Nursery Rhymes

by Jodi Roberts 10 months ago in fiction

Not all nursery rhymes are good.

Nursery Rhymes

I don't know what my folks were thinking when they scribbled my name on my birth certificate. It doesn't exactly scream strong and intelligent woman over here, but it suits my job just fine. People hear Indigo Barbie and expect a petite blond bimbo, I am anything but and like seeing the element of surprise on their faces.

I am 5'9, thin, and with long brown hair I never have time to style. It usually ends up tossed in a hair clip or ponytail. Really, who has the time or the patience for curling irons and hairspray?

I am an agent with the FBI and specialize in catching the scumbag serial killers out there. This current case I am on has me a little stumped though, and I don't like that.

The call came in two months ago to be exact. I was enjoying the afternoon at my sister's house, sitting by her pool, drinking my margarita and watching my nephews splashing around in the water.

"Bakersfield football field," John, my boss, barked into the phone, "This one is bad, Indigo."

Fifteen minutes and I was there. Bakersfield is where my sister and I graduated, and she lived only a few blocks away.

I pulled in and got smirks from the guys. I was in my shorts and tank top. John motioned me over to the scene. It was in a white car where the bodies were found. I looked inside and saw the two little girls, they couldn't have been old enough to be in high school, let alone drive.

They were dressed up like little bo peeps, matching ribbons tied in their hair. They were placed on their backs with their feet propped up on the front seat headrests. The ruffled bottoms of their costumes were positioned on each headrest.

They were the third and fourth murders in just a week's time. This is why I was called in, the first two were also dressed in nursery rhyme costumes. Drugged, raped, and strangled to death.

I was never much into nursery rhymes until my nephews were born. My sister and I had bad times growing up. An alcoholic father and equally abusive mother. The bedtime stories were not part of our childhoods, our stories were more like Stephen King books.

Tapping my leg as I studied my case seemed to help the dots connect in my thoughts. Seven murders so far and I am determined it doesn't hit eight. All seven files are laid on the floor with me, all color coded so I can switch the papers around to find common points.

All have been within a hundred-mile radius, all the victims are girls, even if the character they are dressed as is a boy. The killer seems to take deep pride in the costumes and appearance of the girls when they are found. Never have the bodies been hidden, all have been left in plain sight.

Each scene has provided no witnesses and no fingerprints or hair have been found. Here is a clue, the radius is all close to the high school sis and I went to. No semen was detected on the rape tests, as a matter of fact, the rapes were too clean.

The school! I called and talked to the principal to see if any shows, musicals or plays were scheduled. Anything to do with the theater or arts. I hit it! A musical was scheduled the following week. I asked for a list of all people that have anything to do with the production. All students, teachers, and parents. Told him I would be there in a couple hours to get the list and thanked him for his help.

With his list in hand, I hit my computer and started entering data on all the names to see what would pop out. Looking for anyone with a record that could fit the crimes being committed.

Five names later, my search was narrowed down. Love computers! Got addresses to them and decided to go and do some visiting with each of them. First, was Doug Sanders the music teacher, seems he had a hidden record of drunk driving and wife abuse. Nope, not him. Then I went to see Mr. and Mrs. Green whose daughter was playing the lead in the musical. They have funded the entire show and have money to spare. No, turns out they are not the neat type. Their home was a pigsty, not either of them could commit these murders without leaving a trail like Linus in Charlie Brown.

Next, I went to visit with a Ms. Maple, I kid you not, that's her name. I feel it's a waste, but the data thought she was a possibility. She was the seamstress making all the costumes for the musical. Data my butt, she's a she, how could she rape these girls!

We sat in her living room drinking diet Cokes. I liked her, a little too neat for my taste, not a spec of dust anywhere. Seems she has never married, told me how her dad used to beat her as a child and she never wanted to be with a man like him or her mother who did nothing to stop it from happening.

My thoughts were reeling in my head and I asked to use the restroom. As luck would have it, the hall bath was getting a new toilet put in tomorrow, so she directed me to hers, adjacent to her bedroom. Glancing at her room the thought dollhouse came to mind. It was so perfect and neat.

I didn't need the use of the toilet, but quickly and quietly searched the drawers and what did I find, but an array of dildos. Geez, really, I flushed the toilet, ran the faucet, and returned to the living room.

Visited with the other two on my short list, but kept thinking of Ms. Maple. The rapes, no semen, dildos leave no semen. And it is quite obvious she has relationship issues. I returned home and did a little deeper digging on her and felt I was going to keep a closer eye on her.

Two nights later it paid off. I watched her as she loaded a costume and small suitcase into her car, followed her to the park, and watched as she met up with a young girl and bought the girl a drink. Nobody at the park seemed to be paying any attention to them. As the girl finished her drink she tried to stand, but would have fallen if not for Ms. Maple, who offered to drive her home.

That's enough. Had the cops take Ms. Maple and the medics who were on standby take the girl to have her tested and make sure she was okay.

A search of her house proved to pay off. As much of a neat freak she was, she even wrote in-depth details of every killing she made. Sign, sealed and delivered. Ms. Maple will kill no more.

fiction
Jodi Roberts
Jodi Roberts
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