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By dawn’s early gray light, Detective Lucas Cantin waited at the mouth of the alley on Decatur, across the street of the wharf. His tardy partner limped toward him.
“Gary?”
“Don’t ask.”
Light rain grew heavier. Pea-size hail pinged off their umbrellas. They stared down at the woman whose body, before the storm hit, had been littered with food scraps, blood, and vermin.
“I think its Sarri,” Gary said, tenderly.
Of the three prostitutes who worked Braud Way, Sarri was the most popular. There was something special about her. She possessed a natural sense of humor, and her outlook on life had been great, considering her lifestyle.
Gary recalled how changed she was that day when he happened to see her entering a craft store. Creased jeans. Clean white T-shirt. Ponytail. No makeup. She was downright pretty.
Sarri Luce was also a petite blond.
Gary and Lucas exchanged a knowing look.
Sex workers had a way of turning up dead worldwide, but this death was clearly dissimilar. Or rather, the same, given that she’d been murdered in as bizarre a manner as Susan Nolin. They hoped DNA testing showed whether or not it had been the same perpetrator.
“If this turns out to be the same person who killed Nolin,” said Gary, “that means we might have a potential serial killer on our hands. The media will have a field day with the information, if word gets out.”
“It’s the same person, Gary, and we both know it. The person who did this is nothing more than a lowlife coward.”
“I think it’s safe to say this goes beyond a dastardly attack on an unarmed citizen. Don’t think about the women being murdered, think about how they were murdered. Why wasn’t shooting them, or even stabbing them, good enough?”
Two uniformed officers, the first on the scene, moved aside to let the detectives pass by. They glimpsed at each other, but kept silent until the men were out of hearing range.
“Wooow, dude,” said Samuel Martin. “Did you hear what the detectives said? If this does turn out to be the work of a serial killer, we’re going to have our hands full.”
“I’m pretty sure Homicide already thinks a psycho is on the loose,” said Ethan Hebert. “Damn, didja see the woman’s face?”
“Damn, didja forget I was standing beside you?”
“Yeah, well, okay. Rats. Freaking rats. You think this guy might be a serious badass like Ted Geon? Or is he worse?”
Sam smiled. “I’ve never heard of him. You’ve been reading up on famous serial killers again, haven’t you? So who’s this Geon?”
“I didn’t read about this guy, a friend of mine told me about him. Back in the fifties Ted Geon, I think that’s his name. Anyway, Geon lived on the family farm in Wisconsin. When a local woman went missing, the sheriff had reason to think Geon was involved. The authorities searched his farm, and discovered some of the most grotesque crap ever committed. Seems the guy had murdered at least fifteen women. Dug up a bunch of others, including his mother, in the cemetery. Geon wasn’t just a serial killer he was a cannibal, and he made things out of leftover skin and bones. His place was called the House of Skin, or something like that.”
“Jeez. If this killer’s of the same sort, just think of the promotions and pay raises we’ll get if we’re the ones lucky enough to arrest him.” Sam caressed the pretend detective shield clipped on the pocket of his imaginary suit coat.
“We’re off duty in...” Ethan raised his arm to see his wristwatch, “right now.” A big grin. “Why don’t we find the other hookers and question them? I don’t see why we can’t carry out our own investigation. If nothing else, the experience alone will give us an edge over the other applicants for the detective division.”
“Hell yeah.” Sam rubbed his stomach. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I think we’ve got enough time to grab some food first, don’t you?”
“I’m thinking, if we’re gonna question those women, we need to get going,” said Ethan. “The detectives are already looking for them.”
“And I’m thinking the women don’t want to be interrogated any time soon. Aw, c’mon. I haven’t eaten since last night. It’s going to take time for us to find them. We’ll spend more time questioning them. Oh. We haven’t even talked about what kind of questions to ask. See, we need to go somewhere and write it down. We can go to Marvern’s Garden. It’s a little soup and salad joint, up the street and around the corner on Chartres. We’ll sit by the windows up front so we’ll be able to keep an eye out for the other prostitutes and the detectives.”
“Sure, I’m in. I’ve never had soup for breakfast before.”
When the police officers rounded the corner on Ursula Avenue, Detectives Northcutt and Cantin were farther up ahead calmly approaching two known sex workers.
Sam Martin sensed he’d lost an awesome chance to move ahead in his career, by all of five minutes. He flattened a hand on his chest, no longer able to feel his detective shield.
“Cheer up, Sammy. There’ll be other opportunities. We just have to keep our eyes and ears open. C’mon, might as well head on over to the restaurant, and have breakfast. We’ll go real slow past the detectives, that way we can eavesdrop on their conversations.”
* * *
“Tell us everything you can remember about last night, Zoe,” said Gary Northcutt. Keeping a firm grip on a ballpoint pen, he dug the tablet out of his overcoat pocket.
“Daisy and I hung around here on the corner of Chartres and Ursula. Sarri went that way.” Zoe nodded toward Decatur. “She does, uh, did that, sometimes when she wants, uh, wanted to be alone to think about stuff.”
“Did you or Daisy hear anything, anything at all, during the time she was in the alley?”
“No, Gary. I already told you, dammit. We heard nothing. The storm was coming, and it was awful windy last night.”
“How about you, Daisy,” asked Lucas Cantin, drawing attention to the woman standing a few feet away.
A flash of fear crossed her face. After a couple of failed flicks, she held a lighter to a cigarette. “No. Nothing. I’d tell you if I had.”
“Thanks just the same.”
Cantin handed her his business card.
Daisy Hernandez flattened an arm over her stomach and propped up the other arm up on it. Sucked hard on the cigarette, filling her lungs. Smoke got in her eyes, foreshadowing a sign of things to come. Bad mojo. Scared shitless, she crumpled the detective’s card in her fist, and let it fall to the sidewalk.