three

It was so easy. She opened the door with that wide-eyed morning smile, so happy to see me. I told her I didn’t come empty-handed. Within minutes, my hands held her lifeless neck. Today is a good day.

_____

Megan arrived at the crime scene wearing more black than a ninja. Her customary Manhattan attire—black pants, black turtleneck, black leather blazer—set against her pale skin emphasized the gold highlights running through her hair. She held up her shield for the officer standing in front of the yellow police tape as she ducked underneath.

After they figured she was out of earshot, the officer clicked on his walkie-talkie. “You guys better be awake up there. Detective Super Bitch is on her way up.”

There were two officers posted outside the apartment door of the crime scene. The one not grazing on a bagel responded, “Got it, but what’s your problem with her?”

“I don’t got a problem with her.”

“No, I can tell you don’t. What, she’s a detective and you’re still hanging the yellow tape outside of scenes, that bother you, bro?”

“That ain’t the reason and you Goddamn know it. I just think she’s a bitch who could use a good hard pounding, if you know what I mean.”

The officer, bug-eyed and red-faced, stared at Megan as she quickly approached him. The other officer stopped in mid-chew of his breakfast.

Yellow-tape cop continued via the walkie-talkie, “And lemme tell ya, I’d give her one good hard pole of a time. Bitch would feel it for weeks.”

Megan had been halfway up the last staircase when she’d caught wind of the officers’ conversation. It put a smile on her face. She loved to take the piss out of people. She placed one finger up to her lips, motioning both door officers to be silent, taking the walkie-talkie away from the embarrassed man. “This is Detective Megan McGinn. Trust me when I say this: if the size of your cock is in proportion to your IQ, or to your potential to move up in the ranks of this department, I am in complete assurance that not only could you not hold a hard-on for five seconds, but it couldn’t fill half a hot dog bun.” She kept the button pushed in. “One of you go down and get his shield number for me.” She returned the walkie-talkie. “Nappa inside?”

Both men just stared like boys caught spray-painting a school.

_____

Entering a crime scene was an adrenaline rush for Megan, as odd as that seemed. Her first month on assignment, she’d witnessed overdosed hookers in alleyways, the needles still sticking out of their arms; countless double murders or murder-suicides; a man who stabbed his fiancée to death because she overcooked his dinner; and numerous welfare mothers killed by their drug-dealing boyfriends. The number of bodies she’d seen in gang killings alone could fill a book.

She stood at the threshold of the living room now, donning a pair of latex gloves and paper booties over her shoes as she scanned the room like an eagle surveying a field before dinner. The forensics team was deep into their work. She didn’t bombard them with her questions yet.

Nappa was speaking with the first officer on the scene, getting the usual information: confirm the body hadn’t been moved, ascertain whether anyone had entered the apartment after his arrival, note anything suspicious when he arrived (besides a dead body on the floor). He then delegated the usual laundry list of duties: start taking names and phone numbers of everyone in the building, check if anyone had any priors, find out if there were any disturbances reported in the building recently, etc.

Megan liked Sam. He knew his business, and he knew how to work a crime scene. He had started out in Narcotics and had made some big drug busts, but in the end you’re always one step behind the drug dealers. One would get knocked off or arrested and there’d be another waiting in the wings ready to take his place.

Nappa was getting close to burnout mode when he decided to switch to Homicide. He thought helping to solve murders would give him some kind of closure. That was about a year ago. So far, there had been little in the way of closure.

Megan waited while the crime-scene photographer took some shots before she went over to the dead body.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Fu—” Megan paused to stare down at the position of the victim. “Fuck you,” she whispered.

“Sorry for the earlier comment about ‘do it for the memory of your father’ bullshit.”

Megan scratched her forehead, hearing his apology as mere white noise. “Hmm.”

Nappa continued, “Young, maybe late twenties, early thirties. Looks like strangulation. No sign of a break-in.” Nappa released a heavy sigh. “So far, no sign of prints. Forensics just got here, so they’ve really just started. She’s fully clothed, in workout clothes, so I doubt there was any sexual assault. Nothing’s been torn on her. The super found her this morning when he came to fix the kitchen faucet.”

“Where is he now?” Megan asked.

“He’s with a uniform downstairs. He’s pretty rattled. We’re working on getting the contact information from the lease to see if we can get in touch with next of kin. The super said her family lives somewhere in Connecticut. We should have the information soon.”

“What’s her name?” asked Megan.

“Shannon McAllister.”

“Can I take a look?” Megan asked the crime-scene photographer.

The photographer stopped chewing a large wad of gum to respond. “Go ahead, I’m done. I’m moving into the next room.”

Megan walked around to the other side of the couch to inspect Shannon McAllister’s dead body.

Oh Christ.

“This was exactly how she was found?” Megan asked.

Shannon lay on her side, her head placed delicately on a pillow. Her hair was brushed neatly over her shoulders and her hands lay peacefully cupped one within the other in front of her forehead. Her legs were bent at a ninety-degree angle. She looked as though she could have been sleeping peacefully, if her eyes weren’t bulging open and gray.

“Exactly,” Nappa replied. “I spoke with the first uniform on the scene. He said he didn’t touch her.”

“What about the super?” she asked.

He shook his head.

Megan knelt down beside Shannon. She looked hard into her vacant stare, then moved Shannon’s jaw side to side, inspecting the contusions on her neck. She was as gentle inspecting Shannon’s lifeless corpse as she’d be placing a baby in a crib. She looked around the immediate surroundings: books sprawled across the floor, an empty Tiffany’s jewelry box.

“You’re sure she wasn’t touched?” Megan asked again, hoping the answer would somehow be different, though knowing it wouldn’t be.

“Positive.”

Megan read the inscription on the heart dangling from the bracelet on Shannon’s wrist. Carpe Diem. Megan tugged at her own necklace, a compulsive habit she’d developed when she was deep in thought.

“I guess seizing the day is no longer an option for you, Miss McAllister,” she whispered.

Megan picked up Shannon’s right hand to see if there were traces of anything under her fingers. She found bruises near her wrist and an Irish Claddagh ring, the crown turned outward. There was a faint scent she couldn’t place.

Nappa crouched down beside Megan and whispered, “McGinn, tell me what I’m thinking is wrong.”

She raised an eyebrow in sympathy, whispering, “Sorry, Nappa.” Megan started to walk around the apartment to view Shannon McAllister’s body from different angles. “Obviously, she was deliberately placed in this position.”

“It looks like she’s sleeping, almost in the fetal position.”

Megan paused. “Maybe.” It was a good theory, but there was something more to it; at least that’s what her gut was telling her. But it was also telling her something else.

This won’t be the last victim.

Two policemen were in the corner of the room chatting about the score of whatever sporting event took place the previous night. When their conversation got above a whisper, Megan snapped. “Hey, is our investigation interrupting your conversation? Take it outside, for Chrissake.”

Judging how everyone else in the room responded, mannequins had better circulation after one of Megan’s outbursts. Nappa was immune to them by now. “Jesus, McGinn, get up on the wrong side of the bed today?”

Got up on the wrong side of the wrong man, is more like it.

She just shrugged. “Something like that. Keep going. What else is there?”

“Wallet’s still here with money and credit cards inside. Jewelry is still on her. Maybe boyfriend trouble?”

“I doubt it. She’s wearing an Irish Claddagh ring.”

“Doesn’t that mean she’s in love or something?” Nappa asked.

“She’s wearing the Claddagh ring on her right hand with the heart facing outward and away from her body. She’s single, offering her heart.”

“Are you sure?” Nappa asked.

Megan looked over at Zachary Jones, the assistant medical examiner on the scene. “Hey, Jonesy, the Italian is questioning his Mick partner about Irish Claddagh rings. What’s up with that?” she joked.

“Beats the hell out of me. I’m not Irish, what would I know about Claddagh rings?”

Zachary Jones, commonly referred to as Jonesy, was thin and had precision-cut brown hair. He always wore Oxford shirts with matching ties—which Megan joked were clip-ons—underneath his blue medical examiner’s windbreaker. He was smart and young, and had a direct sense of humor. Megan considered it a dry humor, while most people meeting Jonesy for the first time thought he was bleak, sometimes bordering on crass.

“Do you want to know why there’s a dead girl in the middle of the room, or are we going to chitchat about jewelry some more?”

Megan could see why people thought Jonesy insensitive. She smiled, remaining quiet as Jonesy explained how Shannon Mc­Allister was murdered.

“Carpe jugulum.”

“Sorry?” Nappa interrupted.

“Go for the throat.” Megan had trouble grasping as well as remembering the Ten Commandments in Catholic school, but Latin had always fascinated her.

“Very good, Detective. You two have a fresh kill on your hands.”

Megan shot a look over at Nappa, then back to Jonesy. “What do you mean fresh. It’s barely eleven o’clock.”

“Maybe three hours, if that. I’ll have a better idea when we do an autopsy, check the temp of the liver.”

Fucking ballsy unsub, Megan thought.

Jonesy continued, “I think he wore surgical gloves, two pairs, specifically. Based on the bruising around the neck, I think the killer first attacked from behind. Then, because of the abdominal bruising, I’d say he put his knee on her side to hold her down while he strangled her. So far no fingerprints, and I mean not one print, even from the victim. It looks like he wiped the whole place down.”

“Don’t forget to bag her hands,” Megan said.

“I’ll bag ’em, but I don’t think we’ll find anything,” Jonesy said.

“Why not?” Nappa asked.

“Look,” Jonesy knelt down and held up one of Shannon’s wrists, moving her clutched hand side to side. “He cleaned her hands and trimmed the nails down to the quick. It looks like he used nail polish remover or rubbing alcohol to do it. I’ll do a chem test to tell for sure.”

“The killer cleaned her hands?” Megan asked.

“Yes, and he was extremely thorough about it.”

“So he kills her and gives her a manicure.” She looked up at Nappa. “I doubt he threw any cotton balls, or whatever he used, in the trash can.”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“He killed her, gave her a manicure, and cleaned her apartment. That’s a hell of a Merry Maids service, isn’t it?” Jonesy said.

“This has not been a good fucking morning,” Megan whispered to herself. A moment later, her cell phone vibrated. She turned away from the group for the slightest bit of privacy. “Detective McGinn.” The call was one she’d receive every now and then. “Well, is she okay? Did she hurt herself ? Okay. Good. I’m going to have to call you back.” She hung up without saying goodbye and reconvened with the others. She stood with her arms crossed as if preparing for a fierce chill.

“There aren’t any signs of a break-in, so she knew him, or he had a key and waited until she got home,” Nappa said. “What do you think? Any connection to the murder on the Lower East Side?”

“Could be. It’s too early to tell.” Megan muttered again, “Could be.” She walked a few steps around Shannon to look at her from a different vantage point. “The other vic didn’t have anything under her nails, right?”

“Totally clean,” Nappa answered.

Megan thought a moment. “She was found a few days after being killed. Maybe there’s a time issue with what he used to clean under the nails, something that couldn’t be detected after a few days.” Megan stepped back. “But the other victim wasn’t placed so … thoughtfully. Maybe the killer didn’t have time with the other vic.”

“Yeah, something could have rushed him, but the Lower East Side girl was a hooker. There are so many more possibilities with a vic like that,” Nappa said.

“A hooker who’s murdered and still has nine hundred dollars on her was definitely not killed for lack of performance. And she wasn’t murdered by her pimp or a john wanting his money back.”

The details of the other murder were sketchy. A young girl, probably a runaway at one time, fell into prostitution. She was found strangled in her studio apartment with no signs of a break-in. Megan knew something wasn’t right, but nothing added up. The girl was placed in the cold-case files.

Megan smelled her surroundings again, thinking it odd there was an odor more fitting for an Entenmann’s factory than a room housing a slowly decomposing body. She looked around to see if there were scented candles nearby. There were none. “Nappa, what’s that smell?”

“That’s what else I want to show you,” he said.

Megan followed Nappa into the kitchen.

“Open the oven.”

“Why?”

“Open it.”

Inside Megan found a loaf of bread slowly warming. “It’s bread, Nappa.” She checked the stove. The oven had been set to 150 degrees. “But … baking bread wouldn’t cover the scent of a decomposing body. We both know there is nothing more putrid than that.” No human being could ever forget the first time such a pervasive smell entered their life. Megan’s first experience was investigating an odor neighbors called in on the Lower East Side. She entered the apartment to find a man, once Caucasian, now black, bloated and dead on the floor. He’d been there for five days. A fetid pile of human remains surrounded by feces and dried urine made even the toughest cop dry heave if not run for the hall to retch completely.

Megan looked again into the stove. “It’s Irish soda bread. Mom would buy it on the weekends to have with breakfast.” Saying those words made her wince with sadness knowing her mother no longer had the memory of cooking those old-fashioned Irish family breakfasts. She glanced around the kitchen. “Awfully clean for someone who just made homemade bread.”

“And murdered a girl before breakfast,” Nappa said glancing back at now-deceased Shannon McAllister.

The vic let you in, you sneaky bastard, Megan thought. “Let’s go talk to the super.”

“I’m not sure how much help he’s going to be.”

Megan released a heavy sigh. “Dot the i’s, cross the t’s, right Nappa?”

Few crime scenes sent a chill down her spine. This was the second in as many months.