Autopsy Of A Mind 38 Dorothy Mitchell

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 a.n.a.lyze 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 Mitch.e.l.l," one of them said, snapping out of their daze.

I c.o.c.ked my head up, astonished by the name. Dorothy Mitch.e.l.l 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.

"Bedroom closet."

I arched my brow, wondering just how eccentric my favorite chef was.

We walked towards the bedroom, traversing past the trail of blood.

The room was in a mess. There were drops of blood on the floor and the sheets were a mess. It was evident that she had taken a nap after killing the man and then went on to cook him.

"From what we have gathered. There have to be over fifty stabs to the body for that amount of spatters to appear on the wall. We have taken some of the knives for testing and we are sure there was blood on it. The killer didn't try to hide the body, she just went on with her life as if nothing happened. We have reason to believe that she has lost her mind and will pose danger to others, as well."

That meant that it was an emergency.

"I don't think that is the case. She is not running, she is indeed going out, but not because she feels guilt or knows the implications of this murder." Sebastian's words made sense. I followed him into the walk-in closet and looked around.

And what do you know; the skin was immaculately peeled and left on a hanger, as if ready to be worn at any moment. It was kept in the middle of her other clothes, near the front where it was easily visible. The craftsmanship was brilliant. If not for the gruesomeness of the scene, one would have commended her for her excellence in her knife-work.

"Do you know where she could go?" They shook their head.

We looked around the room and found a picture of her with her husband on it. For someone who was living with their lover, it was odd to keep a picture of their ex-husband on their bedside table.

"The husband," Sebastian said, finally. I looked at him, confused.

"She left her husband for some other man. The positioning of the body showed that she was blocking his way in the hallway and stabbed him from his front. She wanted to stop him from leaving the house. Corroborating that with the claim of the neighbors that she was unsatisfied with the lover's partying tendencies, you could say that she snapped when he was leaving. She doesn't regret killing him and neither does she believe that she will be caught by the authorities."

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