In the past, she was like a bright light leading me through tough times, a symbol of hope that kept me going. Despite the passage of years without communication, when the time came to reconnect with her, I found myself instinctively gazing up at the...
if i could buy a house on memory lane, i wouldn't have to wonder if you miss me the same. - Memory Lane, Old Dominion
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S E P T E M B E R 1 4 T H 2 0 1 1
The briefing started with Garcia's voice filling the room, hinting at the grim reality awaiting us. "A thirty-year-old woman was discovered near the Tennessee River in Florence, Alabama," she began, her tone serious, sending a chill down my spine. "Her face was severely burned, then covered with makeup, and a new face was drawn using blood."
Florence, Alabama, the name sparked memories for me, memories of a place I had briefly visited before. I had been there a few times to teach linguistics at the University of North Alabama. Despite spending time at the university, I never explored the city beyond the campus, never experienced its streets and the people who lived there.
As Garcia's briefing continued, JJ's question broke the silence, bringing our attention to an intriguing detail in the investigation. "What's up with the poem?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity and confusion.
The question hung in the air, casting a shadow over our thoughts as we pondered its significance. Amidst the evidence and speculation, the presence of a poem emerged as a noteworthy anomaly, a clue waiting to be deciphered within the complex puzzle of our investigation.
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As Reid spoke, his words flowed like a gentle river, weaving a tapestry of poetry that enchanted everyone in the room, including myself. With a background in linguistics, I had always admired the power of language, understanding its ability to transcend mere words on a page and touch the very essence of human emotion.
"I've never come across this poem before," Reid remarked, his curiosity echoing my own. "Have you, Alex?"
I scanned the lines of the poem, each word painting a vivid picture of artistry and sentiment. It was a true masterpiece, yet I couldn't recall encountering it in my own literary explorations. With a regretful shake of my head, I confessed my unfamiliarity.
Morgan's interruption cut through the silence, his voice sharp and incisive. "The blood circle drawn around 'smiles' must relate to the blood smile on the victim's face," he theorized. "What's the message? That they'd look better with a smile?"
