The Florist

How To Save A Life

            Capri woke up to the sun and the security of Mel’s strapping arms. Her body was exhaustingly satisfied from their intimate encounter. Never in her wildest dreams, or in reality, had she been stroked so gently, and kissed so passionately. She remembered her prayer, requesting Nia’s opinion on whether or not she was making the right choice in pursuing Mel, and looked to the ceiling in gratitude. I guess I got my answer. Thanks, girl.

            She stretched her toes forward before attempting to sit up. As she reached her arms to the sky, Mel’s lips greeted the bare skin covering her ribs. She jumped and giggled at the tickling feeling.

            “You’re awake.”

            “Mm-hmm,” he moaned.

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

            “You can’t apologize for allowing me to wake up to a face as beautiful as yours.”

            She smiled, flattered by the compliment. “Well, I have no complaints about the view from this end either.”

            “Are you hungry?”

            She laughed. “We never did get to that food, did we?”

            They both threw on some clothes and strolled into the dining room. Mel heated some of the food in the oven while Capri set the table and poured drinks. She sat and waited until he brought everything out.

            “Breakfast … is served,” he stated lightly laying a plate in front of her.

            “Thank you. Mmm,” she cheered before digging in. Somewhere between fork fills, she glanced ahead at the surprised look on Mel’s face. She froze in mid bite. “What?”

            “I don’t remember you eating like this when I brought pizza.”

            “I was still getting used to my surroundings! I’m a little more comfortable now.”

            “Good to know,” he nodded with a smile. “Uh … Capri?”

            “Hmm?”

            “After last night, you’re not having any regrets, are you? I mean, are we … okay?”

            She sighed and laughed quietly. “You really are a good guy, aren’t you?”

            He seemed puzzled by the question. “Am I not supposed to be?”

            “Th – that’s not what I meant. I’m not used to, uh … your type. My previous cravings haven’t exactly been … healthy choices, I guess.”

            “Well, maybe you need a better menu.”

            “Do I hear the makings of a proposal, Detective Perrin?”

            Mel cleared his throat before obtaining her hand. Yet again, he stole her breath with a simple touch that sent a tidal wave of emotion over her body. “How do I put this? Uh … I’m, I guess, what you would call … old-fashioned.”

            “Don’t tell me you want to marry me after one night?”

            “No, not quite yet, but we do need to do something about this attraction we have going on here.”

            “Such as?”

            “Well, I’m not really one for one-night stands. At the same token, I don’t like to jump into things too quickly …”

            “A little late for that, don’t you think?”

            “I think you had a little something to do with that, Miss Impulsive. But if I’m going to have you, I mean to have you.”

            A heated fever inflamed her skin. The passion of his words was just as alluring as they were intense. She leaned in over the table interested as to where the conversation was headed. “And, uh … how do you want me?”

            “I’ll be able to tell you that … after we get past some basic questions,” he introduced. “So, you want to tell me about these unhealthy choices you had?”

            “Soon as you tell me about the wife you had,” she replied saucily. “How long were you married?”

            “About two years. We were together, off and on, for eleven.”

            “It took you nine years to want to settle down?” she voiced in shock.

            “Wasn’t me.”

            “Oh, so your wife liked her freedom, huh?” she asked before he nodded in answer. “How’d you get her to marry you then?”

            “That wasn’t me either. Her father told her that marrying me was the best decision for her at the time.”

            Capri’s head snapped back. “You mean like a business proposition?”

            “I guess, if you want to look at it like that, yeah.”

            “Okay, wait, this is very interesting,” Capri said readjusting herself in the chair. “So, how’d you meet her? Were you high school sweethearts? Did you know each other from the sandbox age? Don’t tell me y’all met at the academy.”

            He chuckled. “No, it was more like our parents were good friends. They thought we’d match up well. I took the idea a little more seriously when my mom got sick. It made her happy to see us together. Dad too.”

            “Did you love her?”

            “Yeah,” he nodded sorrowfully. “Yeah, I did.”

            “How long have you been single?”

            “A little over a year.”

            “And you’ve been married to the job ever since, huh?”

            He smiled at the analogy. “And you, how long has that ex-boyfriend of yours had problems remembering he’s an ex?”

            She fell back in laughter. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

            “Maybe one day.”

            Capri sighed. “Only a couple of months. Nia used to say I had a tendency to mistake a troublemaker for a rebel with a cause. Vasu is just one of them.”

            “What, you have a catalog?”

            “No! It’s not that the list is long; it’s just … everyone on it is like him.”

            “Any luck figuring out why that is?”

            “Well,” she started hesitantly, “I have a theory.”

            “You seem to be full of those,” he smiled as she cut her eyes at him.

            “The thing is … I’m a candid person.”

            “I noticed,” he smirked. She teasingly stuck her tongue out.

            “My strong personality scares most guys off. The only ones that have the balls to approach me, let alone stay around me, are the jerks.”

            “But jerks don’t stay for long, do they?”

            “Oh, they stay; they’re just not loyal, and that’s a problem. As soon as I detect disloyalty, I toss them out like yesterday’s news,” she explained. “And then, well, there’s you. You’re not a jerk, not a troublemaker …”

            “I think I’ll leave the troublemaking to you,” he ribbed to her delight. “You’re a far cry from my ex as well.”

            “And yet, we’re fiercely attracted to each other. Why is that?”

            “For reasons unknown. I’m not too good at going with the flow. Nevertheless, I can’t help but want to see where this is going.”

            “Me too,” she agreed happily. “So, what now?”

            “Well, for starters … I have to get you some clothes, so you can stay out of my closet,” he laughed as she joined in. “I’m sure I have something in there that fits you better than one of my button-downs. All you had to do was ask.”

            “You fit me just fine,” she assured flirtatiously to his smirk. “Plus, I’d be a little concerned if you just so happened to have a supply of women’s clothes lying around. That’s a little weird for a single man.”

            “I do still have some of my wife’s old clothes.”

            Capri laughed to herself. “Me and my big mouth. Anything else you want to share?”

            “Me. Just me,” he answered while lifting her hand to his lips and gallantly kissing it. “I was kind of hoping you were taking applications for that vacancy you have.”

            “Mmm! If I was, would you apply?”

            “If I did, would I be hired?”

            “I could show you better than I could tell you.”

                                                                                            §

            Mel was graciously surprised to see that the red button-up dress he found fit Capri like a glove. She carried it better than he remembered it being worn before. He admired the view while holding the door to the forensics lab open for her. She clutched tightly to her handwritten chart. Franco was waiting on them with a cup of coffee in hand.

            “My, my, what a beautiful young woman you’ve become!” he smiled inviting a hug. Capri rushed to him. “Look at you! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

            “It’s good to see you too! How are you?”

            “Oh, darlin’, I’m just fine.”

            “How’s the wife and kids? Brigitte, Isla and Aveda, right?”

            “Very good!” he cheered. “They’re doing all right, doing all right. Now, how are you doing?”

            “I’m good.”

            “Uh-huh. How are you really doing, kid?”

            Her heart smiled at his concern. “I’m okay. Detective Perrin’s been taking good care of me.”

            “Oh, he better be. She giving you any trouble, son?”

            “More than you know,” he joked as they all laughed together. “I’m going to have a seat and let the two of you bounce ideas off of each other.”

            Franco nodded before grabbing another seat for himself. “So, what have you got for me, young lady?”

            Capri took her chart from under her arm and placed it on a table. She caught sight of a large dry erase board with the necessary accompaniments. After pulling it toward her, she used it to her advantage.

            “I made a diagram outlining the murders based on the victim’s flowers, the flower meanings and their poems. Since we’re all familiar with the files, I don’t need to rehash it, so I’ll just point out the patterns I’ve noticed thus far. First, the Florist follows some kind of Noah’s Ark theme.”

            “Alternating one of each s*x, starting with a female,” Franco filled in. “Yeah, I picked up on that about eight years ago, but it didn’t help narrow down the list of victims.”

            “Well, maybe this will. The tone of the poems indicates that these murders are personal.”

            “Full of rage and self-justification.”

            “Yes, exactly, but not only that. The Florist leaves these poems exclusively for the victim, and they never get to read them.”

            “Hang on one minute there. How do you know the victims never read the poems? We don’t have confirmation of that.”

            “You personally swept everything for prints, right?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “The only fingerprints noted on any of the evidence are the victims’ on the flowers. Never on the notes, victim or otherwise.”

            He nodded and smirked in awe. “You come prepared, but tell me this. Why would someone write a note to a dead person? Like you said, they’re not able to read it.”

            “In The Florist’s mind, these people … they already know what they’ve done. They know what they’re guilty of, but you guys don’t. He wants it to be known that they were criminals too.”

            “And the merciless tone of the poem suggests that …”

            “The Florist was a victim of their crimes,” she finished.

            “Hmm,” Franco hummed allowing the new information to sink in. “While we’re at it, do you have a theory on why The Florist never leaves a print at the scene? It’s like he’s the Invisible Man!”

            “You know what? I’m so glad you brought that up because this is something that’s always irritated me about the reports in the media. The Florist is not a superhero, super villain, or Mr. Clean, okay? Have y’all forgotten that all of the flowers he leaves are poisonous? If he didn’t wear gloves, he’d put himself at risk. That’s why there are no fingerprints.”

            “But poison wasn’t the cause of death for all the victims.”

            “It doesn’t matter if it was the cause of death or not; the point was for them to suffer from the poison. The Florist’s first move whenever he claims a victim is to paralyze and distract them with the effects of the poison. If they don’t die from that, he takes more extreme measures.”

            “By shooting them in the chest, seemingly aiming for the heart area,” Franco pieced together. “Same place he leaves the flowers and the poems. Any thoughts on that pattern?”

            “My guess is it’s a driving force behind the killings.”

            “And an added characteristic to the criminal profile.”

            “Yes! The exclusivity and vengeful tone of the poems, the quiet and torturous deaths, the attention given to the heart …”

            “The Florist isn’t randomly choosing these victims; he’s executing revenge on those who have victimized him which means he knew them personally! So, we just narrowed the suspect list from everyone in the city to however many people these particular victims had in common.”

            “Thank you,” Capri sang proudly.

            “Only question is … how can we get our hands on that information?” Mel finally chimed in.

            “I’ll talk to Grayson. See if we can get a search warrant.”

            “For cases that stem back ten years?”

            “Uh, boys?” Capri called stopping them. “You won’t need to do all that. Listen, the poems detail the Florist’s motives. Any line about betrayal, thievery, greed, selfishness, narcissism, deceit or corruption is what we need to focus on. How those lines pertain to the lives of the victims.”

            “All right,” Franco said before reaching for Capri’s chart. “Where do we start?”

            Capri picked up a marker and began to write on the white board. “Victim #1: Freddie Winters. Vengeful motive stated in poem: selfishness and ungratefulness. Victim #2: Flora Winters. Motive stated: blind choices.”

            “That’s not really a vengeful statement,” Franco challenged. “It sounds as if she was another innocent person who was exploited, like The Florist feels he was.”

            Capri tilted her head in consideration. “Fair point,” she allowed writing a separate category labeled Victims of the victims and placing her mother’s name underneath. “Next?”

            “Victim #3: Akira Ellen Wormer. Motive: Thieves redeem?”

            “We’ll just write thievery.”

            “Wasn’t Van Boerne next?” Mel joined.

            “Alton Van Boerne.”

            “Motive: Tricky lone ranger, a careless bandit, your blood is payback for the endangered,” Franco read. “Geez!’

            “You think that’s bad, wait to see the rest of them. So, we’ll just note that as … deceitfulness, exploitation, and selfishness.”

            “Damn the selfishness. If what you said is right and he’s someone who was exploiting people, then your mom might’ve been a victim of his too,” Mel highlighted. “Draw a link between the two of them.”

            She followed his directive. “All right. Who’s next?”

            “Frances Rue Cowl. Motive: Vain and foul, seeking pure of mind to prowl. Hmm. Another exploiter.”

            “And a narcissist. Number 6?”

            “George Flynn Wesson. Deception and false claim.”

            “That was easy,” Mel said.

            “Victim #7 is Sidney Jane Hornell. Ravenous of the infantile and lying.”

            Capri sighed. “Another link to mom. Victim #8?”

            “Neil Henry Barber. Thievery and greed,” Franco provided. “Ready for the next one?”

            “Go for it.”

            “Addison Arcadia Joubert. Lying with a smile.”

            Capri chuckled. “Shameful deception.”

            “10: Blake Luis Gutierrez. Selfishness.”

            “Okay.”

            “Next is Magdalene Ann Bastille. Her crime was selfishness as well. Oscar Ray Wallis after that. He was accused of being a show-off.”

            “Uh-huh. Next?”

            “Victim #13 is …,” Franco paused. “We got a double hitter here.”

            “I knew it was coming. Which couple?”

            “Prudence Liesl Mata and Samson Clyde Riley. Wait, what do you mean which couple?”

            “I’ll tell you in a second. What were the reasons stated?”

            “Uh, his was ignoring a desire to please, being nothing short of a disease, and causing heartbreak. Damn. Hers was …. being spoiled, selfish, no self-control, and a home wrecker?” Franco read with outrage. “What the hell is this?”

            “Okay. So, during The Florist’s career, he’s killed three different couples.”

            “Six people out of twenty is … almost a third of his victims,” Mel analyzed.

            “Now you’re thinking too hard. Forget the math; look at the symmetry. Who is the next couple?”

            “Uh, victims 17 and 18: Paige Alexis Susa and Rocco Clay Damson.”

            “Read their poems aloud, please.”

            Franco cleared his throat. “A dream is a wish your heart can make, but when someone causes it to break, you gag and quiver, crying a river, today, the forlorn retaliate. That one was his.”

            “And hers?”

            “As fair and alluring as a summer dew, the boring and asinine cannot see through, your brooding beauty, but it’s my duty, to rid the world of thoughtless creatures like you.”

            “Do you see what I mean? With my parents, their fault according to The Florist was being selfish, ungrateful, and blind. For Oscar and Prudence, it was neglect, selfishness again, and being a home wrecker. Paige and Rocco’s sound like something of the same.”

            “So, what does that mean?”

            “It means that these particular poems are so personal that, in discussing their intimate lives, the writer could have very well been close enough to know about them. Especially with the last two couples.”

            “Why are your parents an exception?” Mel wondered.

            “They’re not,” she shied. “It’s just … not as strong.”

            “How so? All the men were accused of being selfish to some extent.”

            “But only two of the women were accused of being home wreckers. My mother was not, only of being blind.”

            “You know,” Franco started ponderously, “I can’t help but notice your mother seems to be a common thread in this puzzle. According to your theories, it looks like she may have been the victim of a few victims …”

            “And The Florist feels like he’s a victim of all the victims. What’s your point?”

            “If two of these women were called home wreckers, that means they were involved in wrecking someone else’s home.”

            “Or that their whorish ways wrecked their own home. Either way it goes, we need to focus on the intimate circles of these four people.”

            “Six,” Franco corrected sternly. “Including your parents, there are six people we need to focus on.”

            “I really think that looking into my parents’ background is a dead end.”

            “And why is that?”

            Capri felt her heartbeat quicken under the pressure of Franco and Mel’s suspicious stares. Her chest rose with her breath as swiftly as it fell.

            “Capri?” Mel called softly. “Baby, are you all right?”