“You sure you didn’t touch anything down here?”
One of the police officers stood next to me giving me the can-I-trust-you look. I shook my head assuring him I had not, as I had the two previous officers who had inquired.
I remained glued to the spot where the first cop to arrive, an officer named Bernstein, had instructed me to stay. I could feel the cold, hard concrete floor sending spasms into my feet, but it was the body in front of me that was sending waves of panic and nausea through my body. Who was she? How had she died? And why? She was impossible to look at, and yet it was impossible to turn away.
Her age was difficult to pinpoint, as was her size, but judging by her ripped jeans and a sweatshirt, printed with a local band’s logo, I guessed that she was under fifty. Caucasian. No polish on her nails. In life, her hair had been long and stringy and was a dull shade of brown that suggested it hadn’t been washed frequently, or perhaps a poor diet, or maybe dried-out hair was just one of the effects of death I hadn’t seen up close and personal.
Her body slumped against the wings of the chair, arms limp at her sides, feet bare, as if she had simply sat down and died. Given the tilt of her head and the length of her hair, I couldn’t see her face and was thankful for that.
The maze-like space was now teeming with Chicago’s finest. The officers kept clear of the chair, making room for the forensic photographer who had begun the painstaking process of recording the body in situ.
As I watched the team record the details of death and listened to the casual banter that masked the crush of trauma, my mind roared back to the footprints on the kitchen floor. Was she a squatter who’d been accessing the basement through the unlocked back door? It seemed a likely conclusion.
I ran my eyes around the clearing trying to notice the details that had escaped me in the shock of finding the body. In the far corner behind the chair, boxes were stacked low, side-by-side on the floor, butting each other. A filthy blanket and pile of towels completed what appeared to be a makeshift bed. A small pile of shirts and underwear was stacked on the floor next to a backpack. Simple though it was, this had been, at the very least, a crash pad for some period of time.
The dresser was an old bird’s-eye maple piece from the ‘30s, the kind with a bowed front, carved legs, and a mirror attached to the top. It seemed in reasonable shape for its age but was out of fashion and likely not worth much. Paired with the wing-back chair and the Oriental rug, the furniture seemed straight out of almost any Midwestern grandma’s house.
A collection of small items sat on the vanity in front of the mirror. The light was dim, so I could only make out rough shapes from my spot out of the fray. My sense was that they had been arranged, merchandised even. The incongruence flashed warning lights at me. With the officers distracted by the body, I stepped over for a closer look.
A large, flat shell held a bundle of dried plant material. Its grayed leaves were wrapped and tied, contrasting with the pearly interior surface of the shell. The edges of the bundle were burned and remnants had collected below, the shell serving as a tray for the ash. Two small sticks of brown wood were also in the shell, their ends also burned. A faintly sweet smell emanated from the area, punctuating the smell of decay. Incense, perhaps?
A grouping of stones sat to the right. Or were they crystals? Some were black and opaque, their edges rough, others a deep murky green, and one larger, roughly six inches in length, and translucent white but shaped and polished, carved more like an obelisk than a stone.
“Are you okay?”
I turned to find Michael standing by my side. Once again his radar for when I was in trouble seemed to be working.
“Was the text I sent you cryptic enough?” I looked at him with a weak smile. I recalled sending him a text moments after calling 911 but had no idea at this point what gibberish I’d composed.
“More like get your ass over here, now!” He smiled and started to say something more when Officer Bernstein interjected.
“Hewitt, who the hell hauled your ass over here? We don’t even know if our Jane Doe needs your services.” The officer looked at Michael, then at me. “Ah, I see you got a private invite.” He smirked, giving us a look that reminded us both of the complications of dating a detective. As if I needed reminding.
“So, what do you know?” Michael asked. “I suspect Jane here is doing a lot more talking than you realize.”
Michael shot me a look that was half eye roll, half don’t-worry-I’ve-got-this. Taking me by the arm, he led me back to a spot that kept me out of trouble, then stepped closer to the body.
“By the looks of it, we got a squatter using the place to get her fix,” Bernstein said. “Wouldn’t surprise me if the tox screen comes back singing. Happens all the time. These dumbasses shoot up when there ain’t anyone around to call 911 when the trip ain’t so rosy.”
“Well, thanks for the analysis, but let’s not declare the case solved until we’ve been here at least half an hour,” Michael responded. I knew it annoyed the hell out of him when the beat cops came at their cases with preconceived ideas. I watched Michael as he took in the scene, staring intently at the body. Then he turned his gaze to the room, not moving from his spot and noting, as I had, the makeshift bed and the small comforts that had been arranged in this dark, depressing place. He stood still, observing, forming questions in his mind, processing, before moving slowly around the chair. He stopped as something caught his attention, then stepped close, kneeling next to the body. He seemed to be looking at a tattoo on the inside of her right wrist. For a second his eyes widened, and I saw him take in a sharp breath of air, as if something familiar about the small mark slapped him with reality. The look stayed on his face for a only second before being replaced by the mask of professionalism.
“The front door was locked?” he said, directing the question to me, his voice holding a hint of fear.
“Yes, I had the locksmith break in before I realized that the back door in the kitchen was unlocked.”
Did he know her? My eyes went back to the spot on her inner wrist that had caught Michael’s attention. Between the darkness and the pooled blood in her limbs that tinged her flesh, it was difficult for me to make out any of the details of the marking. But Michael had reacted to something.
“Well, she’s definitely been here awhile,” the officer said. “What do you think? A couple months?”
“Probably,” Michael said, not looking up. “Cold basement would have slowed down decomp. She’s been here awhile all right. The ME will have to nail that down.” After a moment Michael stood. “Any idea how long the property has been vacant?” he asked, again directing the question to me.
I couldn’t make out the expression in his eyes, but emptiness had replaced the warmth I normally saw there. It pained me to hold back the questions brewing in my mind, to stop myself from being at his side while he ached, but keeping our relationship under the radar was the agreement we’d made.
“I’m afraid not. My sister bought it at auction, which, as you know, isn’t a fast course of action. Mortgages, bankers. Back taxes. Foreclosure process. The property could’ve been in limbo for years. We’ll have to ask the auction house what they know about the original owner.”
“We?” Michael shot me a look that said don’t-you-even-think-about-it. As if his tone were going to prevent me from asking questions. Was this a story?
“Did you notice the dresser?” I tilted my head.
Michael walked over, Officer Bernstein following behind him like a puppy looking for approval.
“What? Burned weeds and a couple rocks? What about it?” Bernstein asked.
“It’s odd, don’t you think?” I said, my body releasing a shiver. I didn’t know if it was the chill of the basement or my adrenaline normalizing but my body was recording the shock. “If she was here just to shoot up, why aren’t we seeing drug paraphernalia and Doritos instead of pretty rocks?”
“You haven’t spent much time around druggies, have you? That’s like trying to explain why the moon sets every night. When these guys are hopped up on a little horse, logic and common sense are foreign concepts that just don’t apply. Not worth the energy trying to explain anything these people do when they’re all fucked up,” Bernstein said, while Michael remained quiet.
For the first time since I’d found the body, Lane came back into my mind. She was going to freak out when I called to tell her that her new purchase came with a dead body.
“Those weeds are dried sage,” Michael said. “You burn the bundle and let the smoke travel around a room. They call it smudging. It’s used as part of a cleansing ritual.”