Moth to a Flame: A Felicity Donovan Short Story

Moth to a Flame

The smell is the worst part. It hangs in the air like carrion over a carcass. It means death is close.

A coughing mass of spectators block the entrance to a shadowy alley. The consulting detective weaves through the crowd, examining every face. With clasped hands, a clump of robe-clad bystanders huddle together, staring straight into the abyss. She approaches the yellow tape. Two uniformed officers chat on the other side. From farther into the alley, a lean man with a shaved head spots her. He rushes over and ushers her under the police tape.

"Thanks for coming, Felicity," says Detective Hector Carmona, handling her a pair of latex gloves. "What we have here is-"

"Shh." She presses an index finger to her lips.

Slipping the gloves onto her small hands, she floats onward, magnetically drawn deeper into the brick and stucco corridor. The air grows thicker with each step. The city din fades away, replaced by the echo of her own dusty tread. There's a left turn ahead of her. A somber medical examiner stands beside a black trash bag in the junction of the L-shaped alleyway. He glances up as she approaches.

"How many others have approached the body?"

"Just me and Detective Carmona," he replies.

"And our killer." Leaning against the wall, Carmona tucks his thumb under his belt buckle.  

Felicity turns the corner, immediately taken aback by the intense heat still emanating from the body. Her eyes, transfixed on the atrocity, beg her to blink, to look away. They burn and water, but she has a job to do. Swallowing, she hardens herself for the task at hand. She scans the soot-encrusted alcove ahead of her. It measures about twelve cubic meters. Dented and blackened trash cans haunt the corners, silent witnesses of the unspeakable tragedy. And there, against the wall and between the cans, is a curled up figure shrouded in black ash.

The pristine, pearly smile gleaming from the eyeless skull is the most disconcerting part. The cheeks, burned away by the fire, reveal a toothy grin, literally stretching ear to ear in a ghoulish display of irony.

"How could anyone do this to another human?" laments Detective Carmona.

"She was dead before being set on fire. Look how she's positioned. She's lying on her side, muscles relaxed. If she were burned alive, she'd be in a more contorted position," Felicity explains, eyes still glued to the scene.

"Is she right?" Hector asks, looking to the medical examiner. He nods. "I suppose that's somewhat comforting. His other victims weren't so fortunate." Glancing around the corner, his stomach turns for the umpteenth time. It never gets any easier. He swallows and clears his throat before continuing. "This is the third body we've found this week. I believe we might have a serial killer on our hands. There are no fingerprints, no witnesses, no—"

"I know who the killer is." Felicity peels off the latex gloves and wipes her sweaty hands on the front of her slacks.

"Oh, you do, do you?" scoffs the medical examiner.

"Yes, it's all pretty straightforward. I don't know why you need me here." She pivots, starting back down the alleyway.

"Wait!" Detective Carmona lurches forward and grabs her wrist. She whirls back and snatches her arm away, eying him up and down. "At least tell us your theory," he gently commands.

"Theory? Okay," she sneers. The group migrates a few feet down the corridor, away from the nauseating stench of the deceased. "Honestly, I had an inkling before even entering the alley and my suspicion has only been verified. Three sets of tread marks approach the body. The first belongs to the elderly woman in the robe outside of the police tape." Felicity stoops, carefully examining the ground. "The smooth tread and subtle feathery pattern along the outside was made by her plush slippers." Her gloved finger hovers above the print's outline. "But, she's not the killer. She discovered the body while taking out the trash. She stopped there abruptly, skidding to a stop," she says, pointing to a section of dirt in the junction. "Nearly falling, she dropped her trash bag and ran back down the alley. Am I right so far?"