Violets Are Blue

Copyright © 2015 Velvet Vaughn

ISBN: 978-0-9861652-2-1

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Visit Velvet's website at www.velvetvaughn.com and her Facebook Fanpage at www.facebook.com/authorvelvetvaughn.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my two Aunt P’s – Paula and Pat. Thank you both for your unwavering support.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter One

January 5

Ella Rodriguez closed her eyes and prayed for the sweet release of death.

Her body ached, burned. The pain was too intense, and she couldn’t bear it anymore. Silent tears leaked helplessly to the satin pillow cushioning her head. Cold metal bands securing her wrists and ankles bit into her flesh, prohibiting movement. The gag in her mouth restricted the flow of air into her lungs, and she fought the urge to hyperventilate.

The man thrust faster and faster, painfully tearing dry tissues. She regretted saving herself for marriage. Why didn’t she give in to Tommy’s pleas? Her first time would have been a happy memory with a man she loved. But this monster stole that from her. Now her first time was a pain-filled blur in the middle of a nightmare.

And she feared it would be her last time too.

Needing to escape the pain, she longed to embrace the darkness, but every time she did, the man slapped her, rousing her from unconsciousness. Then he hurt her.

Ella prayed he would finish soon. Bony fingers violently groped her breasts, overriding the intense burn on her stomach and the pain between her legs. As he increased the tempo, his hands moved to her throat. Two thumbs pressed on either side of her windpipe. Her eyes flew open in terror. He screamed a name as the climax ripped through him, and Ella’s last thought was that her name was not Violet.

#

The latex glove skidded along Ella’s skin as the man traced the letters imprinted on her belly. He hated the smell of burning flesh worse than the stench of death—it brought the memories flooding back to him. But the look of sheer agony on her face when iron-hot brand met silky tissue hardened him like nothing else. It was the perfect foreplay.

Withdrawing a key, he removed the shackles, noting the angry red scratches the steel had carved on her delicate wrists. He shook his head. If she had just listened to him and not struggled against the bonds, she wouldn’t have been cut. But she didn’t listen—they never listened. They all tried to fight him and always ended up bruising their beautiful skin. A tear slipped down his smooth cheek. He swiped at it ruthlessly and grabbed his head as a sharp pain pierced his skull. He wanted to scream as the throbbing intensified but knew someone might hear him if he did. Inhaling deeply, he composed himself, knowing he had to hurry. As quickly as it came, the ache fled.

Glancing at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock on the nightstand, he noted the time as he stood and peeled off the two condoms—one could never be too cautious. He placed them inside a plastic bag and zipped the lock shut. Jamming the bag inside the duffle, he removed a black sweatshirt and pants. Careful not to dislodge the knit hat covering his hair, he eased the shirt over his head and fitted his arms through the sleeves. His head was the only place left where he had any hair besides brows and lashes. Thanks to monthly waxing at a spa he found halfway between Montreal and Quebec City in Canada, his skin was baby smooth. The drive took about three hours one way but was well worth it. The cute French-speaking girl who knew him as Andy looked at him funny the first time he put in his request, but she couldn’t resist him as soon as he dropped his pants. Women never could.

Stuffing his feet into a pair of black boots, he reached for his bag, settling it next to Ella on the blue satin spread. He’d slit her neck immediately after strangling her, learning that he couldn’t waste time from Denise’s death. Once the heart stopped, blood ceased to flow. His research told him that in order to maximize the amount, he needed to cut her right away. Oh, Denise had bled enough for his purposes, but he preferred not taking any chances.

He extracted a sketch pad and Kolinsky paintbrush made from a species of mink only found in Siberia and northeastern China. It was perfect for his needs. It had a sharp tip, elasticity that allowed it to recover its original shape after each stroke, and he could accurately control the flow.

Dipping the bristles into the pool of still-warm blood beneath her head, he began his latest masterpiece. The brush flew across the page, letters forming, words taking shape. Once he was satisfied with his object d’art, he wrapped aluminum foil around the bristles and dropped the brush into a plastic bag until later, when he could clean it thoroughly.

Next, he withdrew a red bra that matched the gag. Pulling the damp panties from her mouth, he carefully arranged the undergarments on Ella and then snapped several pictures, pausing to pose her between shots.

The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. The police would never catch him. He was too intelligent. He’d eluded them for over twenty years, ever since Kim, his first victim.

After arranging his poem on the girl’s torso, he positioned her just so and snapped one last picture before packing the camera in his bag. Moving to her dresser, he rummaged around, searching for the perfect pair of undergarments. Hmm. Ella Rodriguez has—oops, scratch that—had a slutty side. Racy lingerie in various colors filled the drawer. He selected a sheer black set and stuffed them in his bag as he shoved the drawer closed.

With one last look, he blew Ella a kiss before slipping outside and blending into the darkness of the night.

Chapter Two

Roses are blue

Violets are red

In case you are wondering

Ella is truly dead

Her end came swiftly

Oh, how she bled

Her death’s a riddle

Have you discovered the thread?

COBRA Securities Agent Jake Kincaid reread the note even though the verse had already been imprinted in his memory. It was similar to a poem found at one other murder scene, and the perpetrator used the same modus operandi. Rape, strangulation, branding, lingerie-clad body arranged with a poem written in blood. The victim’s blood.

They were dealing with a serial killer.

And the bastard was taunting them.

Twelve hours ago, he had been preparing for a long-needed vacation. He hadn’t had one in years, and at thirty-five, he felt ten years older. Now a half-day later, he was standing in the bedroom of a single-story house in Burlington, Vermont, where he had been called in to help the local authorities solve a gruesome murder. His plane had barely landed when a call came in, notifying him of another victim.

He could’ve turned the job down, but Detective Nicholas Turner requested him personally. He met Nick a few years ago when Jake spoke at a law enforcement conference. Then he and his former partner Ben Colton worked with Turner in Boston a couple of years later to solve a kidnapping ring, and they found mutual respect. Turner was competent and capable, and Jake was impressed with his insight and skill. He also appreciated that Turner realized what he was dealing with after the first murder and had enough sense not to waste time. He immediately called the FBI and requested Jake personally. Many local authorities resented the Bureau coming in and taking over a case. That had never been the way Jake operated. He preferred to work with the locals on an even playing field. However, if they caused him problems or blocked him, he had no problem asserting his authority.

But Jake was no longer a Bureau man. He’d been with COBRA Securities for almost three months now, following his old partner Ben, whose older brother Luke was co-owner of the successful private securities company. He’d negotiated the vacation when he signed on and then counted the days to a tropical retreat with lots of sun, sand, and surf. Instead of a beach, tropical drinks with straws, and bikini-clad babes, Jake was using those days to catch a serial killer.

When Turner found out Jake was no longer with the FBI, he’d called personally and asked for his assistance. Even with the lure of the ocean calling his name, he didn’t consider turning Turner down. Jake had left the FBI on good terms, so they agreed he could serve as a liaison, and they would provide any help necessary. Jake had been fully prepared to use his vacation days, but Luke Colton and his partner, Logan Bradley, wouldn’t hear of it. They insisted that this would be a COBRA Securities-sanctioned operation with full support.

A bulb repeatedly flashed as a young man dressed in camouflage fatigues documented the corpse from every angle. Once finished, he disassembled his bulky camera and stowed it into a bag before withdrawing a smaller digital one. He thoroughly cataloged the crime scene with pictures while Turner, the lead detective, sketched it into a notebook. A man brushed a fine white powder—fingerprint dust—over the doorknob looking for prints, while a woman did the same to several surfaces inside the apartment. Jake stood next to Turner as the coroner went to work.

The victim had been a beautiful woman with a mane of glossy black hair, but now her body bore the imprints of a brutal death. Eyes frozen wide in horror stared sightlessly at the cracked beige ceiling. Red streaks marred the white area surrounding dark green irises from petechial hemorrhaging, a common occurrence in manually strangulated victims. Her facial muscles and fingers were stiff from rigor mortis, but it had not yet affected her larger muscle groups, meaning she had probably been dead about two hours. A straight red line stretched from one side of her delicate neck to the other, splitting the round bruises bracketing her trachea in two. A dark pool of blood soaked the comforter beneath her head. Her wrists and ankles were bruised from her struggles, most likely from metal bindings. Bruises peeked from beneath the red satin bra and disappeared underneath panties, traces of vicious fingers.

The killer took time to redress his victims when finished.

Though technicians combed her body for any traces of evidence, he doubted they would find any. The last victim had been closely examined for any remnants adhering to her body, such as blood, hairs, fibers, or skin scrapings under the fingernails in case the victim had scratched her assailant. Nothing. The body was clean. Likewise, vaginal specimens indicated no trace of semen, meaning the unsub, or unknown subject, wore at least one condom, possibly two. Spermicide samples taken from the last victim would be matched with this one, but it wouldn’t be much help. All it would prove was that the same brand of condom was used.

Bright lights flooded the area, harshly illuminating every detail of a violent death as the coroner spoke softly into a small black recorder, cataloging the external damage.

We’re dealing with one sick bastard, Turner said, twirling a toothpick in his mouth with his fingers.

That we are. Jake nodded toward the victim. Same pose as last time.

Yeah, Turner confirmed. Arms crossed over her chest like a burial pose.

That’s a classic sign of remorse, Jake informed him. He feels bad after killing her, and this is his way of offering her some peace.

Bastard, Turner muttered under his breath. One of the crime scene techs moved closer to work on the body. If it’s the same as the other, they won’t find anything.

Jake nodded, having studied information Turner emailed to him on the previous case on the plane.

Felix Pena has been the county coroner for thirty years, Turner told him as they watched the man work. Balding and overweight, Pena methodically examined the corpse. Lines fanned out from his eyes, suggesting he was quick to laugh. This was no laughing matter.

Never seen a case like this in all my thirty years, Pena remarked over his shoulder in response to Turner’s comment. He withdrew two clear baggies and scribbled on the front of each one with a black sharpie. Carefully, he moved her arms to the sides and extracted a pair of scissors from his crime scene kit to slice off the bra. This doesn’t belong to the victim.

How can you tell?

Too big. Check her underwear drawer and tell me what size you find.

Turner grabbed latex gloves from a box and stepped around a tech dusting for prints as he navigated to the solid oak dresser. Snapping the gloves on, he tugged the top drawer open. Socks, he said, pushing it closed and moving to the next drawer. Interesting. He checked the bottom drawer. Come take a look at this, Kincaid.

Jake walked over and peered inside. Here’s her lingerie, he said, indicating the middle drawer. Bras and panties were scattered inside in a tangled heap. Now, look at this. Turner opened the top drawer, where socks and stockings were stacked in neat rows and organized by color. He then opened the bottom one, exposing sleepwear again arranged in neat piles.

The perp rifled through her underwear, Jake said, voicing Turner’s obvious conclusion.

Turner called the photographer over and had him snapshots of all the drawers. Then he lifted a bra from the drawer and read the tag. 34A.

This one is 36D, Pena said. It certainly didn’t belong to the victim.

So running with the theory that he dressed Ms. Rodriguez in undergarments from the first victim, Denise Tennison, where do you think he got the lingerie he left on Ms. Tennison?

Past victim? Personal stash? Jake guessed.

Jake and Turner watched as Pena slid the scissors beneath the lace edge of her panties and sliced them off. Pena moved back so the photographer could get clear shots of the body.

Jake had learned to look at the scene objectively, almost separating the loss of life from the job he had to do. He still said a prayer for the victim each time, and he could never quite shake that feeling of sympathy and regret he felt at a scene like this. It was hard to look at the beautiful young woman, battered and naked, exposed to the eyes of people wandering around the room as they poked, prodded, and photographed her. The ultimate humiliation, he thought. Those same photographs would be passed around the homicide department, the prosecution and defense attorney’s offices, and then to a judge and jury if they located a suspect.

It’d been said that there was no dignity in death, and how true that statement usually proved to be. But the inspection, scrutiny, and analysis were all necessary if the authorities could hold someone responsible for the heinous crime.

Pena finished his examination and flipped off the recorder. He motioned Jake and Turner closer. Sighing, he rubbed his forehead. Unofficial cause of death is cerebral hypoxia. He pointed to his own throat. Thyroid cartilage is crushed, and the hyoid bone fractured. The cut occurred postmortem.

That’s quite a bit of blood, more than the last victim, Turner noted.

This guy is smart, Pena said. He learned from his last kill and cut her right away this time. The carotid arteries and veins in the neck transport a great deal of blood. If they are sliced open perimortem or around the time of death, they will spill their contents even though the heart has stopped pumping. The longer you wait, the less blood there will be.

But then, the killer didn’t need much to dip his brush in and wax poetic.

The men stepped aside as two attendants dressed in white uniforms wheeled in a gurney. They watched as the victim disappeared inside a black body bag.

Hopefully, we will get lucky this time and pick up a hair, fiber, something to nail this bastard, Pena said, gathering up his equipment. Jake doubted it but said nothing.

While the crime scene techs continued their investigation, Jake and Turner made a thorough sweep of the apartment. Numbered placards were spaced out around the room, marking potential clues. Jake reached a gloved hand inside a bin beneath a small desk and withdrew an empty hamburger wrapper. Then he lifted a cup plastered with a local fast food restaurant logo from a coaster and jiggled the contents. Still has a couple cubes of ice, he noted. Looks like it was dinner for one.

Notes are spread on the desk, the cap off the highlighter, Turner observed. I’m thinking she was in for an evening of studying, so she probably wasn’t expecting company.

No sign of forced entry, Jake said.

Whoever the sicko is, she must have been comfortable opening the door to him. Windows are all locked too. She either knew her murderer, or he talked his way inside.

Or both, Jake theorized.

Or both, Turner agreed. It could be anyone from the building super to the stock boy at the local market. Officers are canvassing the area, checking if anyone heard or saw anything.

What about media?

So far, it’s been kept low-key, but we have one overzealous reporter, Olivia Larrson, who sniffed around the first murder. If she hears about this one, she’s smart enough to put two and two together and come up with a serial killer.

We’ll keep it under wraps as long as possible, Jake said. But if we don’t stop this guy soon, the wolves will descend in a heartbeat. Let’s head to the station. I want to go over the evidence from both murders.

Sure, follow me.

Turner paused to inform one of the officers they were leaving, and then they stepped outside. A blast of icy wind hit Jake in the face, and he winced. Having spent the last few weeks in Southern California on his previous assignment, he still hadn’t adjusted to the frigid Vermont winter. Tugging the zipper on his parka higher, he flipped the collar up to protect his neck and tucked his hands in his pockets. He glanced up as the black body bag slid into the waiting hearse.

Such a shame, he thought. So young. Ella had her whole life in front of her.

Jake said a silent prayer for her soul with a quick sign of the cross and trudged through the snow to follow Turner to the car.

Chapter Three

January 6

Violet Anastasia sat in her tiny office in the classics department at Lawrence Monroe College, a small liberal arts school located in Burlington, Vermont. With her first semester of teaching Greek History under her belt, she felt more comfortable standing in front of a group of students, lecturing on a subject that she adored. The next wave of scholars had arrived, and the second semester was in full swing.

Her office was nothing more than a box. She barely had enough room for her desk, two chairs for students to visit, and a filing cabinet. She decorated her walls with posters of famous Greek landmarks. Violet gazed longingly at a hauntingly beautiful rendition of the Porch of Maidens on the Acropolis. Carved stone statues of women called caryatids supported the entablature or top of the porch. None of the six women, four in front and two on either side, were depicted with arms, as was the style of many great Greek works of art.

A light tap sounded on her door. Fellow professor Todd Timms stuck his head inside. Ello, love. I’m feeling rather peckish. What say we motor to Church Street for a burger and chips?

Violet barely fought the urge to roll her eyes. Todd had spent one semester studying in England years ago and still fancied himself a Brit. He sometimes spoke with the English lilt, used words that ninety-nine percent of Americans didn’t understand, and only seemed to whip them all out for her benefit. If he intended to impress her, he failed miserably.

But she and Todd had become friends. He approached her on her first day at work a little over five months ago and treated her as if she were a queen. She knew he liked her and had even agreed to a couple of dates as friends, but she was not romantically interested in him. He tried to kiss her one night after they had gone to a movie, and she froze. But when his mouth became more aggressive, she gently but forcefully refused his advance. He accepted her rebuff with grace, and although he told her if she changed her mind, all she had to do was ask, he’d been a perfect gentleman since. She’d been afraid the rejection would change their relationship, but if anything, they were closer.

She studied him as he stood in the doorway. Some women would consider him handsome in a scholarly sort of way. His brown hair was a little mopish, and his eyes were dark and brooding. Sometimes he wore glasses. Other times like today, he opted for contacts. His brown tweed jacket sported suede patches on the elbows, and his white shirt and khaki Dockers were neatly pressed.

Why couldn’t she be attracted to him? He was sweet, stable, financially responsible. Maybe his car was a bit flashy, and certainly, he could use a wardrobe update—did anyone still wear suede arm patches?—but all in all, a nice package for any woman to unwrap if he would just drop the fake accent. From what she knew of him, he would be gentle with her and not get upset at her shortcomings. She couldn’t say that about other men she’d dated.

His question hung in the air, almost forgotten as she scrutinized him. With a slight shake of her head to clear her wayward thoughts, she quickly translated that he was hungry and wanted to grab a hamburger and fries. I promised Chris we would go out to lunch today. Why don’t you join us?

A few years older than Violet, Christine Stark taught literature. They had bonded almost instantly, and Violet had a girlfriend to confide in for the first time in her life. Chris and Todd were the only friends she had in the city—or anywhere.

After traveling around for years, Chris had settled in Vermont, but Violet sensed a restlessness in her friend. She feared the small-town pace wouldn’t be enough to hold her interest much longer, and she would take off, leaving Violet alone.

Bee’s knees, let me visit the loo, and we’ll round her up.

Violet couldn’t stop the eye roll this time, chuckling as she flipped the lid of her laptop closed and grabbed her purse. Her stomach picked that moment to rumble loudly. Todd might have wanted hamburgers, but she was looking forward to trying the new Chinese place that recently opened to glowing reviews.

Sliding her purse strap over her shoulder, she stuck her key in the lock, clicked it into place, and spun around, bumping into something solid. She gasped as a loud clang echoed through the hallway. Oh Carlos, I’m so sorry.

She could tell she startled the janitor, his brown eyes round and wide. They bent to retrieve the fallen mop simultaneously and almost knocked heads, sharing a laugh. Is okay, Ms. Violet. Is my fault.

The lemony scent of the cleaning products stung Violet’s nose. Many mornings she bemoaned the lack of a window after Carlos had mopped the night before. Although she shared a different relationship with him than with Chris or Todd, she’d also become friends with Carlos Perez. She tutored him in English twice a week, but no one at the university knew about their arrangement. Carlos took night classes and worked hard to earn a GED. She did everything she could to help him reach that goal.

She knew Carlos also had a crush on her. He often left presents for her, usually things he’d made himself. Sometimes flowers he grew in a small bay window in his tiny, ramshackle house, other times an intricate carving or perhaps a picture. Carlos was a proficient photographer, capturing subjects in unusual and fascinating settings. He would arrange the tokens on her desk at night after he cleaned, and she kept them all on display in her office.

Footsteps echoed, and Violet groaned as Todd swaggered in their direction. Must you be so bloody clumsy, bloke? he chided, managing to look down his nose at the janitor, although he was barely an inch taller.

The condescending tone made Violet uncomfortable. Hoping to diffuse the awkward silence, she forced a smile. We should get going. I’ll see you later, Carlos.

The janitor mumbled goodbye and swiped the mop across the floor, his head down.

Todd snaked his arm around her shoulders, propelling her forward. Let’s grab some lunch, love.

The door to Chris’s office stood open as they approached. With a phone plastered to her ear, she scribbled a note telling them to go ahead, and she would meet them. Violet made sure Chris knew which restaurant before they took Todd’s shiny red Mazda Miata and found parking off a side road in downtown Burlington. They chatted about the current crop of students as they strolled along the enclosed street. Snow stood in uneven piles against the curb, and bells jangled merrily as a horse-drawn carriage carted tourists on a jaunt through the city. Violet paused to admire a sweater hanging in a store window and instantly regretted it when Todd ran inside to purchase it for her. She followed him and begged him not to, but he insisted on the indulgence. Violet tamped down her urge to make a scene and reluctantly accepted the gift.

They made their way to the restaurant, and the waitress had just delivered their drinks when Chris came strolling up to the table, dark glasses perched on her nose. Standing almost six feet tall, she wore a hunter-green business suit with a trademark scarf artfully draped around her neck. Her hair was stylish, her makeup and nails perfect. Chris’s fashion sense often made Violet feel short and frumpy, but she loved her friend, anyway.

Have you heard? The story is breaking news, Chris said as she eased into a chair.

Violet glanced from Chris to Todd, who had a bored look on his face. I have heard nothing. Todd shook his head in agreement.

Chris signaled for the waitress. There’s been another murder.

Violet gripped the edge of the table. Oh, no.

That’s terrible, Todd added. Do they know who the girl was? I mean…it was a girl, right? The other was a woman.

Chris nodded and then winced. The waitress filled a glass with ice water and placed it on the table.

Are you okay, Chris? Violet asked, her eyes knitted with concern.

Just a migraine, she said disgustedly. Fumbling open a bottle, she shook a pill into her hand and washed it down with water before recapping the container.

Violet couldn’t disguise her worry. Chris had told her she had suffered migraines in the past, but she would pick up and relocate, and they would disappear for a while. Once they started again, she knew it was time to move on. Since she settled down and made her home in Vermont, they hadn’t returned. That they were starting up again made Violet fear her friend would leave.

So, who got whacked? Todd asked.

Todd, Violet chided, appalled by his inconsiderateness. He shrugged unrepentantly.

Chris took another drink and adjusted the dark glasses on her nose. Ella Rodriguez, a sophomore.

Violet tensed, her blood running cold. Ella Rodriguez? she repeated woodenly. She was in my intro to mythology class last semester. She paused, the sudden chill coursing through her body having nothing to do with the frigid weather outside. When she continued, her voice was low and toneless. That makes the second girl I’ve taught since I’ve been here who has been murdered.

#

Jake sat at a long table in a conference room at the Burlington Police Headquarters with a mound of papers strewn in front of him. He’d been comparing notes from the two murders for a couple of hours. The sergeant appointed a task force, scheduled to meet soon. He wanted to