Luke ducked under the yellow crime tape and joined Natalie inside the makeshift tent. Jane Doe floated like an ivory carving on a sea-blue tarp. Together they knelt beside the body, while Natalie pointed out the reddish mark on her neck. “It’s called a violin hickey.”
He leaned in for closer inspection, his frown deepening.
“Also known as fiddler’s neck,” she said. “It’s a callus created by excessive practicing of the violin, due to constant pressure on the underside of the chin from where the violin rests.” Still wearing gloves, Natalie lifted Jane Doe’s left arm and turned it over so that her hand was palm side up. The dead woman’s limbs were surprisingly insubstantial—as lightweight as a bird with its wings folded. “These calluses on the fingertips of her left hand are from playing the violin, depressing the strings on the fingerboard. My childhood friend Bella had similar calluses. The other hand holds the bow, so there aren’t any calluses.” She gently put the hand down. “Also, I found a gummy substance in her hair.” She showed him. “Could be rosin. Violinists will rub rosin on their bows to make them sticky. The stickiness enhances the contact between the bow and the strings.”
He sat back on his heels. “So she’s a violinist. Was she a hired musician?”
“We’re canvassing the area now, trying to find out. We could be looking at a street performer, or part of a string quartet.”
Hundreds of musicians flocked to Burning Lake during the month of October, when dozens of venues featured rock bands, rhythm and blues, honky-tonk, rockabilly, house music, folk singers, classical chamber ensembles, soloists, string quartets, and madrigals. There was also an annual Halloween-themed music festival, which had been held in Percival Burton Park last Friday evening.
“Did you find any ID on her?” Luke asked.
“Nothing yet. After the coroner completes his preliminary, I’ll have the dumpster hauled down to the impound lot, where we can forensically sort through the garbage. Hopefully, we’ll find out who she is soon enough.”
“What’s your time of death estimate?”
“Eight to twelve hours ago.”
He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and studied the body. The victim’s pale skin was smudged with dirt and grime from the dumpster. “What about method of death?”
“I couldn’t find any strangulation marks or puncture wounds. No signs of blunt trauma, no evidence of violent assault. No needle marks. Just some minor bruising, and a few scrapes on her knees, maybe from falling down. There was a small amount of vomit inside her mouth, which could indicate an overdose. I can’t tell if she was raped. We’re going to have to wait for the autopsy.”
Luke nodded. “Eight to twelve hours ago … so we’re talking midnight to four in the morning. Why would she walk into a dead-end alley at that time of night? It’s deep and narrow, not very well lit. The dumpster’s a good thirty-five feet away from the street. Maybe the crowd size made her feel safe, but why come in here? For what purpose? Drugs? Hookup?”
“She doesn’t look like a junkie,” Natalie said. “No track marks or huffer’s rash. No bags under the eyes. No gauntness. Her makeup was skillfully applied. She had a good haircut and appears to be in great shape physically. A jogger, maybe. Her teeth are well-maintained. No infections or skin rashes.” The victim’s opaque gaze was fixed on the tent ceiling. “I found a used condom on the sidewalk a few yards from the dumpster, but it looks pretty old. I’m guessing she’s a musician or music student. Bella used to train at the conservatory in Chaste Falls, if I remember correctly.”
Luke looked at her. “The one up north?”
She nodded. “That’s as good a place to start as any, if we don’t find her ID.”
Luke crossed his arms. “Check the missing persons reports for Upstate New York, starting with Chaste Falls. What about physical evidence?”
“The only problem is, we’ve got too much of it,” she told him. “All this trash. And a lot of businesses in the vicinity use this dumpster for their refuse service, which means there were an unknown number of employees tromping in and out of the alley last night, dumping their trash here. At this point, I think we’d have better luck with the surveillance cameras. The guys are door-to-dooring now, talking to local store owners and asking for videotapes. We’ve also initiated a request for the traffic cams.”
“Good. Maybe we can catch her on tape.”
“If we only knew what costume to look for,” Natalie added.
“Good point.” He frowned. “Maybe her costume’s still in the dumpster?”
“Could be.” She studied Luke for a moment. He was freshly shaved this morning. He always wore crisp white shirts that were professionally steam cleaned and pressed. He must’ve spent a fortune on dry cleaning, she thought. He looked as if he’d been lifting lately. Taking care of himself. His face was drawn, and she knew they were both feeling it. A deep sadness, with a brooding, simmering anger underneath it.
“We’ll need to do an extensive tox screen for prescription meds, illicit drugs, and roofies,” she said. “The sooner the better.” She picked up Jane Doe’s left hand. “These calluses on the fingertips mean she’s right-handed. She would’ve held the bow in her right hand. And check this out.” She turned the pale hand over. “Ink stamps from all the bars and events she attended last night. We can ask the venues for their surveillance tapes as well.”
“Which makes the tapes our top priority.”
Looking at the body was exhausting, as if death could suck all the hope out of your heart. “Meanwhile, the guys are processing everything for prints, trace, and biologicals,” she said.
The sound of sirens broke their concentration. They ducked out of the tent, and the sheer brilliance of the day made her go sun-blind for an instant. The pungent smell of rotting garbage filled her lungs. She waited for her pulse to slow. There was a tune playing inside her head she couldn’t get rid of, an old Aerosmith song called “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.”
Natalie didn’t want to miss a thing. Not a speck. Not a fiber. Not a hair.
A throng of curious shopkeepers and sanitation workers had gathered at the mouth of the alley, where an officer was posted. Bright yellow tape cordoned off the crime scene, and red leaves blew across the pavement. Natalie thought about Ellie. She thought about her sisters, so whip smart and funny and beautiful. She thought about all the girls who were dead or had gone missing. Life could be so unfair. Joey called it revolving-door injustice.
Now the coroner’s maroon van pulled up and parked, its blue-and-reds flashing, and Coroner Barry Fishbeck stepped out. His silver hair and goatee shone platinum in the sun. He came striding over to them, never one for formalities, and got straight to the point. “Where’s my Jane Doe?”
“This way.” She nodded at the tent.
Natalie felt a creeping nausea and paused outside the tent, while Luke and Barry ducked inside. That song was playing in a loop inside her head. “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.”
Okay. What was she missing?
She crouched down at the tent opening, an early November cold creeping across the back of her neck, and listened to the two seasoned professionals discussing the case, while Jane Doe lay inert and vulnerable, the final kiss of her violin lingering on the underside of her chin.
Natalie looked across the street. Someone nearby must’ve seen something.