looked up at the dark green and gold sign on the faded red brick building that spelled out BIG BAKERY.
He was about to jump on his bike and Caroline saw that Mrs. Bannister was about to wave him over. "No, please, I don't want anyone else to have my key."
The woman's mouth tightened and the warmth went out of her eyes, like a light suddenly switched off.
"I have the key to your room, dear. I own the house."
"I know, but…"
"Harold is my nephew and he's a fine boy. What reason would you have not to trust him? I doubt you have anything so valuable he would want to steal it."
She'd offended her. She hadn't meant to. Hadn't meant to make her angry.
Eight
Out on the sidewalk, most of the onlookers had moved on, but the damage had been done, making a thorough investigation of the crime area difficult. Shoeprints over shoeprints, rubberneckers wanting to get a look, at the same time afraid of what they might see.
Yesterday, they had cordoned off the area with crime tape, then waited around until the body was zipped into a body bag and driven off to the morgue before leaving. No sirens, no speed, no reason for urgency.
He emerged from the alley, pretty certain she didn't die here. But before Detective Thomas O'Neal could get to the cruiser, a familiar looking glamour-puss blond from the local TV station shoved a microphone in his face.
"I'm hearing there's a similar pattern between how this girl met her fate and the nurse who was murdered in late August. Can you comment, Detective O'Neal?"
He paused long enough tell her he didn't know who her sources were, but that they were being premature, speculating. The investigation was hardly underway. "When I have more details to offer the public, I'll release them." Until then, he had no further comment. He pushed past her, as pleasantly as he could manage, ignoring the next question she threw at him. "Was she sexually assaulted, Detective?"
***
There is always a chill in the morgue, and that faint smell of death and formaldehyde permeating the air, that most cops never got used to. Detective O'Neal was no exception.
The alley had reeked of urine. O'Neal knew bums and drunks coming out of the bar down the street used it as a public toilet, evidenced by the dark yellow stains he saw running down the side of the building. She deserved a better resting place.
Even this was an improvement.
Her dark hair had fallen to one side of the slab she lay on. A clot of blood had dried at the corner of her mouth. Her face was bruised and swollen, eyes near shut, slits of dead blue showing.
Just as she'd looked back in that alley. Except she'd been fully dressed then, in a green paisley blouse and black slacks that looked expensive to Detective Tom O'Neal. Her white wool jacket was smeared with blood. She'd worn black stiletto sandals with those thin straps that flatter a woman's leg. Not that she'd needed any help. Beautiful woman when she was alive. Damn shame.
Her blouse had been buttoned unevenly, signaling to the detective that someone else had dressed her, probably after she was dead. Her hair was matted with blood, lifeless blue eyes staring blankly up at the strip of azure sky visible above the alley where she lay. There were blood spots in her eyes, evidence of strangulation, borne out by the bruises on her neck, no doubt made by the killer's thumbs.
St. Simeon was a quiet town, and Detective O'Neal liked it that way. Murder, especially one as brutal as this one, was rare here. Most crimes consisted of drunken driving and the occasional domestic. A couple of years ago there'd been a knifing at Dreagan's bar, but that was it.
"I'd say she was there maybe…five, six hours," Henry Beal, the medical examiner said in answer to his question. "We had partial rigor when we brought her in," he answered. He mimed covering the girl's face with the sheet, eyebrow
He was about to jump on his bike and Caroline saw that Mrs. Bannister was about to wave him over. "No, please, I don't want anyone else to have my key."
The woman's mouth tightened and the warmth went out of her eyes, like a light suddenly switched off.
"I have the key to your room, dear. I own the house."
"I know, but…"
"Harold is my nephew and he's a fine boy. What reason would you have not to trust him? I doubt you have anything so valuable he would want to steal it."
She'd offended her. She hadn't meant to. Hadn't meant to make her angry.
Eight
Out on the sidewalk, most of the onlookers had moved on, but the damage had been done, making a thorough investigation of the crime area difficult. Shoeprints over shoeprints, rubberneckers wanting to get a look, at the same time afraid of what they might see.
Yesterday, they had cordoned off the area with crime tape, then waited around until the body was zipped into a body bag and driven off to the morgue before leaving. No sirens, no speed, no reason for urgency.
He emerged from the alley, pretty certain she didn't die here. But before Detective Thomas O'Neal could get to the cruiser, a familiar looking glamour-puss blond from the local TV station shoved a microphone in his face.
"I'm hearing there's a similar pattern between how this girl met her fate and the nurse who was murdered in late August. Can you comment, Detective O'Neal?"
He paused long enough tell her he didn't know who her sources were, but that they were being premature, speculating. The investigation was hardly underway. "When I have more details to offer the public, I'll release them." Until then, he had no further comment. He pushed past her, as pleasantly as he could manage, ignoring the next question she threw at him. "Was she sexually assaulted, Detective?"
***
There is always a chill in the morgue, and that faint smell of death and formaldehyde permeating the air, that most cops never got used to. Detective O'Neal was no exception.
The alley had reeked of urine. O'Neal knew bums and drunks coming out of the bar down the street used it as a public toilet, evidenced by the dark yellow stains he saw running down the side of the building. She deserved a better resting place.
Even this was an improvement.
Her dark hair had fallen to one side of the slab she lay on. A clot of blood had dried at the corner of her mouth. Her face was bruised and swollen, eyes near shut, slits of dead blue showing.
Just as she'd looked back in that alley. Except she'd been fully dressed then, in a green paisley blouse and black slacks that looked expensive to Detective Tom O'Neal. Her white wool jacket was smeared with blood. She'd worn black stiletto sandals with those thin straps that flatter a woman's leg. Not that she'd needed any help. Beautiful woman when she was alive. Damn shame.
Her blouse had been buttoned unevenly, signaling to the detective that someone else had dressed her, probably after she was dead. Her hair was matted with blood, lifeless blue eyes staring blankly up at the strip of azure sky visible above the alley where she lay. There were blood spots in her eyes, evidence of strangulation, borne out by the bruises on her neck, no doubt made by the killer's thumbs.
St. Simeon was a quiet town, and Detective O'Neal liked it that way. Murder, especially one as brutal as this one, was rare here. Most crimes consisted of drunken driving and the occasional domestic. A couple of years ago there'd been a knifing at Dreagan's bar, but that was it.
"I'd say she was there maybe…five, six hours," Henry Beal, the medical examiner said in answer to his question. "We had partial rigor when we brought her in," he answered. He mimed covering the girl's face with the sheet, eyebrow
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