38 Dorothy Mitchell (1/2)
Alice had made me used to it, and now having Sebastian gave me a renewed sense of confidence in my experience. I could see it in a new light. I was useful because of that experience. I could analyze the situation better because I had lived through watching people being murdered and had survived on placating the moods of a serial killer. It was somehow traumatic and useful at the same time. My trauma had created a perfect machine, a body and mind molded and ready to supervise and solve cases and dissect minds. I couldn't ask for anything else.
Sebastian moved towards the counter, near when I was, and removed the cabinet to see the garbage bag.
”Is the killer a chef?” he asked, turning back in his crouched position. The two nodded, dumbfounded at the calm appearance of us. They must have had a gut-wrenching experience in here and were expecting us to run out, wanting to puke our guts out. But they were also a bit disappointed that it didn't happen.
”It shows, her method of disposal and presentation are that of a professional in the industry. Is she is a big name?” She should be. We were standing in the expensive part of town where all the celebrities lived.
”Dorothy Mitchell,” one of them said, snapping out of their daze.
I cocked my head up, astonished by the name. Dorothy Mitchell was a world-renowned chef with a number of Michelin stars under her belt and a series of cooking shows where she showcased her vegetarian food and showed off how it affected her life. From what I knew, her husband was a businessman who spent most of his time outside the home, and she was in love with him. At least that was what the media said.
”This is definitely not her husband,” Sebastian said, glancing inside the pot.
”Her husband is a man of about sixty and has white hair. Maybe someone else?” I asked, looking at the two others inside the room.
”Her sugar baby.”
I gave Sebastian a pointed look at that and he just shrugged. As it turned out, he had been right. The neighbors told them of how the chef frequented her younger boyfriend's apartment and flaunted her fame at their faces. And that she had been distressed about him going out to party all the time and wanted him home earlier.
She was herself a woman in her early fifties and the boy was about twenty-five, definitely not from her age group. Further, she had met him on the set of a show.
The eaten food showed that she was indeed not a vegetarian or due to a lapse in her psyche she had consumed the most heinous of meats on the planet.
I looked at what had convinced Sebastian of her status as a chef and cringed. The last time I had seen something like this, I had puked. This time, I took a step back. Having opened the cabinet, the smell of death and decay were prominent. The innards lay inside the bin, the telltale signs of splatter from previous trials at cooking a meal were still evident. What was concerning was how well she had deboned it. This must have been why Sebastian was sure that she was a chef.
”She must have de-skinned… him,” I pushed the word out, not knowing if it was offensive to hear. ”Where is it?” I asked the policemen, knowing that they had already seen the worst of it and therefore reacted so violently.