by Martha Woods
I reach for the remote and flick through the channels. I’m looking for a horror movie, maybe a sci-fi at a push. No more icky love stuff. Sometimes I’m in the mood to leer at a Rom Com, but the inclination usually doesn’t last long. I know it’s all totally contrived. Real love doesn’t exist. And commitment just isn’t in our DNA. I’ve had enough personal experiences to know that – and worked enough cases that reinforced the idea. People would probably agree with me about my “cynical” outlook if they knew how many murders were perpetrated by lovers. Cheating spouses, insurance scams, arguments went horribly wrong…if that’s what love is all about, count me out. Something catches my eye, and I flick back a channel.
There. A good old-fashioned newscast. No fairytales here.
“We can confirm that the body of an unidentified female has been found just moments ago in the parking lot of The Watering Well.”
Great, I think. I count to five, and sure enough, as I hit five, my pager lights up. With a sigh, I lift Bella off my lap and set her on the floor, reaching for my cell phone. I call in and let the dispatcher know I’m on my way.
I grab my car keys and my purse and lock the door behind me. I get into my car and set my bag on the passenger seat. My cell phone, I place on the dashboard. My pager goes in the little alcove in the center console, where I can see the screen clearly without taking my hands off the wheel to pick it up. I have a system. Some people might call me obsessive, but I prefer organized. Obsessive, organized. Cynic, realist. Cara would say I’m just trying to justify my personality flaws. She’s a lawyer, but she likes to think she’s also my therapist. I don’t mind, though. If nothing else, she keeps my ego in check. I chuckle a little to myself at the thought. Cara would keep anyone’s ego in check. She’s gorgeous, successful, always at ease, and always kind. It’s hard not to compare myself to her and come up a bit short.
As I drive towards The Watering Well, I sigh. I can’t believe a reporter heard about this before I did. I’m the chief forensic officer for the LAPD, and I found out about a murder through a newscast! Heads would roll if people found out about this.
I push the thought away. It’s not as if Rick doesn’t already have enough on his plate without me making trouble for him.
I know before I’m even close to the scene that it will be Rick. Rick Gordon. And I know before I arrive exactly what I’ll find. Rick is the lead officer investigating a series of grisly murders in the city. They have happened over the course of the last month. All of the victims are women. All of them turn up in parking lots, alleys and other outdoors places. And all of them are mutilated.
The bodies look as though a wild animal has been on them, but there is never a trace of forensic evidence to back up such a theory. These murders are very much manmade. I find that fitting. The things human beings do to each other are far worse than anything a wild animal might do.
The public is becoming restless, spurred on by the unrelenting media coverage calling for action. A resolution. You know, in case the LAPD actually have solved the case but don’t want to reveal it until public pressure builds. Because of course, that’s how it works. Not.
It’s hard not to get irritated with the media during cases like this, but I know it’s not really they that frustrate me. I’m frustrated because my job, my purpose, is to find the evidence that will allow Rick to do his job, that will see justice done, that will give some measure of peace to the families of the victims. But the murderer is meticulous. He must be. I haven’t found as much as a hair, a skin particle, to trace back to the killer. I feel useless. And after seeing these women, bloodied and torn, I desperately want some closure for them. I don’t really believe in ghosts or spirits or even the soul, but I still feel compelled to help the victims, even in death. How can I do that if I can’t find a shred of evidence at the crime scenes?
I arrive at The Watering Well. I park curbside and get out of the car, quickly grabbing my kit from the trunk. I never leave it in the car – it looks too conspicuous and Rick worries it will make me a target. He’s overprotective. Usually, that would drive me nuts. I don’t need anyone looking out for me, and I’ve worked hard to make my coworkers see me as an investigator, not some potential damsel in distress. But he’s one of the most important people in my life, so I cut him some slack.
The parking lot is full, even though it’s after 1 am and the pub has been closed for an hour. Even at a quick glance, this couldn’t be mistaken for revelers spilling out of the pub. The parking lot is also crawling with LAPD. The yellow crime scene tape flaps in the light breeze. The flurry of activity that would have arisen when the officers first arrived on the scene has died down and most of the officers stand in small groups, awaiting further instruction.
Awaiting me. Once I have trawled the scene and collected the forensic evidence – not that there will be any, I think to myself – the officers will be able to have the coroner called to the scene and the body removed. Okay, maybe I am a bit cynical.
I cross the road and duck under the tape, making my way to the largest group. Rick spots me at the same time as I spot him. He breaks away from the group and heads towards me.
Rick is somewhere in his early fifties, although he looks younger. He’s tall and muscular. His buzz cut hair has the tiniest hint of gray at the temples, but other than that, it’s jet black. He cuts an imposing figure. Poised, mean. Until you look at his dark brown eyes. They sparkle with warmth. And when he smiles, his face changes. It becomes soft and kind.
“Amy,” he says. He isn’t smiling now.
I nod a greeting. Rick looks calm, yet I know that actually, he’s anything but. Inside, he’ll be concocting a hundred different ways his team can solve this crime. A hundred ways to find potential witnesses and gather evidence. His mind constantly whirring, looking for the break this case needs. But on the outside, he’s calm. And his appearance of calm works on two levels. It keeps his team calm. And it gives the impression of a man who has everything under control. I personally believe that this calm exterior during the press conferences is the only thing that has given the public even a tiny hope that he is well on the way to solving this case.
“Same MO?” I ask.
Rick nods grimly. “Yeah,” he confirms. “She’s one of his all right.”
I turn away from Rick, nothing else needing to be said, and head to the far end of the parking lot. The corner that is consciously untouched and deserted.
“Amy?” Rick calls after me.
I turn and look back at him.
“Find me something I can use.”
I hear the tiniest trace of desperation in his voice. I nod, although I’m almost certain I’m making a promise I can’t keep. There’s been nothing of any use at any of the crime scenes so far, and I’m far from hopeful this one will be any different. From what we’ve gathered so far, all we really know for sure is that there have been no signs of an animal being present. That doesn’t entirely rule it out, but it makes it extremely unlikely. An animal would make no attempt to cover its tracks, so to speak, and we would have found something.
Rick’s team believes that the murderer is a man who lures unsuspecting women into deserted areas with him. They think that this scenario often comes about as part of a first date. They’ve trawled all of the popular dating sites, and as many of the unpopular ones as they know about and have found nothing. None of the women have had profiles on the sites.
Their friends and family have been less than useless. It seems that these women have all been very secretive about their plans for the night they were killed.
It is odd, to say the least. And with several of the victims, the secrecy was jarring given their usual open natures. And Cara wonders why I don’t try dating sites.
I sigh. I feel a rush of sympathy for Rick. Honestly, I’m glad none of this is my problem. I only have to worry about the initial mess, not the fallout.
I have almost reached the body when I spot a man standing on the edge of the parking lot. I briefly wonder
why he isn’t standing in the crowd at the other end where the officers are questioning potential witnesses. Maybe he has something to hide?
I veer off my course slightly and head for the man. He looks as though he is about to flee, but something stops him, and he stands his ground as I reach him.
“Evening,” I say. I cringe inwardly at the greeting. Evening? I might as well have done a curtsey, actually gone for the full period drama effect.
The man nods to me, seemingly unfazed by my awkward greeting. Of course, it was going to be awkward. Look at him. He’s tall, and I can see the outline of his muscles through the long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing. He looks like someone who could keep me safe, someone who I would like to be held by. His messy dark hair falls across one eye, and it’s all I can do to not reach up and brush it aside. His blue eyes are piercing but neither warm nor cold. Intense is the way I would describe them.
The man smiles in amusement. He obviously caught me looking him up and down. I clear my throat.
“Amy McCartney,” I tell him. “I’m the forensic officer. Did you see anything out here tonight?”
The man shakes his head. “No. I saw a crowd and came to see what was going on. By the time I realized it was a murder, the cops were here, and I figured if I tried to leave, it might look suspicious.”
His voice is low and warm. And I know he’s lying. I don’t know how I know, but I do. But something also tells me I don’t have anything to fear from him.
I clear my throat again. “A likely story,” I say.
What? Where the hell did that come from? It’s like I want to sound like an awful cliché. And I have just informed a witness I don’t believe them. What am I doing?
The man, rather than being angry, just smiles. His eyes sparkle, and I see that they are in fact warm. I could easily get lost in those eyes. But I won’t, dammit.
“Joke,” I tell him. “Seriously, though, did you see anything on your way over here? Anyone who looked suspicious?”
He raises an eyebrow when I tell him it was a joke. Of course, he does. Who makes jokes when a fresh corpse is within ten feet of the conversation?
“It’s L.A,” he shrugs. “Everyone looks suspicious.”
I have to give him that one.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Why? Are you going to ask me on a date?”
He’s so calm. So confident. And I get the distinct impression he’s playing with me. Probably because in comparison to him, I am a hot mess. I am an easy target. I don’t trust myself to speak, so instead, I fix the man with my most cutting glare.
“Damon,” he says after a moment. “Damon.”
“Well, Damon,” I say, cringing again at my use of his full name. “Here’s my card. Please call me if you remember anything else.”
I hand him my card. He takes it, smiles and slips it into his pocket.
“And I thought the glare meant you didn’t want that date.”
With that, Damon turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone, my mouth hanging slightly open. A witty retort comes to me as he rounds the corner at the edge of the parking lot. Should I chase after him and tell him? Of course, not, I chastise myself. It’s a crime scene, not a bar crawl.
The thought reminds me why I’m there. I turn back to the body and make my way over. I push all thoughts of Damon from my mind as I do.
I wince at the sight of her and I feel my stomach clench slightly. Anyone who tells you that they don’t still feel something when they look at a mauled human being is one of two things. Lying or a psychopath.
I’ve seen hundreds of dead bodies in my line of work. A lot of them have been beyond brutal. And it’s true you get used to it to the point where you don’t throw up every time and you no longer go home after work and cry for hours, but you never fully get used to it. It doesn’t matter how many bodies you see; these people were still human. Someone’s mother, daughter, sister, friend. And that still stings. Every time.
“What did he do to you?” I whisper.
I send up a silent thanks to Rob, not for the first time. Rob was my first real boyfriend. We had a real afterschool special going. He was my high school crush, from freshman year onward. My awkward flirting habits probably stem from him. I was a total disaster around him – running into lockers, knocking over garbage cans, spilling my lunch tray all over him once – the whole nine yards. But at least it had gotten him to notice me, and eventually fall for me. We finally started dating during our senior year, and even went to prom together. Talk about a cliché. We were in love, or at least I was. We swore to stay together even though we weren’t going to the same colleges. And for a while, it worked. The long distance was hard, but he was worth it. We were worth it. Until I turned up for a surprise visit and caught him in bed with someone else. I felt my first heartbreak at that moment.
I remember how humiliated I was in that moment, how worthless I felt. I thought I would hate Rob forever, but I got over it. After things ended with him, I realized I liked going on dates, despite my tendency to ruin them with my clumsiness. Especially if I wasn’t totally smitten with a guy, I liked the opportunity to flirt and be flirted with, to learn more about my personality, to date for fun instead of to find some non-existent Prince Charming, to get out in the world instead of sitting in a dorm room feeling guilty for a night out because some long-distance boyfriend wasn’t with me. Rob’s cheating was certainly a slap in the face, and I won’t pretend it didn’t sting for a good long while, but I think I grew because of it.
Now, I find myself thanking him every time I see another woman crying over a man. He saved me from believing in the happily ever after. He saved me from dating a string of strangers looking for love. He saved me from being a victim.
I set my kit down on the ground beside me and bend down. I snap on a pair of latex gloves. Digging around, I pull out some evidence bags and a small pair of tweezers. It’s time to find that vital clue. The hair that isn’t the victim’s. The fingernail that snapped off in the frenzied killing. Anything.
As I straighten back up, movement catches my eye. There is an alleyway opposite where I stand and I see a woman heading into it. She is young. Twentyish, at a quick estimation. She wears a beautiful red dress, her blonde curls cascading down her back.
What is she going in there for? I squint, trying to see into the shadows. I gasp when I spot a man’s outline deeper in the alley.
I open my mouth to call out to her, to warn her, then snap it shut. What if he is the killer and I warn him off and allow him to escape?
I feel a cold shiver go through me. Goosebumps run down my arms and the hair stands up on the back of my neck. I glance over towards the dwindling number of officers but I can’t catch a single eye.
I debate running to them, telling them what I have seen, but it could be too late. With a deep breath, I run towards the alley.
As the buildings rise up on either side of me and the shadows begin to swallow me, I duck low and run at a crouch to the nearest dumpster. Squatting down behind it, I peer around the edge, hoping I am hidden. I feel a little silly, like some bumbling child playing at being an action hero. I’m not trained for this, and I know it isn’t safe. But adrenaline has taken hold of me, and all I can think about right now is helping this woman. Maybe I can do more for her than I can for the body lying broken behind me.
The woman has reached the man. His hand reaches out, and I tense, ready to spring from the shadows. His hand gently caresses her face, and I relax slightly. I can hear their low voices. They are too far away and talking too low for me to make out the words, but I can’t detect any menace in the man’s voice, nor any fear in the woman’s.
She gives a throaty laugh, and the man moves in closer. Their lips are connected, and I see the man’s hands run up and down her back, pulling her in tighter to him.
His head moves down to her neck, and the woman gives a low groan of pleasure.
I’m not saving her from a vicious killer, I am a peeping
tom, watching this couple who couldn’t hold their passion for each other in long enough to make it home. I feel another shudder run through my body. This time, it is revulsion rather than fear.
There is a dead woman, not twenty feet away. A dead woman who could only speak through me now, and here I am, like a pervert at a peep show. I start to retreat back towards the street when I hear the woman’s pitch change. Her low moans of pleasure have become more primal. I hear three things in that sound – pain, fear, and pleasure. I push the last thought away. Pleasure? Unlikely. I spin around and take a step towards the couple. The man is still kissing the woman’s neck. I see a trickle of blood. He isn’t kissing her neck; he is biting it – hard. I feel adrenaline flood through me.
“Stop,” I shout, covering the distance between the couple and myself in six long strides. “Let her go. Right now.”
I have my service revolver trained on the couple. The man pulls his head up from the woman’s neck. The blood cascades down, soaking into her dress. But I am focusing on the man, trying to memorize his face. Maybe he’s got a prior. Maybe I can sit down with a sketch artist later.
His face is handsome, though extremely pale, and his body is muscular and broad. I nickname him Mister Muscles without even thinking about it. He smiles widely at me. And then he vanishes.
Just like that, he is gone. The woman’s knees buckle, and she falls to the ground. I drop to my knees beside her, pushing the thoughts of the vanishing man to one side. I can’t have seen that. I can’t have.
“You’re ok now,” I tell the woman. “I’m with the LAPD. You’re going to be just fine.”
“What did you do?” the woman whispers, horrified.
Before I can formulate a response, I feel a hand on my shoulder. A strong force sweeps me to my feet and away from the woman, and a man’s gazing eyes stare straight into my soul.
“What did you see?” Mister Muscles demands. There is blood on his mouth and my stomach drops as if I’ve never seen any of the gruesome things I encounter daily in my line of work.
