LITMIR.BIZ

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or bicycling or use of the T, the public transit system. Driving could prove trying, if not downright nerve-racking, considering the downtown streets still followed the path of their forerunners—cattle trails. Traffic was hell and most drivers were impatient, Rowen included.

      But walking at night, especially late at night, was not a good idea in certain areas.

      Carlotta Simpson had learned that lesson the hard way.

      In the victim’s apartment, designated as a part of the secondary crime scene, there were no signs of forced entry and all appeared to be in order. The pub where she worked would also fall under that umbrella. Those two locations were the last places the victim had been seen alive before ending up dead in this depressing alley.

      After a sweep by the crime scene techs, the apartment had been sealed until someone who knew Carlotta could be located. An individual or individuals who had been in her apartment fairly often would more likely notice if anything were missing or out of place. Otherwise, there wasn’t much chance Rowen would glean anything from the victim’s personal belongings other than what she already had. She could hope that some note or phone number found in the apartment or a description of a patron the victim had encountered at her workplace would lead to whoever had killed her, but the chances weren’t that good.

      Police tape hung on either end of the alley, marking the area as the official primary crime scene and serving as a second level of deterrence for curious onlookers, including the press corps gathering force with each passing minute.

      Blasts of white light exploded over and over from a camera’s flash, disrupting the darkness that reigned over the alleyway beyond the well-lit vicinity where the body remained waiting for the next leg of its final journey. The vivid slashes of light reminded Rowen of the lightning the storm had displayed earlier that evening when she’d still been at home in bed and trying to sleep. She watched for a moment as the techs worked quickly to process and document every aspect of the scene before turning it over to the medical examiner.

      The M.E., Dr. Bernard Cost, a man of about sixty who had been summoned from bed at half past four in the morning, hovered close by, waiting to assume control of the body. Rowen hadn’t talked to him just yet. She didn’t want to color his perspective by discussing what she had concluded after one glance at the victim.

      This case in particular required unshakable objectivity.

      Rowen blinked to clear the spots the camera flashes had caused from her vision and resumed her search of the scene. Using her police-issue flashlight, she covered the entire length of the alley once more, moving the light from side to side, carefully scanning for blood or any damned thing else that might be related to the murder. She’d performed this walk-through examination twice already, once before the techs were allowed on site.

      As lead investigator, it was her job to get a feel for the scene and organize an approach for collecting evidence. She’d had to look at the big picture and determine how best to conduct the necessary business that would facilitate speedy justice for the victim. Then there had been a second sweep with the aid of the floodlights, and now, one last painstaking scrutiny just to be sure she hadn’t missed anything while hyped with the adrenaline of discovery.

      She clenched her jaw and restrained the anger ramming against the wall of detachment she’d erected from the moment she received the call.

      This one was just like the last one.

      And the two before that.

      No evidence. Not a single footprint or cigarette butt or drop of blood. No shell casing, no murder weapon. No witnesses. Nothing. The M.E. would have no better luck when he processed the body. Whoever had done this knew how to cover his tracks. There wouldn’t even be the first latent print or indication of trauma. Not one damned thing.

      It was as if the perp first hypnotized his victims and then sucked ’em dry.

      Rowen shuddered inwardly and evicted the concept from her brain. She would not let the press hoopla color her thinking.

      When Dr. Cost moved into position near the body, Rowen set aside the infuriating reality of what this fourth murder meant and headed back in that direction. She had to do this right. No matter that she wanted to scream in frustration. How could this keep happening?

      “Morning, Doc,” she said, infusing her tone with a calm she in no way felt and wishing she had a cup of coffee…anything containing caffeine. She’d left the house without taking the time to brew a pot. The urgency she’d experienced upon arriving at the crime scene had morphed into anger and now into a disheartening blend of frustration and defeat.

      She dropped into a crouch a few feet away from the M.E., allowing him plenty of elbow room. Though the crime scene was Rowen’s domain, the M.E. had legal authority over the body. Since he was the expert, Rowen had no problem whatsoever with those boundaries. She liked boundaries. They kept her out of trouble.

      Cost grunted his usual greeting. Once he dove into his initial assessment, he paid little heed to anything or anyone else around him. He palpated the deceased woman’s scalp, then the neck, and downward, checking for broken bones or other readily assessable evidence of trauma. He tested the right arm.

      “No rig in the larger muscles yet,” he commented for Rowen’s benefit.

      Though the smaller muscles of her face were already affected, indicating at least a couple hours since death, the lack of rigor mortis in the muscles of the arms signified the victim had not been dead for much longer than three or four hours, tops. As Rowen watched, the doc removed a syringe from his kit and withdrew vitreous fluid from the victim’s eyeball. Rowen swallowed back the bitter taste that rose in her throat but refused to look away. She needed to see all of this, to mentally document every step.

      The fluid removed would provide postmortem potassium levels, which would convey an additional estimate of time of death. Core body temperature would be checked at the morgue, Rowen presumed, where the doctor could take a closer look before inserting the thermometer. Even with the floodlights, this alley was no place to look for signs of sexual assault. Removing clothing or inserting thermometers could eliminate or contaminate evidence. Dr. Cost opted not to take the risk.

      The M.E. glanced at Rowen’s gloved hands. “Help me turn her over.” A trace sheet had already been laid in place for wrapping the body.

      Rowen obliged, subconsciously registering the non-human coolness of the woman’s skin. A layer of latex on her hands and paper covers on her shoes were automatics for Rowen. She never took chances with her crime scenes. Though they offered little in the way of armor shielding against the horror of death.

      She’d always harbored extreme fear when it came to dying, significantly more than what most people considered normal. The panic she felt at times bordered on outright phobia. Those who knew her struggle—they were few, only her closest friends and family—couldn’t understand her need to go into homicide. Rowen deemed it her little way of doing all she could to stop those who committed the worst of crimes against others. And maybe to prove she could not only face the inevitable but could wage a sort of battle against it.

      Cost shook his head slowly, a heavy sigh splintering his quiet ruminations as he considered the victim. “Nothing. I see nothing, Detective, that is going to separate this victim from the others.”

      Rowen’s apprehension amped up another notch as she watched him bag the vic’s hands. “But you can’t be certain just yet.” She needed to hear something different but she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

      “Look at her, Rowen.” He gestured to the grayish white skin that was strangely lacking in the usual lividity or marbling effect caused by blood pooling in the veins. “And if that isn’t enough, there is no outward indication of trauma other than this.” He pointed to the small marks on the victim’s throat, in the area of the body’s most prominent blood-carrying vessel.

      “The same as the other three,” he stated unnecessarily and gave a small shrug. “I’ll do all I can. But I can’t find evidence if it isn’t there. At this point, I would say the victim died of extreme blood loss. End of story.

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