by Rick Murcer
“Once in a while these cases can be suicide. Someone gets into their best outfit, then swallows some pills or ends it some other way. They even leave messages like this one.”
Ellen held up the bag with the “NOT HER” sign.
Detective Rogers scowled, but stayed silent.
“That didn’t happen here. Her neck was broken at the C3 and C4 vertebrae, and she has bruises on both sides of her jaw.”
“Time of death? Or do you need the ME tech to figure that one?” asked Sanchez.
“No. The film over her eyes develops to this stage after a few hours, even if her eyes had been closed. Given that and the level of rigor, and considering the outside temperature, I would say six to eight hours ago.”
“She was reported here less than an hour ago. So in light of that information, that obviously means she wasn’t killed here. I mean the perp wouldn’t dress her up, then murder her. That could get messy and the killer wanted her to look good, in my opinion,” said Brice.
“I agree with that. Also—”
Just then, Oscar rushed up and clutched Ellen’s arm, barely acknowledging the detectives.
“I found something you need to see,” he said, urgency in his voice.
“What?” asked Ellen.
“Just follow me, all of you. Now.”
CHAPTER 7
Due west of the body, near the tall elm tree just inside the perimeter marked by the yellow crime-scene tape, Oscar bent down to one knee and pointed to a small shred of plastic protruding from the ground.
Ellen dropped to his side and took out her magnifying glass.
“What the hell is that?” Brice Rogers asked.
“You mean besides an old, empty plastic bag, half-buried because of the spring melt?” said Sanchez. “Come on, Oscar. We don’t have time for this crap.”
Oscar shook his head. “How did you ever make it to detective, Sanchez? You gotta look closer.”
“Bite me. It sure wasn’t by digging up old bags and goofy shit like this. You scrawny punks are all alike with the smart-ass remarks that you can’t back up.”
“I can back it up. Just look closer, Detective, like I asked, and see if you see what we see. And, for good measure, maybe later, if you’re a good girl, I’ll teach you how to look scrawny.”
Sanchez crossed her arms. “What the hell does that mean, you little—”
“Enough, Sanchez. Look and don’t talk,” said Brice, staring at his new partner. “We’re working a case. If you can’t get that through your head, go home. I don’t have time for petty-ass vendettas or this street macho junk, clear?”
“Clear. Sorry.” Her eyes said otherwise.
Brice kneeled and pointed. “Have you seen anything like this before?”
Ellen moved closer. She was no more than three inches from the half-inch tip of clear plastic protruding from the dark soil. It was dirty, but definitely not old. She leaned back and took in the area around the bag. The ground had been disturbed, as if someone had dug a hole, buried something, and then covered it up.
“No, Detective. I don’t think so. Good catch, Oscar,” said Ellen. “We’ll need to be careful. I want all of the soil bagged . . . but we need to get started right away.”
“Get started on what?” asked Brice.
She hadn’t realized how close he was to her until she turned to answer him. The faint scent of his aftershave was something she hadn’t enjoyed from a man—any man—in a long time, and the way those eyes scanned her face made her feel, well, attractive. The man was just plain hot . . . and she had noticed, again. It’d been a while since that had happened, too.
“Ahh, digging. We need to get started digging,” she answered, gesturing toward the general area, sweeping her hand back and forth.
“See there? The ground is freshly disturbed. You can tell, even though the spring weather has caused more moisture to form as the underground frost melts. Someone has dug a hole and dropped something in it, leaving this corner of a new—not old—bag exposed, and then covered it.”
Brice nodded, running his hand over his chin. “That leads to a few questions. The main one: Was the corner of the bag left aboveground on purpose? And will digging this up endanger someone?”
“Yeah. What if it’s a freaking bomb or something like that? Maybe even some biohazard, dirty-bomb thing that could kill everyone in the city,” said Sanchez, her eyes intense.
Ellen tugged on her earring and then stood up, her anger swelling just beneath the surface.
Now I remember why I punched the wench.
Exhaling slowly, Ellen concentrated on the image of Clara Rice’s face. How her loved ones would react when they discovered she was dead. Perspective. That was another thing the department psychologist had repeated to her. Deal with what was important at the time. Don’t be emotional, but factual. It wasn’t easy, but it was actually working—sort of.
“Brice is right to have some concern, but I doubt we need to be worried. The hole is small, too small to contain anything as extensive as Sanchez suggested, anyway. It looks like whoever did this was in a hurry. The ground’s not perfectly smoothed over, and he or she displaced some old leaves and failed to put them back. If this is related to Clara’s murder, what’s in the bag could have been an afterthought, a detail that the killer had forgotten to take care of right after staging the body.”
Standing, Brice nodded. “Makes sense. But you’re also saying this might not be related to the case. If that were true, then why would someone do it?”
“Only one way to find out,” said Ellen, looking at her partner. “Ready, Oscar?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s have at it.”
“Will do, Ellie. We’ll take it real slow. I’d also like a cop or two nearby in the event we need help hauling the evidence bags to the truck, just in case we find a small bomb that could destroy an area two blocks wide.”
“What? I thought you said that wasn’t gonna happen,” yelled Sanchez.
Oscar blinked innocently at the detective; Ellen laughed at the sight of his mischievous grin.
Sanchez bit her lip. “Real funny, dipshit. I was going to volunteer to hold your girly hand and help out, but you can kiss my—”
“Relax, Bella. He was just having some fun. I’d like you to stay here and make sure everything is done right, okay? But first, I’m going to call in and report to the captain,” said Brice.
“Okay. Whatever. I’ll wait for you. But I reserve the right to shoot both of them if they mess with me anymore.”
“You’ll have to file a discharged-weapon report if you do. That would look like hell on your first day in this district,” said Brice, flashing a quick smile.
Great smile.
“Good point, Rogers. I can shoot them another day.”
“Suit yourself. At any rate, we need to get out of these people’s way, so I’m going to call in to get some next-of-kin information and a little more background on the victim. I’ll also get the blues going with door-to-door interviews. I’m sure Oscar and Ellie—ahh, FT Harper—want to see what’s buried under there as badly as I do.”
The sound of her name coming from his deep voice sounded nice. Very nice. She didn’t know exactly what was happening to her. Only that, maybe, she was taking a step or two toward recovering from the hurt she’d been dealt at the hands of Joel Harper. For the first time in over a year, she was . . . aware. Not just double-take aware of some hottie at the mall, but aware of the kind of thoughts regarding a man that you have when drinking hot cocoa before bed.
“You’re right,” answered Ellen. “We do. I’m calling for two more FT teams to help with the rest of the area so we can take advantage of the light. Three teams isn’t enough.”
Brice Rogers kept his gaze fixed on her a beat longer than necessary. His smile made another fleeting appearance.
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br /> “Okay, we’ll be back shortly. Sanchez, I need your help for a minute.” He headed toward his car.
Ellen watched him go, then turned to her partner.
“Let’s get started, Oscar. I need to get back to the body.”
She was just reaching for more gloves in the front pocket of her jeans when Sanchez grabbed her arm and stopped her. “Listen, bitch. You might think you’re better than me, but you ain’t. You’re gonna pay for embarrassing me. I have to behave for now, but you and I ain’t done, got it?” she hissed.
Jerking her arm away, Ellen leaned down toward the shorter detective. “You’re totally capable of embarrassing yourself on your own, and I couldn’t agree with you more—we’re not done. But right now, we’ve got a problem. Pull your head out of your ass and start thinking like a detective.”
“There you go again. What does that mean?”
“It means we’ve got evidence to collect; that’s what FTs do. But think for a minute. What if the killer did plant that bag on purpose and wants us to think otherwise? With that kind of attention to detail, that could mean the killer’s going to do this again. That means a possible serial killer in the making. Do you get that?”
Sanchez’s mouth dropped open. She recovered, started to speak, then gave Ellen a contemptuous look and hurried after Brice.
Ellen sighed, then kneeled down beside Oscar.
“Wow. She needs to get laid,” he said.
“Damn it, Oscar. We’re working here. Don’t put that image in my head.” She wrinkled her nose at him, grinning.
“Funny girl. But you’re right. I have to think before I speak. Now I’m going to have more nightmares than normal.”
“I know what you mean. We’ll worry about Sanchez later. Let’s get this done.”
Fifteen minutes later, they had six evidence bags filled with the dirt, evenly encircling the deepening hole. Each one contained small particles of unidentified material that would have to be analyzed, which was part of the protocol that she’d helped write last year. Cases had been solved with lesser leads. She prayed this one would be one of them.
Reaching the last thin layer of soil, Ellen was slowly uncovering the contents of the plastic bag just as Sanchez and Brice returned. They both peered down over her shoulder without speaking.
They’d been right. The bag was dirty, but definitely new.
With one handful to go, Ellen suddenly stopped. She took her magnifying glass from her pocket and moved closer.
After fifteen seconds, Brice broke the silence.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, yet. I’m just making sure, one last time, that there are no wires leading away from the bag. I think we’re good,” answered Ellen.
After she gently gathered the last handful of dirt, the object in the bag became clear. A tiny blue light blinked on, went dim, and then pulsed again.
Glancing at Oscar, then Brice, she slowly lifted the bag from the ground and looked closely at the cell phone inside.
A moment later, the phone’s background image appeared. It took Ellen’s breath away.
Even through the smeared dirt, she could see that it was a picture of Clara Rice sitting in a chair, dressed in nothing but underwear, screaming, her face a portrait of unimaginable terror.
“Shit,” said Sanchez.
“Holy Mother of God,” said Oscar.
“I don’t think God had anything to do with this one,” said Brice.
He was right. It had just become abundantly clear to her how evil this case was.
Ellen’s own words echoed in her head.
A serial killer in the making . . .
CHAPTER 8
Ellen stood near the entrance to the crime scene talking to Oscar, Brice, and Bella Sanchez. The four of them formed a semi-circle.
“Listen. I’ve got to get to the lab. This cell phone has information that can help us. It might even stop another murder,” said Ellen.
Brice raised his eyebrows. “You really think this could be the work of a serial killer?” he asked.
“It’s possible. This scene is staged and the phone burying was not a random act. This killer put on a show, and we need to know why.”
“Show?” said Brice. “For who?”
“That’s the question for you detectives to answer. We’ll get you the empirical information to help with that,” said Ellen.
“Yeah, but what do you think was going on here?” asked Sanchez.
“I don’t get paid for that part of this gig, but I’d say it was mostly just for him. He wanted us to find the phone. That means he’s showboating, right?”
“It does. This kind of scene suggests he’s killed before. It also means he could be taking his killing up a notch and there will be more murders, sooner rather than later. So that adds weight to your theory of a serial killer,” said Brice.
Ellen waved her hand, her impatience showing, but she didn’t care. She had work to do. “You two have your protocol and we have ours. We need to get it done. Oscar, I want you to finish tagging the bags of soil, take another round of pictures from the perimeter, and process the park bench. After the body is transported to the morgue, you can take the van and get all the evidence back to the lab.”
“And?” asked Oscar.
“And I’m taking the evidence from Clara’s body and the phone and getting started on them.”
“It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it?” asked Oscar.
Ellen caught herself before she fired back an angry retort. Instead, she reached over and pinched his cheek. “Aww, I’ll stop and get coffee and burgers. It’ll be like a sleepover,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
Oscar shook his head and then grinned. “You’re just not right. Make it tofu and beer and you have a deal.”
“Fair enough. Now get it in gear.”
Her friend saluted and then headed toward the crime scene, kit in hand.
“He seems like a good man,” said Brice.
“He is. Not many of them around these days,” said Ellen.
“That’s the damn truth,” said Sanchez.
“We can discuss the attributes of men later,” said Brice, his eyes focusing on Ellen.
She found herself wondering what that conversation would be like, then turned away before it became another of those stare-too-long episodes.
“You’ll need a ride. Sanchez?” said Brice, clearing his throat.
Was he feeling something, too? It seemed that he’d almost forgotten what he was going to say.
“Oh, hell no. That ain’t gonna happen. I’m a detective, not a cabby. Get one of these dumb-ass rookies to do it.”
“Okay, you’re right.”
“Listen, these people have work to do,” Ellen said. “Just get me some keys to a cruiser. They can pick the unit up later, okay?”
“If that’s what you want,” said Brice.
Walking over to three officers talking near the taped-off area, he said something to them, and the one in the middle pointed to a cruiser at the edge of the gravel path.
Brice shook his hand and returned.
“The keys are in unit 3444, right over there,” he said, pointing to his right.
“Good, and thank you. I’m out of here.”
Touching her arm, Brice spoke, his professional persona intact, almost. “FT Harper. Call me when you get anything. We’ll go to work on the profile and finish up the door-to-door, but we need what you can give us ASAP.”
“I will be in touch.”
With that, she walked to the cruiser.
Ellen fought the overwhelming urge to look back and see if Brice was watching, but she didn’t truly need to look. She knew he was.
It had been a while since she actually wanted that kind of attention. It felt good.
Leaving the crime scene early
felt a little strange, but Oscar had the rest of the processing handled. The phone couldn’t wait. She touched the cell in her jacket pocket. It would speak to her. The evidence always did.
As she sped along Lake Shore on the way to Roosevelt, she remembered her promise to Oscar and swung into the left lane. Thirty seconds later she pulled in front of one of Oscar’s favorite delis. Lights flashing, she exited the car and hurried inside. The deli’s tantalizing aroma of fresh bread and meat greeted her with a hearty welcome.
After ordering coffee and two subs, she went over to the freezer and pulled out a six-pack of hard cider. As she headed to the cashier, Ellen bumped squarely into a tall man.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
She froze.
Joel Harper stood in front of her, grinning.
CHAPTER 9
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Holly. I truly am. You were very special. One of a kind.”
He held her hand and spoke quietly to the woman sitting in the passenger seat of his new red Ford SUV. They had watched the sun set over an hour ago, but as the old song said, breaking up was hard to do. He looked at her again and marveled at how her red hair cascaded down over her shoulders. Her green eyes were wide open as she leaned against his arm.
She didn’t answer.
“I thought we had a once-in-a-lifetime relationship, didn’t you? We laughed. We danced. We made love. Not just sex. We made love. We did all of those little things that lovers do, and I know you felt it, too. Not many people get to experience what we had together. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Holly remained unresponsive. He felt his anger rise, then subside a second later. What’s done is done, and there was no point in living in the past. Or, for that matter, postponing the inevitable. If he’d learned anything over the last five months, it was that. Hope for hope’s sake was a useless exercise, even though it was difficult to accept.
Once their relationship had begun to feel hopeless, it was time to move on, for both of them. If only she’d seen their future the way he had. All she would have had to do was accept him for who he was and—more importantly—come to grips with who she was. He could have helped her. He could have shown her how to beat the demons that controlled her. Her sniveling. Her screaming. Her pure, unadulterated rage. It had been within his power to heal it all—if she’d only let him.
