by Kylie Dodson
“Truth is stranger than fiction.”
Blake nodded his head. “That’s very true in my line of work.”
Jennifer cracked a slight smile. He was probably right. Blake Rivers had spent years writing and recording on some of the stranger goings on in the city...and the world. From corrupt politicians to gang wars to restaurant money laundering, if the story was worth investigating, Blake Rivers was on it.
“This can’t be all there is,” Blake said. “I mean, at least some foot prints?”
“The ground is mostly gravel all the way up to the concrete,” Jennifer said. “We’re not going to find any.”
Blake made his way toward the brick building next to the drive-in property. “Hey, Case. You think someone could have chased after the woman, attacked her, then thrown her in the dumpster? And then run away before we got here? Or is it possible the woman climbed in the dumpster on her own?”
“Why?”
“To hide?”
Jennifer took a moment to ponder the theory. The case hadn't even been declared officially open. And whether or not it was an accident or a homicide, right now, nothing was off the table, doubtful as it may have been.
While she gave more attention to the thought than she should have, Blake hurried away.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“You don’t see that?” He pointed ahead at the building next to the old drive-in.
Jennifer looked at the building and noticed a small object laying at the corner. An object that Blake was all too eager to get a closer look at.
***
Jennifer stopped at the spray paint can laying on its side. She noticed the front of the nozzle was red from paint drizzle, as if whoever used it was not concerned about cleanliness. She looked up at Blake, irritated that she'd followed him to a used spray paint can.
“Um, Case?” Blake said with a hint of worry in his voice.
"This is too far from the crime scene to bother with, Rivers," she said, stepping close to him.
He remained silent, staring up at the wall.
"What are you--?" She followed his gaze toward the building's the wall.
“I didn't think much when I first saw it, but...What was it you said about no clues?” Blake asked.
Jennifer looked at the red graffiti on the wall. “Rivers, I'm starting to think you were definitely right about this being a murder.”
“I want to say thanks for noticing, but given the circumstances, something tells me it’s even worse than that.”
“It is.” She turned to face him. “This might be evidence for a serial killer .”
CHAPTER 5
The sound of electric guitar and rock drums thundered throughout the coroner's lab. The music was followed by a beautiful melodic voice. Jennifer took a moment to try and identify the language of the singer. It was operatic for sure.
In the middle of the cold and sterile room stood a colorful character.
A younger woman, with domino themed hair--black on the right side, bleached white on the left. She wore several pins on her lab coat. They represented mostly bands that Jennifer had never heard of.
Jennifer lowered the volume on the computer speakers. "Hey, Dubs."
Misty 'Dubs' Dubbins spun on her heels to face Jennifer and Blake. The freckle-faced coroner was grinning ear to ear at the sight of Blake Rivers. Her red eyebrows gave away her natural hair color. And her purple button-up shirt with yellow neckerchief and green belt suggested Dubs marched to the beat of her own drum. It was a drum Jennifer could respect, based on the way she, herself, conducted business. Besides that, Dubs was a forensics wunderkind. She knew more about anatomy and wounds than Jennifer felt she could learn in a lifetime. Dubs may have been a little awkward in the wardrobe department, but her expertise was too respectable to comment on her choice of clothing combinations.
"Oh...My...I can't believe this," Dubs said. The girl was practically jumping out of her maroon leather boots. The oversized metal zippers jangled. "Blake Rivers. The Blake Rivers."
Blake extended his hand. "I'd introduce myself, except, you already know who I am. What's your name? Case called you Dubs?"
Dubs continued to smile. Blake turned to Jennifer, wondering if the eclectic girl was alright.
"Misty," Jennifer said in her most authoritative voice.
Dubs blinked, snapping out of her fan-addled haze.
"Yes! That's me. Misty. But you can call me Dubs...Mr. Rivers. Everyone else does." She took his hand and shook it.
"Dubs. Well, you can call me Blake."
"Nice to meet you, Dubs, I'm Blake." She sounded like a silly teenager in a nineteen-fifties movie who just met her school crush.
Jennifer watched Blake Rivers smile then turn Dubs' hand to examine the heavy number of rings she wore. One of them had skulls etched into it while another was made of crosses. But the one that really stood out was the ring that featured a dragon curled around a raised crystal orb. Jennifer always entertained the idea that such a thing might be good as a self-defense weapon.
"Now that we're all introduced..." Jennifer said, pointing to the body on the slab.
"Oh, right. Yes." Dub's demeanor changed and she spun around.
"Please, step into my office of post-carnage."
Blake turned to Jennifer, concerned. She shook her head in a signal that everything was fine.
"Now, lady and gent, what we have here is a female. Height of 5 foot 4. Brunette. Approximately twenty-six years of age. One-hundred and twenty-two pounds. One tattoo on her ankle, a dove. Not exactly daring."
Dubs pushed up her coat sleeve to reveal a snake driving a hot-rod.
"Dubs," Jennifer said. The annoyance in her voice was growing.
Despite her respect for Misty 'Dubs' Dubbins, there was a time and a place for her off-track musings.
"Sorry. OK. Cause of death--"
"Broken neck," Blake blurted out.
"Stab wounds," Dubs corrected him. "One shallow enough to inflict pain. The other fatal. And from analyzing both, I would say surgical."
"What do you mean surgical?" Jennifer asked.
Dubs turned to her. "Whoever did this, knew their way around a body. They knew just where to stab and at what angle to inflict the most damage. See here?" She pointed at a wound in the woman's front-left side. "This was a stab right in her heart."
"And you think that was intentional?"
"Look closer," Dubs said. The coroner spread the sides of the wound apart, revealing a section just where the costal cartilage joined the sternum.
Blake's eyes went wide as he turned away.
Jennifer shook her head at his response. It was just further proof that he shouldn't have been tagging along with her.
"Do you see what I see?" Dubs asked.
Jennifer stared inside the wound. "There's no nicks on the bone."
"Bingo," Dubs said. "Anyone who would stab someone in the heart would go for the more violent strike. It would be sloppy and they'd hit the bone, causing nicks in it. But this wound is totally clean. The killer knew the best angle to use. And probably did it slowly."
"Poor girl."
Blake finally turned back around, the color returned to his face. "Then what about the scream? How far can a person get after being stabbed directly in the heart?"
"Well, depending on the person, a human being can live for around four minutes without a heart," Dubs said. "So a stab to the heart...Maybe a little longer. But not much."
"So whoever did this probably used the first wound to incapacitate," Jennifer said. "That way it would be easier to inflict the death blow."
"But the victim still had time to run," Blake added.
"For all we know she died in the dumpster and not before."
"So we could have saved--"
Jennifer's head whipped to Blake. "No. Don't go there."
"Even if you had found her in time," Dubs said, putting a comforting hand on Blake's shoulder. "No ambulance would have made it in time. And CPR woul
d have only made her bleed more and stopped her heart faster."
Blake's worry quickly gave way to understanding and he regathered his composure. "OK, so a...surgical strike--pardon the pun--and, Case, you're thinking serial killer."
Dubs grimaced. A serial killer was not good news.
"Where does that leave us?" Blake continued.
Jennifer let out a sigh. "I need a drink."
***
Jennifer Case pushed herself into the corner of a corner booth at The Shoeless Bulldog Tavern. Blake sat across from her, not bothering to mirror her posture. It was clear to her that he was slightly uncomfortable. Whatever nightspots nationally renowned investigative journalist Blake Rivers frequented, they weren't the neighborhood bar types.
Her eyes darted around, surveying her surroundings. It was one of those police training practices that was so burned into her mind that she couldn't help it. Even when entering a place that was clearly an after-hours police watering hole.
"So, this place is...relaxing," Blake said.
A waitress wearing tight fitting jeans and a low-cut top placed an amber filled glass on the table and slid it to Jennifer. Jennifer took the drink and looked at Blake. She could tell he was curious about the beverage, considering that she never placed an order.
"And you?" the waitress asked Blake rather brusquely.
"What kind of wine selection do you have?"
The waitress turned to Jennifer with eyebrows raised as if asking whether or not Blake was serious. Jennifer only nodded.
"Red and white," the waitress said.
Blake could tell that asking for elaboration on that selection wouldn't sit well. He glanced at Jennifer's drink and pointed at it. "I'll have what she's having."
"You sure about that?" Jennifer warned.
"I'm pretty sure I can handle hard liquor, Case."
"Alright. Mr. Investigation wants to play," Jennifer said before knocking back the glass, downing it in two gulps.
Blake stared at the empty glass on the table. "Of course, I'm a fan of drinking for taste, but..."
The waitress took the glass. "Coming right up." She made her way back to the bar.
Blake looked around at his surroundings. Jennifer thought he was making note of the few police officers in the place and the one drunk at the bar. It was definitely not the classiest of establishments. The place was just like a no-frills gym. The kind of place where you just went in to work out and sweat. At The Shoeless Bulldog Tavern, you came in, you got drunk, paid your tab and left. No one was asking for phone numbers and no one was giving them.
"Well, it is certainly functional," Blake said.
"You got a problem with this place, Rivers?" Jennifer asked.
"Me? No. Not at all. I happen to be a fan of dented metal signs and sticky wood floors."
She narrowed her eyes at him, thinking of a retort. More officers came in and sat at the bar. The sight of fellow cops made her change her mind. Blake Rivers was on her turf. No retort was necessary. And as far as his observations of The Shoeless Bulldog Tavern, he wasn't wrong. The floor was sticky from the door all the way to their booth. And the metal signage was pretty beat up. Even the old beer signs on mirrors had a tarnish. Jennifer never sat at the bar, but she was pretty sure it was almost as sticky as the wood floor. But maybe all the appalling visuals were what gave the place its charm.
"I do have to say," Blake went on. "A drink is the last thing I'd think anyone would want after seeing a--well, after opening a serial killer case."
"Oh, believe me, this will be the first of many drinks. And who says this is an open case?"
"Well, isn't it? Aren't all murder cases open until solved I mean, it's got all the right parts. A woman is murdered. Cryptic writing on a wall. What's it going to take, another victim?"
Jennifer's eyes flashed something almost animal. Blake wasn't completely sure what it meant but he could tell that something had the detective shaken up.
"Here's something for your article," Jennifer said, leaning in. The light hanging from the ceiling gave her an almost angelic aura. But Blake knew the detective in front of him was no angel. "No murder is easily solvable. Without witnesses or some kind of video evidence, they're nearly impossible. There are more cold cases than there are solved homicides. You're right about what we have. But that's all we have. No prints, no known motive. Even the little we know about the victim doesn't tell us anything. So as much as I hate to say this, yeah, Rivers, it might take another victim before this thing is declared officially open."
"So she just gets filed away as low priority?" Blake took a defensive tone.
Jennifer started to respond but the clink of glass and the appearance of the waitress interrupted her. The waitress slid Jennifer her next drink and Blake his first. Both glasses were equally full of the amber liquid. Blake frowned a little, uncertain what to expect from this beverage.
"That's seven, even," the waitress said.
Blake didn't bat an eye. "I'll start a tab."
"Seven, even." the waitress repeated.
Blake looked at her. "What, is this a no open tab kind of place?”
"No," the waitress told him. "We open tabs all the time. It's just that..." She pointed to a table with three officers all scowling at Blake. "They said you're a flight risk."
"A flight risk?"
"Maybe you should think twice next time you write something that makes cops look bad," Jennifer said before knocking back her drink.
Blake forced a smile and pulled out his wallet. He held a twenty-dollar bill between his fingers. "Fine. Hers is on me, too."
The waitress looked to Jennifer for approval. She nodded and the waitress snatched the twenty from him before grabbing Jennifer's glass and walking away.
"I hope you weren't expecting change," Jennifer said.
"And keep the change," Blake called out to the waitress.
He received no response.
Blake looked down at his full glass then his eyes snapped up to Jennifer who was clearly waiting for him to down or at least take a sip of his drink. He surprised her when he slid the full glass to her, sloshing a little of it on the table.
He leaned in under the light. "Let me tell you something, Case. Let me tell you who the real Blake Rivers is. I've been in some pretty nasty places. The kinds of places that exist in nightmares..."
Jennifer only half listened to Blake's tough guy routine. As far as she was concerned, he had played his hand when he couldn't even look at the dead woman's wounds in Dubs' lab. But she couldn't help but be amused by whatever show he was putting on. It was definitely a sad display. But it was also kind of cute. Maybe it was the fact that it was coming from him. Or maybe it was simply that he was brave enough to try it in a place with badges that would definitely have her back if she needed them to.
Not that she'd need them to.
"What do you think of that?" Blake finally finished.
"I think you should probably forget about this ride-along business. Because priority or no, this thing is going to get a lot harder before it gets easier. Besides, I get the impression you really think that twenty-percent is going to happen--that there's going to be some kind of harrowing adventure to all of this. Complete with villainous masterminds, bragging about their evil plans, and tense shootouts."
"I never said that."
"But I can tell you that it's probably going to mean more autopsies and a lot of paperwork. Not to mention staring at whiteboards and connecting pieces that probably won't fit."
"Whichever it is, I can handle it," Blake told her.
She stared at him for a few seconds, trying to read just how serious he was. "Are you sure you have time? Because if it does become an open case, it could take years to work. Serial killers are--"
"And that's another thing. I've seen some evil writings connected to evil acts. So, I get the murder connection. I'm the one who first made it."
Jennifer rolled her eyes.
"But," Blake continued. "How do we really
know it's a serial killer? I mean, I know what you said, but--"
"You read the poem, too, right?"
"Yes, but how do you really know it's connected to our vic?"
"Our vic?" Jennifer frowned then grabbed his glass and downed his drink before getting up and making her way for the door.
"Where are you..?"
She turned back toward Blake and called out to him. "You think you can do my job better than me?"
"I didn't say that--"
"You should have taken that drink. Let's go, Detective Rivers."
Blake shrank into himself. If he couldn't see the eyes of the police on him, he could feel them. It was definitely getting uncomfortable and he didn't want that discomfort to grow any larger.
"Just remember, you wouldn't even have your career if it weren't for me," Jennifer said.
Blake knew there was no room to argue against her. Despite his global articles, so many of his stories were about her, lately. And even if he could argue, this bar wasn't the place to do so. Getting up, he silently made his way after her.
***
The sun was low and its blood-orange hue colored the clouds in the distance. Even below the horizon, there was enough light to see each other. But Jennifer Case and Blake Rivers were not looking at each other. They were both staring at the words painted on the wall of the building next to the drive-in theater.
“’I find my love High above The open air Her strands of hair Whipped, quite tragic All dreams dash'd And all for nothing there’,” Jennifer read the poem out loud.
"How does that prove serial killer?" Blake asked.
"My love. That means passion is at play. It's symbolic of heightened emotion. Her strands. Obviously a woman. But more than any of that, I've seen this sort of thing before."
"You have?" Blake asked. "Where?"
"Back when--" Jennifer stopped her own words, suddenly afraid of divulging information. She was a teenager when her sister was kidnapped right in front of her. The only remnant were poems from the kidnapper.
