by Roger Hayden
From the center of the room, Dr. Galligan looked up from a white countertop where several shiny surgical tools were laid out in a row. He was wearing a dark blue medical gown that went down to his feet, a hair cover, and a transparent face shield mounted on his head. Behind him was a steel examiner’s table, where a covered body lay under the light of a retractable lamp.
“Perfect timing,” Dr. Galligan said. “I was just finishing up.”
“Great,” Dobson said, approaching him. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
He could still smell the body as decay began to settle in. There was nothing worse than the smell of death. And there was nothing else like it.
“The fun never stops here,” Galligan said, picking up a clipboard with his gloved hands. He then paused, noticing Sterling in the background. “Who’s this?”
Dobson turned and then looked back to Dr. Galligan. “Probationary Detective Angela Sterling. She just joined Homicide.”
“Ah,” Galligan said, looking back at the notes on his clipboard. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Are you married?” Galligan asked as he set his clipboard onto the white countertop.
Dobson looked at him, surprised by the doctor’s forthrightness, though Galligan wasn’t a person who held back.
Sterling hesitated but offered an answer anyway. “No, I’m not.”
“Boyfriend?” Galligan asked almost immediately.
“Dr. Galligan, please,” Dobson said. “Let’s keep personal business personal.”
Galligan stopped and faced both detectives. “I don’t mean to pry. Just curious.”
“I’m single,” Sterling said, stepping forward and seemingly unbothered by the line of questioning.
Galligan nodded and moved to the head of the examiner’s table, where he stood directly over the body. “I ask for a reason. Seen a lot of rookie detectives come and go in my time. The single ones last longer.” He paused and leaned forward with his hands on opposite sides of the table. “Of course, there are exceptions, like Detective Dobson here. How long have you been married now?”
Dobson could feel Sterling’s look. “A long time.”
Galligan laughed. “I hear you. Linda and I are celebrating our thirtieth wedding anniversary next week.”
“Great,” Dobson said, eager to move on.
Sterling, however, offered her own praise. “That’s wonderful.”
“Thank you,” Galligan said, smiling at her. “I owe it all to clean living.” He then grabbed the white sheet below and pulled it away, exposing Betsy Wade’s headless body, slightly bloated, with her skin already turning blue. “There she is.”
Dobson expected to hear a gasp or scream from Sterling, but she let him down. She didn’t make a sound. He stepped closer to the foot of the table with Sterling at his side. Her eyes remained focused, fearless even.
“Were you able to do a thorough examination yet?” Dobson asked.
“Wasn’t hard,” Galligan said. “She’s got no head.”
For Dobson, the sight was no less shocking the second time. The stump of her neck had been cleaned of blood. Her lifeless body looked especially stiff, like a mannequin or movie prop. It was strange to Dobson how a corpse presented no traces of its former life. They always looked hollow and empty. Without life, he believed, the body looked like nothing more than an empty vessel.
Sterling continued her careful examination of the body, undeterred by its grisly sight. Dobson found himself impressed. At least he now knew that she had a strong stomach.
“I’m in the process of filing the death certificate,” Galligan said. “Should have it signed off within the hour.”
“Sounds good,” Dobson said. “Thank you.”
Gilligan scratched his head and reexamined his clipboard. “Has a significant other or next of kin been notified yet? Someone to identify the body?”
“We’re working on it,” Dobson said. “She was a divorcee who lived alone. I think she preferred the solitude.”
Galligan raised his face mask, removing his glasses and wiping the lens with a nearby cloth. “Poor woman. It’s just terrible.”
“I was hoping to establish a time of death,” Dobson said.
Sterling cut in. “I think I see some bruising around her wrists.”
Dobson turned and looked at Ms. Wade’s limp arms, lying at her sides. Sure enough, he could see a discolored circle at her wrists.
“Ankles too,” Galligan said, placing his glasses back on and scratching around his gray goatee. He then approached the table and pointed across to her feet.
Dobson looked down and could see similar bruising rings around both ankles. “It made sense that he’d tie her up. From what I gathered so far at the scene, she tried to escape in her vehicle, but was dragged back into the house. Her telephone was all busted on the floor. And I found an empty bottle of bleach in the trash can.”
“She was alive when he did it,” Galligan said, invoking a sick feeling in Dobson’s gut. “Initially, anyway. We found blood in her lungs. Looks like he slit her throat first, then finished the job after she was dead.”
“Excuse me, Doctor,” Sterling began. “How hard is it to… cut off a person’s head?”
Galligan thought to himself. “With a sharp enough tool, not difficult at all. The main point of resistance is the spine. You get through that bone, it’s all muscle from there.”
“So, we’re looking for anything from a hacksaw to a hunting knife,” Dobson added.
“Strange that the head is missing,” Galligan began. “Had this been some kind of revenge or crime of passion, I’d expect them to leave her head in her lap or at her feet. You know, to send a message.”
“No luck yet,” Dobson answered with a sigh. “Maybe he’s keeping it as a trophy. Sick bastard. Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Galligan then cleared his throat and thoughtfully observed the body below him. “Judging by the most recent discoloration, this murder occurred roughly eight hours ago, which would put her time of death at approximately 2:35 a.m.”
Dobson was quick to jot down the doctor’s estimate in his notepad.
“I want to know how much time our killer has had to move,” Dobson said.
Sterling thought to herself and then spoke. “He’s had anywhere from eight to nine hours.”
Galligan pulled the white sheet over Ms. Wade and then began to take his gloves off. “You’re going to have to cast a wide net.” He then signaled to a digital camera on the counter. “I’ve taken pictures, front and back. I’ve examined her fingernails and searched for any traces of DNA on her. I don’t have all the answers right now, but I do know the following…”
He paused and held his hand out, counting on his fingers. “No evidence of sexual assault. There are no scratches or bruises on her beyond the abrasions on her wrists and ankles. There are no injuries from the neck down, which leads me to believe that the victim was killed by a fatal wound to her neck and subsequent decapitation.”
“That about sums it up,” Dobson said, clasping his hands together. “But I’d keep looking for DNA. Hair follicles. Saliva. Anything.”
Dr. Galligan nodded and returned to the counter where his surgical tools lay. As they left the room, Sterling turned around and took one last glance at Ms. Wade’s covered corpse. Dobson walked out as she followed. They continued down the hall toward the lobby in silence. Dobson’s thoughts about the doctor’s findings, the blood discovered in her lungs, the injuries to her back, and also the letter in his pocket all led to something. He just wasn’t sure yet.
“What do you think?” Sterling asked him out of nowhere.
“I think we need to contact her family ASAP,” he responded, waving to the ladies at the front desk as they walked past.
“What about her ex-husband?” she asked.
“Him too,” Dobson said, pushing open the door. Sunlight beamed into their faces as they squinted and continued down the walkway. Dobson search
ed for his sunglasses in his coat pocket and pulled them out, putting them on. They reached his Crown Victoria and got in. Next destination: Betsy Wade’s house.
He started the engine and drove out of the parking lot, leaving the lonely, bland building of the medical examiner’s office in the distance. The sun peeked just over the building on the horizon as Dobson drove away, keen on getting to the bottom of a case that currently offered more questions than answers.
Class of 1991
A local news van was parked onto the street outside Betsy Wade’s house, beyond the police tape, where several onlookers had grown in numbers as well. Dobson parked behind a police car away from the gatherers and sat in the car for a moment as the engine idled. Sterling observed the house, sitting on their left, quietly and intently. She didn’t appear nervous, but Dobson could sense some hesitation in her. It was close to noon, and a busy crime scene looked well underway.
Six uniformed police officers stood in the driveway near a Forensics van with caged windows. The Forensics team was already inside investigating. There was no telling what they would find, but Dobson was confident that it wouldn’t take them long to discover something: a hair, a fingerprint, a trace of something left behind.
The questions surrounding the murder were boundless. Had it been the act of a lone killer, or were other people involved? Why did someone place an anonymous phone call to the police station in the morning? What was the connection with the letter? Why had the victim been decapitated? Questions led to more questions and so on. It wasn’t going to be an easy case. Dobson was willing to bet on it.
As they sat in the car, a news report came over the radio, jumping right into their lead story.
“A woman was found dead in her home this morning in what officials have described as a ‘grisly homicide’ that occurred last night on a quiet suburban street in north Leesburg. Police have released few details about the nature of the crime, but said they are actively pursuing a suspect and urge anyone with details to call their crime tips hotline.”
Dobson turned the ignition switch off and pulled the keys out. “Glad they kept details to a minimum.” He then turned to Sterling, prepared to offer her some advice. “As detectives, we don’t speak to the media. Not directly. It’s a simple ‘no comment,’ and move on.”
Sterling nodded her head and then offered a surprising rebuttal. “What if what they’re reporting is wrong? What if we need to correct the record?”
Hand on the door, Dobson stopped and turned his head back toward her. “You go through your chain of command. Nothing worse than conflicting statements. You were a cop, right?”
Sterling nodded.
“Then this is nothing new,” he said, glancing at the news van ahead of them with its tall antenna raised high past the trees. He then opened his door and stepped outside, feeling the weight of the case already pressing down on him. He felt like he should never have left the scene. And just what was he supposed to do with the rookie? Of all the days…
“Just stay by my side and learn what you can,” he said as Sterling exited the car and closed her door.
“Sure,” she said in an agreeable tone. She certainly wasn’t hard to get along with. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of touchy pretension in her. If that was the case, Dobson figured they’d survive the day together. “That’s what I’m here for,” she continued. “Last thing I want to do is get in your way.”
Dobson quietly laughed as they approached the driveway together. “You’re fine,” he said with a pause. “So far, anyway.”
“All one team,” she said. “Like the captain said.”
“Like the captain said,” he repeated with a nod.
Their approach gained the attention of a reporter and cameraman who had just stepped outside the news van. Dobson hurried past them and dipped under the police tape. Farther up the driveway, they approached a gathering of police officers, Staff Sergeant Peterson among them.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.
“Morning, Detective,” Sergeant Peterson said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Sorry about that,” Dobson said.
He glanced past Peterson and saw his old friend, Detective Gabrielle Jones, outside the front door, talking on her cell phone and wearing blue latex gloves.
He then spoke to Sergeant Peterson, signaling to some onlookers gathered in the street on the other side of the police tape. “We need this perimeter secured. Get these people back.”
“We keep telling them to stay back,” Sergeant Peterson said, adjusting his Oakleys and changing the subject. “Who are we looking for here?”
“I don’t know,” Dobson said. “A killer. Could be anyone. Could be watching us right now.” He then noticed the officers’ attention shift to Sterling, who was standing at his side, slightly behind him. “Gentlemen, this is Detective Sterling,” he said in a detached tone. She waved and said hi to the men, receiving a range of goofy smiles in return.
“Let’s go,” Dobson said, moving ahead.
“Good luck in there,” Sergeant Peterson said as they walked past him.
As they neared the front door, Detective Jones turned her attention away from the cell phone at her ear and paid particular notice. She patted her hair, which was tied back in braids, and smoothed her uniform: the standard slacks, button-down shirt, and windbreaker most female detectives wore.
“Well, it’s about time you showed up,” she said with a commanding voice.
Dobson stopped at the door and glanced inside, where another detective was scanning the carpet with a blue fluorescent handheld light. “Yes, yes,” he said to Detective Jones. “I’m sorry I’m late. Captain Nelson summoned me. Out of my hands.”
“So, what the heck happened here?” she asked, then suddenly turned her attention to Sterling. “Who’s your friend?”
Dobson glanced to his side as though he had nearly forgotten about her. “Oh, this is Angela Sterling,” he said, extending his arm toward her. “Probationary detective who recently joined Homicide.”
Jones’s face dropped with surprise. “Really?”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sterling said, offering her hand.
Jones gave her an enthusiastic shake. “That’s wonderful. Welcome aboard.” She then turned her attention to Dobson, her tone more intense now, all business.
“Homicide contacted Barbara Wade, the victim’s mother, earlier. Her father has been dead for years, and her mother said she hadn’t heard from Betsy in months. That was, until last night.”
Dobson froze. Of course. It all made sense. Feeling threatened, Betsy Wade called the only two people she could at the time, the police and her mother.
“She lives north of the highway, a few hours away. Apparently, she has been concerned about her daughter’s mental state for some time, but Betsy refused help, even cutting off all contact with friends and family.”
“And her ex-husband?” Dobson asked.
“He’s been notified,” Jones continued. “His name is Alan Snyder. He lives in D.C. and says that he was sleeping at home with his wife and kids.”
“Interesting,” Dobson said.
The list of suspects in Dobson’s head was long and diverse. It could have been anyone in the neighborhood. Someone with a vendetta. It could have been someone who had tracked her down and targeted her for whatever reason, just like her supposed high school friend. In a homicide, motive was everything.
“Did she have any contact with the husband recently?” Dobson asked. Perhaps she became too much of a burden. The possibilities were endless.
“That’s where it gets strange,” Jones said. “He claims not to have talked to Betsy in years.”
“Was she collecting alimony?” Dobson asked.
“Nope,” Jones said. “Never asked for any. According to the husband.”
“Let’s follow up on that,” Dobson said. He then leaned in closer, speaking confidentially. “Do you mind getting some witness statements?”
“Not a
t all,” she said. “Was about to do that myself.”
“Someone had to have seen something,” he continued. “Apparently, she had a lot of enemies on this street. We need to know who exactly she made complaints about and when.”
Detective Jones pointed at houses to the side and across the street. “Take your pick. She filed complaints against each residence for harassment, noise violation, and whatever else you can think of.” She then leaned closer and spoke more quietly. “But you don’t think one of them murdered her in retaliation, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Dobson said, staring ahead in thought. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Sterling was still there, quiet and attentive as she had been so far. He talked softly to Jones.
“Sergeant Cruz and Corporal Powell were called here last night.”
Her eyes widened, and it was clear to Dobson that she hadn’t known.
“Ms. Wade claimed that someone was after her, based on a letter she received in the mail.” Dobson paused and patted his chest, where he had placed the letter in an inside pocket. “I have that letter now.”
“You do?” she asked, shocked. “What does it say?”
“See you soon. That’s it. Return address is the old vacant plastics factory.”
“You know what you’ve got to do, Mike. Give that letter to Forensics. Let them comb it for fingerprints or DNA.”
“I know. I will. Someone’s playing a game with us, Gabby, and I want to know who.” He paused, noticing the slight confusion in her expression. “Someone called the station this morning and reported her dead.”
Detective Jones nodded. “I heard that. Didn’t make much sense to me.”
“I know,” Dobson said. “They’re going to strike again, and soon.”
Jones turned past him and into the front lawn. “Let me talk to some of the residents around here, and I’ll let you know what I find.”
