LoveR

Fourty-seven. Caucasian male. Dark brown and grey hair. Balding in the middle. Grey V-neck shirt, bleach spots scattered around the front. Completely wrinkled from the neck down. Worn out dark green cargo pants. Discoloration in some areas—He does his own laundry. Calloused fingers and dirty nails—works with his hands? Husky build with broad shoulders. Could this really be “him”? Does he really fit the serial murderer profile? I wonder to myself.

Twenty-three missing women—between 24-33 years old.

No found bodies. No murder weapons. No witnesses. No suspects.

Twenty-three floating dots that no one connected.

No one, but me.

My gut told me that there had to be a connection, a common thread between these women.

First, I thought: Location. But their last known locations are sporadic, no known pattern between the victims.

So, I thought: Occupation. But their occupations were almost all different.

So, my last thought: Relationship status? And that’s when I hit the “gold mine”.

LoveR—the app.

The matchmaking website that’s sweeping the nation.

Swipe right if their profile is “aesthetically pleasing” to you. Left—to deny some innocent soul the pleasure of knowing how superficial you really are.

Their last “digital” footprints were on LoveR. After that, the trail runs dry. A missing persons’ report normally filed within 72 hours later.

And, then I’m left trying to build a case off of nothing. A case—my Captain won’t take seriously without any hard evidence. Without it, I’m just the annoying rookie chasing my tail, trying to get recognition or notoriety of some form.

So, I did the unthinkable.

I took the term “throw yourself in your work”, literally.

I put myself on LoveR.

And before you ask, no, I do not believe in love or any of that “destiny” crap.

Me—the career-oriented woman, whose only love is great police work.

Me—African American female, 20. Dark hazel eyes. Slim, high-boned face with dark, tawny-colored skin. Long, graceful neck holding a dark black crown of dense hair. Thin, athletic build with long, slender stilts as legs—standing 5’9.

Glamorizing my profile by showing the same vitality and perkiness as the others did on theirs, the result was thirty-seven hits in 6 hours.

After eliminating the most unlikely candidates, I finally narrowed it down to ten men.

Ten, excruciating “first” dates.

And, sitting in front of me, is guy number ten. A burly, white man that I’m desperately wishing is the answer to my prayers—the alleged “LoveR Killer”.

Before meeting him, I thought he had to be the one. But now, it just doesn’t fit. The way he arrived…walking around the corner with a vacant look on his face, twenty minutes late. No smile, no greeting. He just clumsily walked over, pulled his chair out and sat down.

Motioning for the waiter, he timidly asked for a bottle of wine: “Cabernet Sauvignon. Humdrum. The chef’s bottle.”

Chef’s bottle? This guy knows the chef?

Placing the empty glass in front of me, the waiter poured the glass of merlot. I couldn’t help noticing how tense the man across from me became.

The waiter turns to fill the man’s glass and he quickly raises his hand, “None for me, “he says sternly.

“Cabernet Sauvignon. From Humdrum winery in Alexander Valley, California,” he said, in a rehearsed manner, “A deep, red Merlot with an indistinct, unusual flavor and smell.” When he finished, he sat back in his chair.

“You work for them? You trying to sell me wine right now?” I replied, confused at his choice of dialogue.

Sitting up in the chair, I picked up the wine glass. As I pulled it close to my face to smell, I noticed him lean forward, interested.

“No. I just know wine, “he answered, staring at the wineglass.

“It’s not bad, “I admitted, taking one more drink before placing it down.

Sitting back, he flashed a half-smile and folded his hands on the table.

As I sat across from this very weird man, I finally concluded that he is, in fact, not my guy.

“I’m gonna go, “I said softly, “You were late. And that’s normally a bad sign. I have work in the morning. So…I’m going to leave.”

He nodded.

As I reached beside me to gather my things, I suddenly felt lightheaded. Sitting back up, I grabbed the side of the table to balance myself.

“I’ll pay the bill. You can go, it won’t hurt my feelings, “he said in a low tone.

“Thanks. It was nice to meet you, I guess. Take care, “I replied, trying to stand.

When I finally reached my car, I stumbled into the drivers’ seat, tossing my purse on the floor. As I turn to pick up my keys, my fingers go numb, and my arms feel like weights. Suddenly, I feel my whole body began to slump forward.

* * * * *

Slowly opening my eyes, I realize how dark the room is around me. Adjusting to the darkness, I rub my eyes…and notice the metal bars on my right.

Where am I?! I yell to myself.

I grab at the bars—violently shaking and prying, and then yell: “Where am I?! Hello?!”

Attempting to stand, I realize how weak and unsteady my legs are.

Suddenly, a series of lights flick on.

I noticed a long hallway, filled with at least six other closed, barred spaces like the one I’m in. As I look to the right, I notice another winding hallway that wraps around and to the left, counting almost seven more barred rooms.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming from the left. Turning to look, a slender, tall man comes into view.

Late thirties, maybe. Dark, black hair and a chiseled face.

Immediately, I plunge at him from behind the bars and yell: “Who are you?? What am I doing here?”

He walks slowly up to the bars, a safe distance from my arms’ length.

As his lightly, tanned face comes into the light, I realize who he is.

The guy.

Everything about his face, his height, demeanor…all of it, matches my profile.

“The LoveR killer, “I said with confidence in my voice.

“LoveR killer?” he replies, his voice low and gruff, “that is a terrible name.”

Anger taking over, I lunge at him again.

He smiles, leans in and says: “Trent, works for me. Call me Trent.”

He steps back from me, slowly staring me up and down.

“I was right. You are perfect,” he says in a low undertone.

“I am an officer of the law! Do you understand who you have locked up?!” I yelled, struggling to reach my hands out beyond the bars to grab him.

He nods and turns away, grabbing a small wooden stool behind him. He walks toward me, places the stool down right in front of my cell, inches out of my grasp.

He knows how close he can get.

Close enough to be menacing and appear fearless, but far enough away to be out of reach from his prisoners.

As he slowly takes a seat on the stool, he leans forward, looking at me, studying my face and says, “I know who you are…the last piece of the puzzle.”

“What are you talking about?! You’re him, aren’t you? Where are they—the twenty-three women you captured, you sick freak?!” I yelled panickily, looking around at the empty cells.

“They’re still here,” he calmly responded, “well…in a sense.”

Still feeling weak, I grabbed one of the bars for balance and slid down to the cement floor. “What do you mean? Where are they?” I responded weakly.

“Parts…of them are here. With me,” he answered, turning his head to the side.

Parts? What does he mean?? I thought to myself.

“I don’t—"I said as my voice cracked, “...I don’t understand. H-h-how do you have…parts? What are you going to do with me?”

Leaning closer, he turned his head to the side: “I didn’t need all of them, “he said slowly, “I just needed…the parts I liked.”

He slowly sits up straight, staring up at the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he says softly: “I was married before—seven months—before she cheated on me…twice. I came home to a note, after one of my late-night shifts. I’m a plastic sur—was…was a plastic surgeon. Anyway…She had left me. After apologizing for cheating on me, she said it wasn’t me—it was her; that I was great, amazing—all these things, but that she had to leave. She was in love—but not with me,” he said, lowering his tone.

Dropping his head, he continued: “It ended with her telling me that the perfect woman was out there for me. It took a while, but I finally understood what she meant. The perfect woman was out there…I just had to find her.”

“So, what, you thought capturing innocent women was the answer?” I replied in frustration, “And then, what, you kept them here until you could figure out which one was perfect for you? Huh?”

Slowly lifting his head, he looked straight at me and spoke: “None of them was the perfect woman.”

He stood up and walked back down the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

Look for something to get out, I said to myself, staring around the dark cell. Frantically I felt around on the ground, my heart pounded loudly in my ears.

Hurry, move quicker, I yelled inside, crawling on my knees, searching for anything.

Footsteps, again.

He’s coming back.

I shuffled over to the bars and pressed my face against them, looking down the hallway. As he walked closer, he was carrying a metal tub. Placing it down gently, he sat back down on the stool.

“None of them was the perfect woman. So, I realized…” he said, his voice trailing off, as he reached into the tub, searching for something, “…I had to make…her.”

Suddenly, he pulled out a jar.

I leaned closer, pressing my face against the bars.

“Annabelle Trolley,” he said, smiling, “Beautiful… A red head, with tons of freckles. Not my thing. But…what she did have— “he paused, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flashlight.

Aiming the light at the jar, I let out a gasp!

“Oh my god!” I cried out.

“…What she had was the most beautiful eyes, “he said continuing, holding up a jar with two green-colored, human eyeballs floating inside!

Parts?! That’s what he meant by parts! I yelled to myself.

“Donna Haywick. Not that attractive,” he continued, placing the jar back into the tub, “she had really bad skin and a blonde—not for me. But…she had the most amazing hands.”

Hoisting a plastic container up, filled with ice, he pointed the light at it revealing a pair of Caucasian, female hands!

“I painted them myself. Blue—my favorite color,” he said proudly.

I scooted back fearfully.

He’s a monster, I screamed inside.

“You’re crazy! All those women…y-y-you mutilated them!” I yelled, dragging myself away from the bars. “Just to get what you wanted!” I started hyperventilating, my chest pounding and my hands shaking. “W-w-what do you want from me?! If you have t-the perfect woman—What do you need f-f-from me?” I stuttered.

He dropped the plastic container and turned to me, staring at me in shock. Like I should know already what my purpose is.

Leaning close to the bars and pressing his forehead against them, he stared into my eyes.

“I told you…” he said slowly, “you are the last piece. I knew it should be you, the moment I seen your profile. I have everything to make the perfect woman—lips, nose, hair, breasts—down to the smallest details like cheeks. I was just missing one thing. And now I have it…with you.”

I gasped—What could I possibly add that he would still want or need?

He grabbed the bars with both hands and looked right at me.

“…I have the body to put it all on,” he said.