Jeremiah enjoyed the miniature steam-filled screams escaping the mixture of eggs in the pan. The sizzling smell tickled his nose and his mouth watered. He was so hungry from work that afternoon that he had to cook himself a little evening snack. He fluffed the eggs in the pan with a fork and added a bit of salsa. The spiciness was a pleasure he wasn’t allowed to indulge in. Spice was considered sinful.

He reached to the side of the cabinet and turned up the volume on the television as the news report came back on.

“Another update in the case of the Hayfield Serial Killer murders this evening.”

Jeremiah held the pan just under his mouth and forked the hot, gooey snack into it. He knew Mother would not have approved, but he didn’t have time to sit and eat properly. He didn’t want to keep her waiting.

“Fingerprints have been found on the third victim: Caroline Nutt. They were found hidden on the inside of her arm,” the news anchor announced.

Jeremiah’s ears perked up; his fork hung in the air, a piece of egg quivering.

“Per Detective Leroy Banks, the prints have come back to a Mr. Samuel Hall. Mr. Hall was the boyfriend of the deceased and has been taken in for questioning. Neighbors report hearing Miss. Nutt and Mr. Hall arguing recently.”

A photo of Caroline Nutt and Samuel Hall appeared on the screen. They seemed to be on a beach somewhere. The two twenty-somethings looked terribly upset with each other.

Jeremiah laughed a little; spraying eggs and salsa onto his chin. He wiped his mouth and turned off the television set. He continued to eat his eggs; enjoying the burning sensation on his lips from the burnt little peppers.

When he finished, he sat the pan in the sink and went back into the living room. His bag was waiting for him in the
doorway that separated the two rooms.

The fading portrait of his Mother looked down at him. Her gaze was judgmental and stern, but he loved her just the same. That was the last portrait she had painted of her. Grandfather had thought that cameras were the tools of the Devil and hippies – and don’t get me started on those computers – so he insisted portraits be painted instead. He had commissioned the one in the living room not too long before he died. His Grandfather didn’t even live to see it finished.

Grandfather hadn’t been sick, as far as Jeremiah could remember. He just passed in his sleep one night. His house, and the life he had worked so hard for, passed onto Jeremiah’s mother. She had smiled when she found out the house would be in her name. The smile was not kind or warm and it stuck with him forever. But, they would be well off for the foreseeable future.

Unfortunately, for the painter, her happiness wasn’t until after her sitting. The last portrait of her was locked in that unforgiving snarl. Her eyes were downcast, and from where the painting was placed on the wall, she could look down and judge her baby boy for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I left that dish dirty in the sink.”

Filth!

“Please don’t, Mother!”

Flinching, he threw up a hand to his face. He felt the painting reach out to get him, but he turned his back to her, hoping she wouldn’t catch him. Running to the kitchen, he went straight to the sink and turned the hot water on without bothering the cold faucet. A cloud of steam surrounded him. He dropped the bag and grabbed the mangled pad of steel wool wedged on the side of the faucet. It still had some soap caked on it so he dug into the pan.

The cast iron surface was clean without much effort but he continued to scrub, regardless. He moved from the pan to the handle, scrubbing and scouring. The steel wool was losing pieces of itself as it assaulted the old iron skillet. He rinsed the pan under the near boiling water and placed it in the drying rack.

The filth left on his hands was horrific. Little flecks of iron and steel mixed with egg and salsa, clung to the creases in his palm.

The steel wool made long deep circles on his pale skin. He dug in between his fingers, then ground the steel wool into his nailbeds. Red welts plumped up under his skin in the
boiling water. His hands trembled as the skin threatened to open and spill blood into the stainless-steel basin.

He dropped the steel wool in the sink. Careful to use the back of his hand, he turned off the water, unwilling to risk the chance of dirtying his fingers again. He walked back into the living room, holding the large duffle bag in his hands. Bowing his head under the portrait of his mother, he let the duffle bag fall to his feet. Taking a somber breath, he crossed himself.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…”

He prayed to the portrait; he prayed for her forgiveness.

The pain of her stare subsided when he finished. He picked up the duffle bag by the thick strap, shouldering it with a little extra effort. The solid lump shifted as he moved the strap. He pushed it back into a more manageable shape on his hip.

“She was too much.”

He walked out the door and locked it securely behind him. There were three deadbolts, with three different keys, he could never be too careful. The street was quiet except for the tiny crunch of his boots grinding on the road, encumbered by his heavy load. Normally, he would take his truck and his shoulder, weighted down with his duffle bag, would have agreed. Not tonight though, tonight he was throwing caution to the wind. The church wasn’t that far away from his house. Besides, he needed the exercise.

The setting sun warmed his back as he walked down Third Street. When he got to the intersection of Third and South West Dallas Street, he found his destination. The First Presbyterian Church stood solemn, full of history and hell, looming against the heavy purple sky.

The building was only one-story, a humble church for a busy town. There weren’t many Presbyterians in Hayfield, but the church was still full on Sundays. The parking lot only held a few dozen cars in the morning, so many of the patrons had to park on the grass or on the other side of the road. He couldn’t imagine the people living in the houses appreciated that.

There was only one car in the parking lot tonight. It must belong to the pastor, working late. The light from the pastor’s study on the far side of the church glowed with fake warmth, near the back of the building.

Jeremiah turned around, observing the other side of the street, checking if any of the small brick houses were producing snooping neighbors There was still a little bit of light outside. There were still some orange lights glowing in some homes but all the blinds and curtains were pulled shut. It was risky doing this in the early evening when he could have waited, hidden by the night. But right now, the street was unaware of his existence. He turned back to his goal.

In Jeremiah’s opinion, The New Presbyterian Church was quite lovely. It had one small Catherine window facing the street that was about three feet tall. The basic rose shape that the panes created was pretty in its simplicity. They were not filled with colored glass or any gold leafing like the Catholic Church in town. They were plain frosted glass, appearing diamond encrusted to any passersby on the street during the day. Jeremiah understood why Megan, his date earlier, was a member here.

He set down the black duffel bag. Opening the side zipper, he pulled out one of his thick latex gloves, he had heard that the thinner gloves still could leave finger prints. Although he wasn’t sure if that was true, he didn’t want to risk it. Taking a step back, he fully unzipped the bag and tried to decide on how he wanted to arrange her.

He pulled Megan’s head out of the bag and placed it upright under the window. Her face was pale from hanging in the Letting Room for so long. But her lips were still red and her eyes were just as green as they had been when he first saw her. He loved her eyes.

“I should have kept them.”

But it was too late for that.

When they first met, she had mentioned she was Presbyterian so he wanted to be as respectful as possible. He brought her here without knowing if this was the right church or if she even went to church, for that matter. It was the thought that counted, anyway.

“Ha. Just like Christmas,” he mumbled.

Adjusting her lovingly and carefully, he could balance her head without it falling over. He brushed a few strands of her shoulder-length brown hair away from her face. The red tips of her hair had curled up and gotten stuck in the crusted mess where her lips had been.

He pulled her arms and legs out of the bag. They were still a bit heavy, despite being drained. Megan had been a rather full figured girl. He had not been with a curvaceous woman before, but something stirred inside him. It had
driven him to ask her out. He was almost shocked when she agreed.

He arranged the rest of her appendages in the shape of a star, right below her head. He frowned.

“Darn it.”

He only had four sides and needed a fifth to make the one horizontal line to finish the shape. There was nothing he could do now; he would have to let it go. It would still have the desired effect.

He loved it. The cops, the silly media, everybody, would try to make some insightful leap as to what the star meant. There wasn’t any real meaning to it, though.

Well, maybe.

He had gotten the inspiration from Megan. She had a small star-shaped birthmark on her right breast. Since he had kept her breasts in a large coffee can in his fridge; he decided to leave her with a star of a different sort.

A slight giggle escaped him at his next idea. To thoroughly confuse everyone, he placed her body in the middle of the star, rotated upside down, away from the head. Again, no real reason other than to mess with Detective Banks’ head on the news. No doubt it would keep them wondering.

He wished to kiss her one last time, he loved this one. He loved them all, no matter how dirty Mother said they were. The urge to bend down was strong, but he fought it off. She may have condemned all of science to demonic teachings, but Jeremiah still understood the concept of DNA. There was enough explanation on the news about how it had caught people.

Shouldering the nearly weightless bag, he walked back towards home. This one was close by, which made him happy. He hated having to drive far out to remote locations. Especially places he was not too familiar with. Even though he lived in Hayfield his entire life, there were still parts he hadn’t fully explored. He had other things to do.

The bag swung lazily in rhythm with his body and he wondered if he would have time for dinner when he got home. Those eggs were getting lonely in his stomach. There was a new recipe he wanted to try with the ingredients in the coffee can in the fridge.