Wildflower
New Member
The body had laid there for days. Decomposing in the sun, rotting flesh had begun to slide off the bones of a once angelic face. The seagulls perched on railings, glaring at the men who had stopped them from consuming their meal. The men themselves glared back at the seagulls, daring them to make a move toward the remains. It was a stand-off between man and nature. And while the remains continued to rot, both parties were privy to a moment that was soon to be the next knot in a string of murders that was shaking Manhattan to its core.
This was the fourth body found in under two weeks. All of them young, attractive women that appeared to come from no money, which often meant no family. Easy to capture, easy to murder.
It was a story that was beginning to gain momentum, and it wasn’t going to slow down until the murderer was caught. Even then the killer they affectionately called the Gardener had a story that would live in history, along with the names of the people who helped catch him. Which was why a certain slender, blonde was squatting down at the edge of the police tape, her notepad balanced on her knees as she jotted down word after word of detailed analysis.
“Ms. Fern, this isn’t really the place for a lady to be,” a burly chested man in a dirty uniform looked down at her, hovering and frowning. “You should step away, or just get home, find a nice lad to marry and leave all this nasty murder business to us men of the city.”
Evelyn didn’t even look up, instead her eyes caught the one green eyeball that was still attached to the skull. The poor girl couldn’t have been over 19 years old. And now she was exposed, decayed, and being photographed for all the world to see.
“No thank you, Officer,” Evelyn said with a tone the bordered on sarcasm with an edge of bitter scorn. “I much prefer the company of corpses than the fine lads of New York. Although, if you would like to go home and find a lad to marry be my guest. I know that dead bodies tend to upset the stomach, especially those stomachs belonging to the men of the city.” At her final words she let her eyes wander over to the four young cops who were throwing up their breakfasts into the sea. “But us women are used to the cruelty of life. I’ll be just jake here.”
The officer huffed but walked away. Most of the policemen in the city center had heard of Evelyn Fern already. She was beautiful, yes, but she was also stubborn, head-strong, and refused to back down for anyone, let alone a man. Many men fantasized about owning her but as far as rumors had confirmed none had managed to even get her to plant those full red lips on theirs.
However, rumors were easy to control. Evelyn had perfected the ability to manipulate the mill, she was a journalist after all. Those who wrote for the paper had their hand in the information the public knew. And she was content with them only knowing the lies she circulated and nothing more or less.
Once she had written all the notes she wanted to, she stood up. Dusting off her trousers, men’s trousers that she had altered to fit her, she slid the notepad into her coat pocket, also, a man’s coat (her father’s to be exact).
A part of her contemplated interviewing the policemen that stood loitering around but she knew that they knew nothing she didn’t already know, or even less than she did. She’d been working on these murders since the very first, a stroke of luck that had led to her no longer writing about sappy nuptials but writing about the gruesome underbelly of the city.
If only it hadn’t been her childhood friend that had jump started her success.
Melody had only been 24. But her decomposed body had made it look like she was in her 40s. It was a tragedy, really, to spend the majority of one’s life caring about beauty only to die in such an ugly way.
As Evelyn walked up the embankment, the sound of the waves crashing into the shoreline was comically romantic, she felt herself flash back to that night two weeks ago. Her apartment door swinging by only one hinge. Her books scattered on the floor. Her best friend scattered atop those. It had been a bloodbath, sprinkled with the words of Thoreau, Shakespeare, Twain, and Joyce. A black and white wasteland drenched with the dark, sticky paint of blood.
And while Evelyn wrote that she had been traumatized by the butchered body of her closest friend, how it would affect her in a profound way for the rest of her life the moment her heart broke at the death of someone that was just like a sister, the truth was that her first thought upon seeing the scene was the amount of sheer literature that was wasted and how she was never going to find those first edition copies again.
Her second thought had been to vomit.
Now, though, she never vomited. She had overcome that impulse. It was only when she thought about Melody’s body that she had to stop her stomach from churning which was why she tried to think about her friend very little. Instead she focused on trying to catch the bastard who had cut her up so elegantly. Who had cut up three other girls in much the same way.
Once she made it to the street she climbed into one of the many cabs waiting there. Word moved fast in the city and though she hadn’t written up the story for tomorrow’s paper, people were already crowding the beach in the hopes of catching this new fallen flower. A term of endearment Evelyn had coined in her articles to call all the victims of the Gardener, the name she had, also, given the murderer.
“Take me to the Red Door,” she said to the cabbie passing him some change from her pocket. There wasn’t a cabbie in town that wouldn’t know where or what the Red Door was.
The Red Door was a bar. An illegal bar that served absinthe and cigarettes on trays made of wood. It was the height of Prohibition and the Red Door catered to those with low inhibitions. It was one of the first real speakeasies, iconic with its red painted door that led to a narrow hallway filled with old mannequins, various body parts missing. A few steps up a steep stairwell and the soft jazz could be heard through the blue door. A turn of the knob and the room opened up to a small stage, twelve tables and a small bar. A piano sat in the corner, offstage. A bony, pale young man sat on the bench, playing a melody as the crooner on stage took the last few moments of night to sing about her broken heart.
It was laid back, filled with clouds of smoke, and served liquor. The perfect place for a bookish, rebellious girl to call home. She moved across the room with ease, approaching the pianist from behind and wrapping her arms around his neck. Leaning her mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “There’s been another murder.” She then turned his head and kissed him roughly on his chapped lips.
This was the fourth body found in under two weeks. All of them young, attractive women that appeared to come from no money, which often meant no family. Easy to capture, easy to murder.
It was a story that was beginning to gain momentum, and it wasn’t going to slow down until the murderer was caught. Even then the killer they affectionately called the Gardener had a story that would live in history, along with the names of the people who helped catch him. Which was why a certain slender, blonde was squatting down at the edge of the police tape, her notepad balanced on her knees as she jotted down word after word of detailed analysis.
“Ms. Fern, this isn’t really the place for a lady to be,” a burly chested man in a dirty uniform looked down at her, hovering and frowning. “You should step away, or just get home, find a nice lad to marry and leave all this nasty murder business to us men of the city.”
Evelyn didn’t even look up, instead her eyes caught the one green eyeball that was still attached to the skull. The poor girl couldn’t have been over 19 years old. And now she was exposed, decayed, and being photographed for all the world to see.
“No thank you, Officer,” Evelyn said with a tone the bordered on sarcasm with an edge of bitter scorn. “I much prefer the company of corpses than the fine lads of New York. Although, if you would like to go home and find a lad to marry be my guest. I know that dead bodies tend to upset the stomach, especially those stomachs belonging to the men of the city.” At her final words she let her eyes wander over to the four young cops who were throwing up their breakfasts into the sea. “But us women are used to the cruelty of life. I’ll be just jake here.”
The officer huffed but walked away. Most of the policemen in the city center had heard of Evelyn Fern already. She was beautiful, yes, but she was also stubborn, head-strong, and refused to back down for anyone, let alone a man. Many men fantasized about owning her but as far as rumors had confirmed none had managed to even get her to plant those full red lips on theirs.
However, rumors were easy to control. Evelyn had perfected the ability to manipulate the mill, she was a journalist after all. Those who wrote for the paper had their hand in the information the public knew. And she was content with them only knowing the lies she circulated and nothing more or less.
Once she had written all the notes she wanted to, she stood up. Dusting off her trousers, men’s trousers that she had altered to fit her, she slid the notepad into her coat pocket, also, a man’s coat (her father’s to be exact).
A part of her contemplated interviewing the policemen that stood loitering around but she knew that they knew nothing she didn’t already know, or even less than she did. She’d been working on these murders since the very first, a stroke of luck that had led to her no longer writing about sappy nuptials but writing about the gruesome underbelly of the city.
If only it hadn’t been her childhood friend that had jump started her success.
Melody had only been 24. But her decomposed body had made it look like she was in her 40s. It was a tragedy, really, to spend the majority of one’s life caring about beauty only to die in such an ugly way.
As Evelyn walked up the embankment, the sound of the waves crashing into the shoreline was comically romantic, she felt herself flash back to that night two weeks ago. Her apartment door swinging by only one hinge. Her books scattered on the floor. Her best friend scattered atop those. It had been a bloodbath, sprinkled with the words of Thoreau, Shakespeare, Twain, and Joyce. A black and white wasteland drenched with the dark, sticky paint of blood.
And while Evelyn wrote that she had been traumatized by the butchered body of her closest friend, how it would affect her in a profound way for the rest of her life the moment her heart broke at the death of someone that was just like a sister, the truth was that her first thought upon seeing the scene was the amount of sheer literature that was wasted and how she was never going to find those first edition copies again.
Her second thought had been to vomit.
Now, though, she never vomited. She had overcome that impulse. It was only when she thought about Melody’s body that she had to stop her stomach from churning which was why she tried to think about her friend very little. Instead she focused on trying to catch the bastard who had cut her up so elegantly. Who had cut up three other girls in much the same way.
Once she made it to the street she climbed into one of the many cabs waiting there. Word moved fast in the city and though she hadn’t written up the story for tomorrow’s paper, people were already crowding the beach in the hopes of catching this new fallen flower. A term of endearment Evelyn had coined in her articles to call all the victims of the Gardener, the name she had, also, given the murderer.
“Take me to the Red Door,” she said to the cabbie passing him some change from her pocket. There wasn’t a cabbie in town that wouldn’t know where or what the Red Door was.
The Red Door was a bar. An illegal bar that served absinthe and cigarettes on trays made of wood. It was the height of Prohibition and the Red Door catered to those with low inhibitions. It was one of the first real speakeasies, iconic with its red painted door that led to a narrow hallway filled with old mannequins, various body parts missing. A few steps up a steep stairwell and the soft jazz could be heard through the blue door. A turn of the knob and the room opened up to a small stage, twelve tables and a small bar. A piano sat in the corner, offstage. A bony, pale young man sat on the bench, playing a melody as the crooner on stage took the last few moments of night to sing about her broken heart.
It was laid back, filled with clouds of smoke, and served liquor. The perfect place for a bookish, rebellious girl to call home. She moved across the room with ease, approaching the pianist from behind and wrapping her arms around his neck. Leaning her mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “There’s been another murder.” She then turned his head and kissed him roughly on his chapped lips.