Kris was at work in his “office”, which was in fact a boutique coffee shop with wireless Internet and imported Italian light fixtures. Frou-Frou’s was a coffee shop on Crest Hill Drive. It was wedged between the Chicken Shack, and a glitzy gift shop called Ruby Slippers, but which could just as easily have been named Nothing Useful. It carried raunchy birthday cards, organic soaps, and had a large gay book section. Home Depot it was not.
From his overstuffed, leather recliner, Kris took a tug of an overpriced coffee drink and praised it unashamedly, “I don’t care what anyone says about you; you are my rock. You know that don’t you? It always been you and me.” A message appeared on his screen: “Time 4 work, sunshine. Body discovered. Veterans’ Stadium. En route now.”
Kris spewed just a bit of his gourmet coffee onto the crystalline screen. He slammed his laptop shut, gathered his things up in one disheveled sweep, and bolted for the door. Moments later a yellow and black Charger tore from the parking lot behind the Chicken Shack and sped off as fast as conscience would allow towards Acadian.
- - - -
Minutes later the same Charger rolled into an unpaved lot, crunching gravel gently beneath its tires. Kris parked the car and made his way across the field towards the body and Detective Kennedy.
“What are you doing?” the detective demanded as he approached.
“What do you mean?”
“Is that coffee from Frou-frou’s?” She was half joking, half genuinely perturbed.
“Why, yes, yes it is. You know what, I’m sorry. I should have brought you one, but when I got your text I just literally grabbed my things up and . . . ”
“You’re not supposed to be going there, Kris! It’s places like that that are going to put the Chicken Shack out of business! They are the enemy!”
“Maggie,” Kris reasoned with the commanding red-head, “The Shack doesn’t sell coffee. And - more to the point - they don’t have Internet.”
“That is not the point. Get a stinkin’ wireless card for your computer. And you can call me ‘Detective Kennedy’ while I am on duty, if you please, sir.” She wasn’t seriously angry, but she meant what she said.
Kris drank his coffee, with the cursive Frou-frou’s logo scrolling luxuriously about the cup. “Alpha again?”
Kris could see that Maggie’s wheels were turning. “It would sure seem that way,” she said absently. “Kris, do you know what je ne sais quoi means?”
“I have heard the phrase. But, frankly, no, I am not really 100% sure. What is it?”
“That’s exactly right! It means, ‘what is it’? It means that indefinable, intangible something that makes a thing different from other similar things. Like, when you love two movies in a trilogy, but hate the third one. Same actors, same director, same story basically. But there’s that something, something you can’t put your finger on, that je ne sais quoi that makes it different.” Detective Kennedy studied the scene as she backed towards Kris without making eye contact. She casually reached over, commandeered his cup and began to sip the coffee. Kris muttered something about that costing four bucks. Maggie continued her mental calculus.
“The best tool I have is my gut, Kris. Well, that and the FBI T.A.P.S. National Database.” As Detective Kennedy drank Kris’ coffee, she asked him, “What does this crime scene feel like to you?”
Kris shook his head regretfully at the body. “Terrible,” he said. “It’s a tragedy.”
“Come on, Kris! You’re supposed to be a writer, a thinker. Marcus Aurelius said to always ‘read carefully, and not to be satisfied with a superficial understanding of a book’. What do you see?”
Kris felt put on the spot and was having trouble thinking under pressure. “Well, there is the ‘A’, of course. The gown. The girl. It’s definitely a grand space, theatrical, like the others.”
“Ok, good. Theatrical. I like that. So it’s like the others that way. Is it different from the others in any way?”
Kris thought about it. He stared blankly at Detective Kennedy.
“Ok,” she sighed, “Use your gut, use the Force, whatever.” Detective Kennedy called upon the wisdom of Obi-Wan, “Reach out with your feelings, Luke. Let go. . . I’m going to ask you a question: there is no pressure, just clear your mind and say what comes naturally. Close your eyes and just listen.” She presented the question to Kris with a measured calmness, “Sum up the essence of the other crime scenes that we have seen - in one word. What were they about?”
“Well, I’ve only really seen the one.”
“Sure, but you’ve seen photos. You’re familiar. Just think about it.”
Kris had no store of experience to draw upon to answer such a question; life had simply not prepared him for such an outrageous mental exercise. What were the murder scenes about? What kind of perversion of the intellect was this? One that Maggie must have to entertain regularly, he supposed. “Don’t think about it, Kris. Or do. Whatever. Just . . . feel it out.”
Kris rummaged around for his mind adjectives to describe a homicide. There was, of course, a small cache of terms gathered from movies and the evening news, strings of clichés meant to sensationalize. But he knew that Maggie was asking for something else, something more honest. “Grand . . . theatrical.”
“Good. You said those already, though. Listen, I don’t have the answer either. I am genuinely asking for help here. Take your time.”
“How will you know when it’s right?”
“We’ll know, Kris. Keep going.”
“Mmm . . . beauty, beautification. Ahh . . . cleansing. Beautification – I said that already.” And then he had it. The kaleidoscope of words and associations flitting willy-nilly about the interior of his head coalesced and relaxed, and fell into a clean, tidy image that just felt right. “Sanctification.”
“Sancti-frickin’-cation,” confirmed Detective Kennedy, “There it is. Ho-ly cow.” She smiled as if she had just figured out how to beat the house and handed Kris back his coffee. She patted his head like a pup, “Good boy,” she said, “Very good.” She knelt down and examined the girl’s neckline with the business end of her mechanical pencil. “Does this crime scene say ‘sanctification’ to you?”
He thought about it. No, this scene was different, but he wasn’t sure why. The other murders were horrendous in direct proportion to their creativity. But where was the creativity here? The stadium was grand and theatrical, it made a public statement. But there was nothing lovely about it. This structure was half a century old, and showing signs of wear in every way. In fact, it was downright shabby. The robe was present, but where were the rose petals, the gilded pail, the constellation of votives? And then it was as if scales fell from Kris’ eyes. The scuffed earth about the body clearly indicated a struggle. The other victims showed no signs of struggle. The overall appearance of the victim was batter; the other victims had been somehow edified.
When Detective Kennedy folded back the collar of the gown she saw the girl’s shirt was still on beneath. The girl’s pants, however, were off. The neck showed trauma. She had been strangled.
“Cruelty,” Kris said.
“Cruelty,” Detective Kennedy agreed.
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