A POUND OF FLESH

A BODY IN SUBURBIA

His stomach has finally calmed and the desire to vomit receded. As he mulls over his next moves, he decides to pickle the womanly treasures he has taken from Annie.

***

Ron stares at the blood soaked bed sheet before him. It is something his wife would like, high threat count, Egyptian cotton. Ron looks up and down at the houses lining the street. Large two story brick homes, double car garages, large family vehicles out front. The stereotypical American dream with a slight twist, a mutilated body strewn across the lawn underneath the street sign.

A couple of housewives had found the body out on their morning run. Ron was just thankful it had not been kids on their way to catch the bus. One of the first officers on the scene told him that one of the neighbors had put the sheet out. No one had said anything to him about contaminating the scene, visibly shaken, he had done it out of parental instinct. The act would most likely make him a neighborhood hero.

This is a nice neighborhood. The first place had been a park, the second was a downtown condo complex, all as distinctively different as the others.

Up and down the street Ron could make out heads peering through closed blinds and curtains, curiosity winning out over horror. Some even were outside on their lawns, talking to their neighbors as they drank their coffees trying their best to hide their interest.

The sun was already high in the sky. It was well past seven and soon the crowds would thin as people would inevitably have to go about their daily routines. The street had been blocked off, only allowing essential personnel through. Parents would have to drive their children to school today.

Uniforms were doing their best to keep people in their houses, canvassing those standing around, trying to make sure gossip did not merge with the truth and taint statements. The paramedics were sitting with the hysterical housewives. This was one of the most suffocating scenes Ron had ever been too.

Toronto had managed to keep a tight lid on the last victim, Burlington did not seem to have that ability. The first of the news vans was already starting to set up shop at the road block. Considering how early and fast it happened, it was someone in the neighborhood. As morbid as it was, this was probably the most fascinating thing that had happened here. Years from now they would still recount the story to their friends, friends that would hang on their every word - thankful and envious at the same time that it had not happened to them.

Ron watched as a man in a suit waved a few of the officers over, gave them stern instructions, and the officers quickly made their way towards the vans. The crews already on the street, hurriedly capturing as much as they can before they got pushed out. The man in the suit makes his way over to Ron, keeping his composure he extents a hand. Ron gives it a quick once over before taking it. The fingernails are recently trimmed and manicured. The hands are soft and warm.

He spends some time explaining a few things to Ron, keeping him in the loop, whatever help he needs is at his disposal - the usual. The conversation lasts less than fifteen minutes and off they both go to carry on with their business.

Ron stands out of the way letting the techs process the scene. Several of them walk around with kits, cameras and notepads working diligently. One sits with the man that had covered the body, an officer taking the statement and the technician collecting DNA and fingerprints. He watches another officer taking a statement from the women in the back of the ambulance. Ron takes in all the statements, listening for anything that may peak his interest. At the moment, there was nothing. Off to his right, strolling down the busy street comes the medical examiner.

Making a small wave of the hand in the direction of the examiner, Ron feels his pocket buzzing.

"Ron Blackwood."

"Hi Ron?"

"Ya," Ron leveled his voice, doing his best to hide his irritation, he had just told whoever it was on the other end that it was him.

"Sorry...I might have something for you. On Intrepid Park...and on the Essex case, I had heard around that those were yours again."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name, who is this?"

"Emma. Emma Stringer. I was one of the techs on the Intrepid case. I worked with the examiner."

A long silence met Emma from the other end, she sat waiting to hear something and was greeted with nothing. She should have known better. This was not the way to approach him, she should have followed the appropriate channels. As she started to hang up the phone she heard a long deliberate sigh let out on the other end.

Finally Ron spoke, "I'm a little tied up at the moment. It will probably be a long day. Can I find you at the lab when I get back?"

You could not mistake her smile as it came through in her voice, "Of course. I am working the late shift anyways."

Emma looked at the large file folder sitting on the couch next to her. It would give her one last time to look it over. Not that she needed too.

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