The Dollhouse Murders

03

The autopsy of the second victim would have been a mesmerizing thing to watch if not for the utter horror embodied below the victim's surface. The victim was a thing from another dimension, all harsh angles and strong colors, crude stitches in too many places. The grinning mask still laid in place, with tufts of white cotton bulging from the empty eye sockets.

Ted crossed himself and mumbled a layment before conducting the autopsy. There was no soft music in the background today, and Ted lost his usual elegant dance around the table. Instead his feet dragged and appeared stiff underneath his blue surgical gown. His assistant was at his side, pen and clipboard in hand ready for notes.

"Are you ready?" Ted's eyes flicked upward across the table that stood between them. The young detective cleared his throat and gave a small nod.

You'll be able to close four cases. You'll give four families closure—just leave out a few details. They don't need to know everything.

Using his gloved fingers with delicate care, Ted lifted the clay-like mask away from the face first. Nick immediately leaned down, peering level with the victim's head, where a face should have been except there was nothing. No skin, no lips or mouth, just a gaping hole with white cotton stuffed inside to give a general head shape along with pieces of slim silver wire. There were ears though. Nick saw a small pin hole in the left lobe where a piercing had once staked a claim.

"Victim two," Nick gestured to the ears following the stitches toward the back of the shoulders. "That's part of him."

Ted said nothing, sitting the mask aside on a separate steel table. His female assistant scribbled something down and asked the question they were all thinking. "Do you think you'll find any organs?"

"We'll know soon enough," Ted said.

"Probably not," Nick said.

Ted raised an eyebrow. "You've given this some thought, have you?"

"More than you'd care to know."

He continued his visual examination, counting the stitches to the chest and throat, across the stomach and around the legs. Ted and his assistant turned the body over with great care, making note of every piece of skin used. Seventeen in all.

"All right. Let's turn him over again and open him up, shall we?"

Nick tugged on the collar of his shirt. His throat felt oddly tight and constricting. Maybe it was the reveal that was about to happen underneath the skin of the victim or the mask that laid on the table beside him.

Why use a mask and not take one of the victim's faces?

Once the body was lying on its back, Ted moved on to the torso and, with an artist's hand, drew the scalpel down the body, creating the Y incision: shoulders to sternum, sternum to groin. Nick averted his eyes from genitalia that was intact, shriveled and heavily stitched into place.

The skin stubbornly agreed to be pulled away from the hidden treasure within. Nick walked around the table, impatient to wait any longer. What was underneath the skin? Ted grunted at the smell. A heavy stench of chemicals filled the air. The assistant flinched away.

"This is freaking me out," she whispered.

"You must be new," Nick said pulling out his iphone to get a picture. Nestled in the cotton and wire was a piece of red folded paper with a four letters scribbled in black ink : NICK. "Gloves. Get me a pair of gloves—"

She handed him a pair her mouth parted in disbelief. "Isn't that your name?"

Nick shoved his hands aggressively into the latex eager to grasp the sliver of paper. He fumbled with it, peeling it open with Ted leaning over his shoulder. Turning it the right direction to read, Nick's eyes read over the words repeatedly until the words began to blur and merge together.

"What's it say?" The assistant broke the ongoing silence.

"You're next."

For two hours Nick sat on top of a picnic table, his boots planted firmly on the seat plank. He was on his eighteenth cigarette before Ted pushed his way out through double doors and into parking lot. The little note had to be kept as evidence but those two small words were enough to get underneath the detectives skin.

You're next.

You're next for what?

Next victim?

Next headline?

Next ... killer?

Shut-up, he told the voice inside his head.

He took a long drag from the cigarette as Ted came to a stop in front of him. He was still dressed in his scrubs. He eyed Nick carefully, the young detective was stolid and barely seemed to be aware of the examiners presence.

"There were no organs, just as you assumed. No bones, no fluids, nothing. Nothing but wire framing the basic outline of a skeletal system and cotton. Then of course the victim's skin, all of which are accounted for."

Stiffly, Nick nodded. Then reached down to snuff the cigarette out with his foot. "So the killer is familiar with taxidermy?"

Ted wiped at the back of his neck. "Granted it wasn't the cleanest work, I'd say this killer is learning."

One person came to mind in his small town ; Tucker O'donnell. An avid hunter, illegal at most times, and worked stuffing other hunters kills.

"You think that note meant anything?"

Ted shrugged. "I wouldn't take the words of a psycho to heart."

"Maybe you're right." Nick stood, tossing his jacket over his shoulder. "If you find anything else, please by all means, call."

Ted offered a smile and nodded. He waved off the detective and once the car was out of the lot his smile melted into a thin frown.

A wind chime in the house's porch tinkled in the warm evening air.

He opened the fence gate and walked the short distance up to the porch. As Nick stood on its white paint-chipped, wood-plank-flooring, his hand rose with the keys, but hesitated at the knob. The ghosts were still here. Beyond this door was the hallway where it happened. Where his future was torn from him. The blood splatters were still there, naked to the eye now but Nick remembered.

The keys faltered in his grasp and clattered to the porch loudly. Quickly, he leaned down grabbing them up. It's just a house. It's just a house. Lips pursed and fist clenching the keys he tried to work up the courage. Entering was the hardest part, every time he entered his own house it was like he was walking back in on the crime scene. His to-be wives body cut open and strewn across the foyer floor, her head propped up on the last step, arm outstretched toward the living-room. That was where he saw his father sitting in the rocking chair humming a children's song to his child. The baby had died in Nick's father's arms.

You're next.

Nick shook his head, he couldn't do this. Not tonight. Turning on his heel he quickly walked down the steps and back through the little gate towards his car. A neighbor who stood at their mailbox called out and waved, yet Nick gave no response. He unlocked his trunk and unzipped his gym bag. Right there on the street he changed into running shorts, a gray T-shirt and tennis shoes much to his neighbors dismay. He needed to clear his head and the oncoming night air would do just that.