Enter the Detectives

CHAPTER 2- enter detectives

“That's her, do not mess with that woman. Toughest drug lord in town gave her that scar, she fears nothing. She'll eat you alive, Rookie.” And the whispers continued behind my back. None of them thought I could hear them, and if they did think so, they made no effort to hide what they thought of me. In a way they were right, I wasn't the woman you messed with if you wanted to keep fingers in working order. People talk, people talk far too much and they usually say the wrong things. Of course, if the rumours give the status of a vengeful god? Well that may not be a bad thing in my line of work.

My name is Samantha Ross, but I never answer to it. You can call me 'Sam' or just 'Ross', the rest of the precinct does. I'm a detective working homicide. The scar that the boys were talking about is on my right arm and was a... well I suppose we call it a gift, but you can return those. At fifteen, I was branded by David Kwan, a creature of the darker part of the city, he smuggled whatever was illegal: drugs, weapons, women. I managed to get on his bad side and this was a present. For the most part, its worked in my favour. No one wants to really mess with a woman who has already walked in the shadows and been scarred by it.

In reality, I'm not that bad. Okay, maybe, I am. Any good cop develops a decent persona as a protection. With all the crazies I've locked up in my years, its best that they think I'm a cold hearted woman without the slightest problem in making you bleed before arresting you. Scars mark my skin from various battles that I've won and others that I've lost. Reputations can make or break a cop's career. Good cops never get called before Internal Affairs, bad cops are easily corruptible. I walk a line, neither on the side of saints nor demons. My only goal is to lock up the bad guys of the world before they cause more pain. Personally, I've seen more than my fair share of pain delivered by the evil hands of this world.

Anyway, I walked past the whispers to my desk, a space that no one should ever touch! My desk is perfectly arranged, I always know when something has been touched. Today, there was an addition to my collection of files and ball point pens.

“Quinn, get your butt off my desk. You're going to mess up my system,” I told Matthew Quinn, a very old friend of mine. We went through the academy together, among other things. He's hansom, in his way. Oh who am I fooling? Quinn is a very attractive man, my opposite. He's African, where I'm European; calm to my fury; gentle to my curtness; gentleman to my tom-boyishness. Good partners should balance each other, watch the other's back. Quinn has proven that to me time and again.

“You're late.” He made a show of looking at his watch.

“For?” I pushed his back side off my desk and went looking for a file I didn't need.

“We've a case,” he said grimly, glancing at his notes and filling me in on the details.

A woman had been found in Victorianna Park. We drove the five minutes there and made a hike to the crime scene. The autumn had crept into the city and turned the leaves brilliant shades of emerald, garnet, and amber. I'm fond of autumn, its such a crunchy season. Leaves crunch underfoot, the air is clean and crisp, people are baking things that have a crumbly sort of texture. Its such a great time of year. Of course, its far too short and soon melts into the holiday season, which every cops dreads. The holiday season is famous for having a higher number of suicides and thefts. Anyway, the woman was at the top of such a tree lined hill. The view was beautiful, looking out over the city's skyline to the mountains beyond. Her vacant eyes could no longer see it though. I took my customary slow and deep breath before moving toward the crime scene, offering a moment of silence to the victim before going closer.

“Jane Doe, at the moment,” Quinn was telling me, “we'll have Rocky check prints later, she may be in some system. Petite woman, about twenty-five, if I had to guess.”

“Looks like she was getting ready for Halloween a bit early. A red cloak? Little read riding hood?” I mused. “Were you going to an early party? Who was your date? Where were you going or coming from?” I have a habit of asking the victim what happened to them. Their voices may have been silenced, but that doesn't mean they don't speak to people like me and people like Rocky, our medical examiner.

“You! Ross!! You better not have touched anything, or I swear I will set you up on a blind date again, so help me...” That's Rocky for you, she can't help but go a little crazy when people mess with her crime scene. Last time a fool of a rookie touched something he shouldn't have, that little woman ripped him apart ten ways past Sunday. I almost felt sorry for him, but he really should have known better.

I put up my hands. “Take a chill pill, Rocky, eyes only until you arrive. What? You think I got out the academy yesterday?”

“A senior detective on homicide took out a john's wallet just last week, so yeah, I'm going to be a bit protective over my crime scenes until these 'detectives' (yes, she used air quotes) figure out that simple rule of no touching the victim. I know you're smarter than that, Sam.”

“Glad you think so. So what are we looking at?”

“You're the detective...”

“Wow, some one is spicy this morning,” Quinn was smiling at her, “and looking spicy.” I rolled my eyes and waited for his flirting to be over. We had work to do, but I knew he was sweet on Rocky. He couldn't help himself. “So you going anywhere tonight, Foxy?”

“Its Rocky, and do I have to remind you that I have a liver probe in my hand?” She pointed it at him in a mildly threatening way. He knew she wouldn't stick him with it... I wasn't so sure. “She's been dead for about six hours, but it was cold last night, it could be a little longer, maybe eight hours at the longest.”

I glanced at my watch, “ so between midnight and two this morning?”

She nodded, her braids waving, “And this was not the primary.”

“Yeah, noticed.” There was very little blood at the scene, in spite of the condition of the victim, who looked to have been mauled by tigers. I said as much to Quinn, who nodded. “I hate searching all over creation for the primary, gives the killer too much time to clean up. And yes, I am aware that is the point.” Quinn had his hand up to interrupt me, I told you we've known each other too long.

“I can't tell you more until we get her back to the morgue,” Rocky told me as she motioned for her team to zip the woman into a black bag. I always hate those bags. Sure, I fully understand their function, but I hate how people are carried off in a sheath of plastic. It just seems so void of dignity. Though, Rocky and her team make sure that every care is made to have the dignity that was stolen returned to the victim. For that, I am grateful and try to express that to the families. When someone you love is ripped away from you, its a small comfort to know that those who are seeking the truth also seek the honour of the victim.

There wouldn't be an autopsy for a few hours at the very least, which left Quinn and myself to the arduous task of questioning possible witnesses. The problem with a “witness” is that they tend to remember nearly nothing and over estimate their own memories. You have to be very careful in asking questions, being sure that they aren't leading the witness. Defence attorneys love that! The only person who saw anything was a thirty-year-old man out for his morning run. He saw nothing suspicious until he reached the top of the hill and saw the body of a woman mutilated in the dawn's light. He apologized as he let us know that behind a certain tree he lost his breakfast. Happens to the best of us, really. Most detectives puke at their first homicide.

The crime scene investigators were decked out in Tyvek suits, full coveralls with a hood to keep cross contamination to a minimum. Its not like on the television, kids. I hate seeing CSI's with their hair not pulled back and just wearing gloves. A stray hair from a pet or boyfriend could break a case and allow room for reasonable doubt. Sure they are the most unattractive things, but they do the job. Two CSI's were walking the grid, picking up any and all trace they could find. You never knew what piece of trash, thread, or hair would lead you to the killer responsible for the death a young woman. The most mundane item could be the clue you need. Remember, David Berkowitz, the 'Son of Sam', was tripped up by something as simple as a parking ticket. Nothing is too small to be noticed.

Author's Note

Unedited for NaNoWriMo.