CHAPTER SIX
The road flashed by as Ella covered the four miles to Natkin Way. Ripley was beside her. They’d borrowed a cruiser because Sergeant Fields had taken other officers with him in his car.
‘Just what I wanted, Dark,’ said Ripley. ‘Is one murder investigation not enough for you?’
‘We’re not investigating. We’re just taking a look. It’s not like we’ve got much else to do.’
Ripley laughed. ‘I can think of a million other things to do. We could have gone to the cinema.’
‘You still have that option, but you know you want to check this out just as much as I do.’
Ripley didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
Ella turned a corner and spotted Fields’ cruiser two blocks ahead.
Beyond it, yellow crime scene tape cut across the mouth of an alleyway, strung between a drainpipe on one side and a dumpster on the other.
Two uniformed officers stood at the cordon.
A third was further back, talking into his radio and trying to keep five or six onlookers from getting too close.
The place, save for the gawpers, was as deserted as it came, with the only sign of life being a factory they’d passed about a hundred yards back.
Ella pulled up behind Fields’ cruiser and killed the engine.
She jumped out with Ripley in tow and elbowed through the bodies.
Voices babbled and phones were held aloft, but Ella paid them no attention.
She hated how the prospect of witnessing a corpse summoned the masses.
Everyone wanted a glimpse of someone else’s misery to make their own lives seem brighter by comparison.
It never failed to turn her stomach, but she supposed she couldn’t blame them.
In a world so often devoid of meaning, people would cling to anything that made them feel something, even if that something was revulsion.
At the tape, Fields was waiting, but beyond him lay the centerpiece.
Ella stared at the body from twenty feet away.
First came the emotional uppercut, then the moment of tribute she always paid to those who’d died before their time.
The victim was a twenty-something brunette in a loose turqoise dress, and she was slumped against the wall like a discarded toy.
‘Here we are,’ Fields said. ‘I’ve already been here once today. Forensics have only just gone, and the coroner will be here within the hour.’
Ripley gestured to the body and asked, ‘What do you know so far?’
‘Her name’s Rose Michaels. She still had her purse and cell phone. We pulled her name from that. Forensics said that was no signs of sexual assault, and she was strangled judging by the bruise on her throat. No other wounds.’
‘Who found her?’
‘One of the workers from that factory over the way. They were walking home from their night shift at 10AM and found her. The guy said the body definitely wasn’t there on his way into work, so she was killed sometime after 10PM last night.
First responder thought it might be an overdose, but the medics noticed the damage to her throat.
That’s why it took us so long to get involved. ’
‘Can we take a closer look?’
‘Please do.’ Fields pulled out two pairs of disposable gloves and passed them over. ‘Let me know what you think.’
Ella and Ripley made their way over to the body.
The victim was sat there with her legs splayed and both hands either side of her.
Both palms were facing up, and one boasted the ballet dancer figurine that Fields had mentioned.
Ella bent down to inspect that first. It was painted white, and the figure wore a turquoise dress not too dissimilar to what the victim herself was wearing.
She gently touched it to see if it moved, but the thing was glued in place.
‘It’s made of wood,’ Ella said.
‘Hand-crafted, then,’ Replied Ripley. ‘The figurine’s foot is broken. It could have been pulled off something.’
‘Weird. Who dies with a figurine in their hand?’
‘She might have used it as a weapon, and then her killer glued it to her hand as an insult.’
‘Mia, we’ve seen some impulsive killers in the past, but I’ve never known one that carries glue.
This woman’s attacker was on a mission. He glued it to her hand because he wanted it to be found with her.
It’s not a souvenir because souvenirs go home with you.
’ Ella gently touched the bruise on the victim’s throat.
‘Strangulation marks. No doubt about what killed her.’
Ripley looked up and down the alleyway and said, ‘What was this woman even doing here, especially at night? The last house I saw was miles back.’
Ella didn’t know, and even though there was no obligation to help, the thought of going home without understanding this scene made her feel sick.
‘So it’s not a robbery gone wrong, or he’d have taken her purse and cell.’
Ripley turned away from the vic and put her hands on her hips. ‘And he must have killed her here. If he’d have done the dirty work somewhere else, he’d have taken the opportunity to ditch her belongings.’
‘And he might not risk driving a car here because that factory up the way had cameras outside.’
‘So that means this killer isn’t concerned with the cops uncovering her identity.’
‘He might want us to know who she is, which means this scene is a stage.’
‘Don’t go full Sherlock yet, Dark. Rose here could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A young good-looking woman like this? She’s a prime target for creeps who can’t control their urges.’
Ella conceded that Ripley had a point. As much as generalization had no place in investigations, young female victims usually suggested a specific component.
‘Right, but there’s nothing sexual about this murder.
Strangulation is intimate but not sexual.
If that was his goal there’d be knife wounds, penetration, clothing removed. ’
‘Speaking of clothing, what’s a woman doing in a dress like that around here?’
‘You’re thinking sex worker,’ Ella said.
‘Not really. What are the chances of meeting a potential john out here?’
‘Low. Unless she was meeting someone in particular.’
Ripley shrugged, then looked back at Fields who was idling near the entranceway. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear their deliberations. ‘I don’t know, but does something seem weird about this to you, Dark?’
Ella looked at the body at her feet, then at the ballet dancer figurine glued to her palm. ‘Yes, a lot of this seems weird to me.’
‘No, I mean – why would Fields ask us to check this out? There’s not much here for Behavioral to go on, at least not anything forensic or autopsies couldn’t find out themselves.
This woman, Rose Michaels, was ambushed, strangled and had a ballet dancer stuck to her hand.
Any cop will know what to look for based on this, and Fields asked us to check it out before he’s even got his first sweep report? Something’s off.’
‘You’re being paranoid,’ Ella said.
‘Dark, if there’s ever a time to be paranoid, now’s it. You ever known a Sergeant jump at the chance to work with the feds?’
‘Yeah, not everyone hates us, you know? Or maybe he’s struggling for officers at the minute? He’s got a lot going on.’
‘So na?ve. I’m telling you, this isn’t as cut and dry as it seems.’
Ella looked at Rose Michaels. Then at the alley. Then at the figurine.
She thought it through, and as loose as Ripley’s theory was, it did have one foot in reality. Then she remembered something Fields had said back at the precinct; that throwaway line he’d delivered while checking his cell phone.
I’m up to my neck in dead women in alleyways.
She'd let it go past her without catching it, because it had sounded like the kind of thing an overworked sergeant said. It was simple loose language that meant nothing, except Fields didn't strike her as a man who spoke loosely.
Ella walked back toward the cordon.
‘Sergeant Fields.’
He looked up from his phone.
‘I need to see the file.’
‘Uh, which file?’
‘The file for the other victims, because Rose Michaels isn’t the first, is she?’