10 Crime Scene
Jill Prince had been a very foolish woman. She’d let someone into her apartment and that person killed and raped her.
Jen studied the body from the doorway and how the killer had staged the scene. Jill lay spread-eagled, tied to the bed. A green jump rope hung around her neck. The scene looked chillingly familiar.
Jen blinked when a flashbulb went off. She could see a white spot for a few moments afterwards.
“What can I do?” she asked Sean who surveyed the crime scene beside her.
The technicians looked like worker bees at the hive, with the victim a very dead queen bee. Each one had a task and they each went about it with precision. The sight never failed to amaze her.
“Give me a profile.”
She frowned. “I mean what can I do to help? Knock and talk with the neighbors? What?”
He studied her as if he wasn’t sure that she was serious.
The techs could handle the scene. And the smell. Trained in interview skills, she could ask questions. Besides, she really did want to get out of the room.
The smell of death might never wash out of her clothes.
“Get me some coffee,” Sean said finally.
She crossed her arms and glowered at him. “I’m not an errand boy, besides, you aren’t bringing coffee into that crime scene.”
Sean looked her up and down. “You certainly aren’t a boy.”
Jen felt her cheeks flush. If she pulled out her gun and shot him, she’d wipe the smirk off of his face. Nah, too drastic, though she might be able to argue justifiable homicide. “I’m serious. I’d rather help. I doubt I’d be able to sleep now anyway.”
Sean blinked. “We actually have it covered here. You could talk to the neighbors.”
With that he dismissed her.
She turned on her heel and walked out, full of her mission.
***
Jen had looked relieved. Sean was sure of that. He expected to find skid marks on the carpeting outside Jill Prince’s bedroom. He admitted he’d enjoyed watching her walk away, the way she moved inside those painted on jeans.
“She looked a little green,” said the photographer.
Sean nodded then turned back to the activity in the room. He’d sketched the scene from four different angles. His radio chirped.
“Detective Gaudette,” he said into it.
“The ME’s here for the body.”
“Send him in.”
“Her.”
“Whatever,” Sean said back.
A tall, Asian woman with a black medical bag approached him, hand extended. “Dr. Quang.”
Sean shook the proffered appendage. “Detective Gaudette.”
She placed her bag on the hall floor and opened it. Snapping on gloves, she smiled at the detective. She wore unisex coveralls. “Name?”
“Jill Prince. Found by her mother a few hours ago.”
Dr. Quang held up a hand.. “Enough. I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”
After putting paper booties on her feet, she strode into the bedroom as if she owned it. With surgeon-like precision, she did a cursory examination of the body. When finished she stood in front of Sean. “When can I move the body?”
Sean looked over all the techs who held up fingers to indicate the time they needed. “Ten minutes,” he told her.
“Good, I’ll get the bag and gurney.”
She strode away from him.
“Sean?” George Shea, the vacuum tech, said. He knelt on the other side of the bed from the door.
Shoes in paper booties, Sean moved to see what George had found. With gloved fingers, the technician held up a match book.
Sean could see a logo on it. “Jugs?”
“Yeah, that bar with the scantily clad waitresses.”
George smiled. He was obviously enjoying the lovely memory of the establishment.
“The one that protesters picketed out in front on Route 22 when it first opened?” Sean remembered wondering what all the fuss was about. A man was going to look at tits no matter what.
“Same one. Think she worked there?”
Sean stood and shrugged. “We’ll find out.”
His gaze fell on Jill’s inert body. What secrets would she reveal to the ME?
***
Jen knocked on enough doors to make her knuckles raw. Still, she felt alive, more than she had in a long time. This was what she missed about police work. Being in the trenches.
Most of the time, she didn’t get to do that many interviews.
She’d learned a basic idea early in life. People loved to talk, especially about themselves, and in the words pouring out of a person’s mouth sometimes that person said something important. Something they didn’t realize they knew.
Jean Weiss was a menopausal woman with insomnia. Jean told Jen things about that part of life she didn’t really want to know yet. But Jen listened and nodded politely.
“So for the third night in a row, I woke at three a.m. on the dot. Do you believe that?”
Jen could or at least she said so to the petite woman who poured her a cup of tea. She sat in the woman’s faded kitchen complete with black and white chipped linoleum tile.
“Did you look out the window at all?”
Jean gazed at the ceiling, copper kettle still in her hand. “Yes, I did. Right after I talked myself out of eating ice cream.” She shuffled away to put the kettle on the stove. The hot water sloshed as she moved. “Shouldn’t eat in the middle of the night.”
Jen nodded. “Did you see anything?”
Jean sat down, sipped her tea then smiled at Jen as if she were a neighbor over for a cuppa. “The strangest thing. A man walked past with a garbage bag in his hand. I saw it when he went under the street light at the end of our driveway.”
Jen’s pulse quickened. This woman may have seen a murderer. She fought to keep her voice calm. “What did he look like?”
Sitting back in her chair, Jean frowned. “I’m not sure I remember. I was staring at the garbage bag. Seemed so odd that I don’t think I looked at the man until he was in the dark again.”
Jean blinked and Jen waited for her to continue. “Anything else you can remember?”
