Her Father’s Face on the Butcher’s Hands / Chapter 2: Sausages and Secrets
Her Father’s Face on the Butcher’s Hands

Her Father’s Face on the Butcher’s Hands

Author: Mandy Friedman

Chapter 2: Sausages and Secrets

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2

Natalie’s mother collapsed on the spot, squatting down and sobbing. Her father grabbed the nearest chair and lunged at Frank Watson. We rushed to restrain him, using all our strength to pull the couple out of the office.

The chaos spilled into the hallway—papers scattered, someone knocked over a coffee mug, the scent of burned coffee mixing with the sterile tang of the precinct. Mrs. Jensen's wails echoed off the walls, raw and animal.

“We haven’t found Nat’s body yet. With no body, it’s too early to conclude she’s been murdered. Don’t lose hope.”

Mr. Jensen tried several times to break free and storm into the interrogation room to beat Frank Watson. Mrs. Jensen clung to my uniform, weeping bitterly: “That monster confessed with his own mouth. Is there any chance my daughter is still alive? Any chance at all?”

My heart ached. Now that Frank Watson had confessed, Natalie’s chances were slim. I thought of my own daughter, the way she hugged her knees when she was scared. I shoved the image away.

But for now, we had to find the body, the murder weapon, and the motive. Only with a complete chain of evidence could we send Frank Watson to death row—his confession alone wasn’t enough for conviction.

I had a junior colleague comfort Natalie’s parents while I returned to the interrogation room to continue questioning Frank Watson.

“How did you kill Natalie?”

“Strangled her.”

“Where’s the body? How did you dispose of it?”

“I cut open her body, removed the internal organs, sliced the fascia, and stripped the meat from her bones piece by piece. I threw the flesh into the meat grinder, ground it into filling, and stuffed it into sausages. The bones I cooked in a pressure cooker until they were soft, mixed them with pork and beef bones—you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.”

My jaw clenched as he spoke, the details tumbling out in a cold monotone. I could smell the metallic tang of raw meat, hear the whine of an old grinder, picture hands moving with practiced detachment. Frank Watson described the dismemberment in vivid detail. It was as if I was standing right beside him, watching him use a horn-handled knife to butcher a young girl in her prime.

My colleague and I discussed it. He would take the forensics team to Frank Watson’s butcher shop to collect evidence while I continued questioning, hoping to uncover the motive.

“Why did you kill Natalie? Was it for money? For revenge?”

“...”

“Did you assault Natalie before she died?”

“...”

Frank Watson looked exhausted and was unwilling to answer further. I tried another angle: “Do you know Natalie’s parents?”

“Yes.”

I realized I wouldn’t get more from Frank Watson for now, so I temporarily detained him and went to find Natalie’s parents.

“Do you know Frank Watson? Have you ever had any conflict with him?”

Mr. and Mrs. Jensen shook their heads. “We’ve never met him.”

I was stunned.

“What about Natalie? Could she have known Frank Watson?”

“Impossible. We never let Nat do chores. She can’t even tell pork from beef—of course she doesn’t know Frank Watson.”

The Jensens’ answers rang hollow, like someone reciting lines from a script they’d practiced too many times. My gut twisted. I wrote it all down anyway, but a nagging sense of wrongness followed me out the door.

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