as he walked down the stairs.

“When my daddy comes home he’s going to kill you.”

The man laughed as he got into his truck and drove away.

He pouted and thought about what Jason’s mom said. Maybe next time that man came over he could cut off all his fingers.

Something caught his eye on the sidewalk where Jason had fallen. Curious, he crossed the dry lawn and squatted. On the rough surface of the cement a layer of skin and some blood dried in the summer sun. He pictured Jason’s bleeding face and the large scrape on the side of his head.

Cool.

Something moved in his hand. He looked at his closed fist, then opened it just a bit, a bug curled in his sweaty palm. He picked it up by a wing and it tried to fly away. Grabbing both the butterfly’s wings, one in each hand, he watched the legs and antennae frantically reaching out, trying to get away.

He was fascinated by the struggle. So much movement, but it wasn’t getting anywhere.

Slowly, he pulled the wings from the body of the bug. One came off clean, but the other tore. The dying bug fell to the sidewalk, its body jumping, squirming.

He stared, fascinated and detached at the same time, until what remained of the butterfly stopped moving. It took several minutes. Peering closely, he realized it wasn’t dead. He pushed it with his finger; it jumped once, twice, then stopped.

He brought the pieces of the butterfly into the kitchen to find an old jar to keep them in.

The bug was not much more than dust twelve years later, but the old mayonnaise jar still rested on his nightstand.

It had taken him nearly two hours to remove all traces of the slut from his bedroom. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. He hadn’t realized she’d be so messy. She’d shit in his bed and the smell was god-awful. Why’d she have to go do that? He’d taken her to the toilet several times a day.

He’d bought the sheets and blanket especially for the weekend, so he stuffed them into a thirty-three-gallon trash bag. Heavy duty. What a joke. The slut had torn the first bag when she tried to get out-he’d needed to use three just to make sure she couldn’t break them.

Every detail had been carefully planned. He washed her body, getting rid of any evidence of himself, though he’d taken great care all weekend. He wrapped her in the plastic bags so he could fully immerse himself in her death, at the last minute putting a blanket on top of her body.

Then he laid on her, holding her tight. She bucked beneath him, her body fighting for air, to escape. For a long minute he lost himself in an odd state of hot ecstasy and cold fear.

It really didn’t take that long for her to die. In fact, it was rather anticlimactic. After two days of taking her to the brink of death and back, trying to figure out what made her scream and what didn’t, her death was…boring.

She died too quickly and he was left unsatisfied. It made him angry. Next time he needed to think of something else, maybe an airhole in the bag. Something he controlled. Or maybe he’d do it like the movie, except he’d wrap her in some sort of plastic wrap. Most of her, anyway. He’d think more about that. It would certainly keep her clean. And if she shit, it wouldn’t get all over everything.

He’d watched all those forensics shows on television and he was paranoid about the cops finding him with all their tricks. Otherwise, he would have used his hands. He’d wanted to, just like the film. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release. Give her just enough air, then cut it off. Make it last. Much more satisfying. At least it looked more satisfying. He didn’t try it with the slut. He had wanted to, but it was safer his way. Keep a barrier between them. Minimize contact. The plastic wrap idea might work.

He sprayed disinfectant around his room, scrubbed spots he could barely see, flipped his mattress. Put her clothes in the garbage bag along with the sheets.

Safe. What would happen if he’d left his DNA on the body? The police had no reason to take samples of his blood or hair. Didn’t they need evidence? Something to connect him? At least that’s what he picked up from television. If they had his DNA, it wouldn’t do them any good unless they had other evidence against him. Then they’d need a warrant and all that stuff. He’d never been arrested, so it’s not like a computer would flash his name and address.

At first reality had been so much better than his imagination, but then…it didn’t feel right. He must have done something wrong: when she’d died, he didn’t feel the rush of power he was so certain he’d feel.

What could he have done different?

With that thought in mind, he drove thirty miles and looked for a neighborhood that had Monday trash pickup. A quiet neighborhood where no one was out. He found a perfect one, where the trash cans were in an alley. He threw the sheets and clothes and everything the slut might have touched into a half-full garbage bin.

He had thirty minutes to get to class, and the garbage truck had just rounded the corner.

Perfect timing.

“GLUE.” Will shook his head. “I can’t believe the bastard glued her mouth shut, then did those things to her.”

They’d parked near each other in the garage adjacent to the police station and walked inside together. It was close to eight, nearing shift change, and uniforms were coming in from patrol. Carina waved to a few of her friends, though when she’d made detective last year after ten years as a beat cop, some of the guys had given her the cold shoulder. Hell, not just the guys. The other women on the force were twice as bad.

It was like starting from square one all over again.

“He tortured her,” Carina said to Will. “Gluing her mouth shut, raping her, suffocating her. This guy is sick.”

Will looked both ill and angry. “We need to run a search for similar crimes.” They sat down to start plugging information into the computer. Carina’s phone rang.

“Kincaid,” she answered.

“Dean Robertson here.” Dean was now in charge of Missing Persons, though when she first joined the force eleven years ago he’d been Carina’s training officer.

“What’s up?”

“Heard you found a Jane Doe this morning. She matches the description of a possible missing person.”

“Possible?

“I had a strange visit Saturday.”

“Saturday? I thought the chief told you no more weekends.”

He grunted. “You going to turn me in for working unclocked hours?”

“Me? You said Friday, right?” Dean had been known to work off-the-clock almost as many hours as his regular shift. Never married, he’d told Carina once over beers that he couldn’t not work. There are missing kids out there, Carina. Their parents deserve to know whether they’re dead or alive.

Yeah. They did.

Dean continued. “This guy comes in. Clean-cut, late thirties, maybe forty. Wanted to report a missing person. Female, eighteen. Matches the description of your Jane Doe. The desk sergeant took the information at first, then bumped it over to me when the guy got all huffy that we weren’t doing something right away.”