Tabram killing.
I was proud of myself for finding the alley off Whitechapel High Street without needing to ask directions. The brick yard wasn’t all that bad looking. The buildings showed their age, but not the dangerous deterioration some places further off the main street had in the old pics I’d seen at the conference. It didn’t seem to be the type of place crackheads might live in. Not crackheads obviously. Opiumheads maybe? Same diff? I didn’t know and I guess it didn’t matter because by then I saw Ian headed my way. He was talking to an older guy. That one didn’t look like a cop.
“But you think she was killed here?” Ian asked.
“Oh, likely,” the other guy said. “No sign of a blood trail from her being dragged in. Ample blood in the vicinity to suggest this was the spot where she was murdered.”
“Not a single person saw a thing.” Ian stroked his chin. “Not even the bloody building custodian who lives right off the entry. Everyone was asleep or heard nothing at all.”
The old guy shrugged. “Odd, considering the violence and, one would suppose duration, of the attack.”
“Unless she was killed quickly and mutilated after,” I said.
Ian spun around and came face-to-face me. He was speechless with shock the way Dr. Trambley had been and I wanted to say, Clothes don’t make the man, people. Deal. But that wouldn’t have been smart and the one thing I never was, was a dumbass.
“And just what do you know about this murder?”
“Only what I overheard from a milkman this morning and what your buddy here said just now. The milkman seemed to have a lot of the details right.”
Ian mulled this over for a moment then moved on to the next question. “And what brings you here? I thought I had left instructions for you to meet me at the station.”
“I asked where you were and they told me, so here I am.”
Ian folded his arms and studied me in a textbook, suspicious cop way. “Does the thought of murder not trouble you, young man?”
“Of course it does but, my dad…my father’s brother is a police detective. Aunt Mary and Uncle George never liked my father much and weren’t all that fond of his brother either. You know how it is.”
“Quite.” Ian stared a bit more, glanced to his buddy who seemed to buy my story, then turned back. “What makes you think she may have been killed quickly?”
“It’s just a guess.” Based on repeated reading of that stupid conference program and way too many reruns of every cop show ever on TV , I added silently. I tilted my head toward the sheet-draped body. “Can I take a look?”
Ian considered it for a long time before he lifted the sheet and watched me like a hawk.
Yeah, this was nasty, but no nastier than the three days dead junkie my Uncle Rich made me look at, and the aftermath of the warring drug dealers shootout Dad once showed me. “Scared straight,” Mom called it. I thought of it as the this is where you’re headed, dumbass show and tell. Like I didn’t know. Maybe if they actually paid attention they’d have noticed I never crossed any line I couldn’t jump back over. Yeah, well, that was then and this was now or before or some crap. I cleared my throat and looked at Ian. “Not a pretty sight so early in the morning. Or ever.”
“Indeed.”
I peered around. My dad and uncle would bitch a storm at the contamination of this crime scene. There were dozens of fresh footprints, some of them bloody, around the corpse. With the poor light and the number of sightseers, there’d be little hope of doing a proper crime scene analysis even if such a thing was possible. The body was all these guys had to go on. No wonder Jack never got caught.
I glanced back to the dead woman. She was smaller than my mom, maybe five feet two to five four. Heavier build. Probably fortyish like Mom though. Her clothes looked old and worn, black jacket and little hat tied beneath her chin, dark green skirt with a brownish underskirt or slip
I was proud of myself for finding the alley off Whitechapel High Street without needing to ask directions. The brick yard wasn’t all that bad looking. The buildings showed their age, but not the dangerous deterioration some places further off the main street had in the old pics I’d seen at the conference. It didn’t seem to be the type of place crackheads might live in. Not crackheads obviously. Opiumheads maybe? Same diff? I didn’t know and I guess it didn’t matter because by then I saw Ian headed my way. He was talking to an older guy. That one didn’t look like a cop.
“But you think she was killed here?” Ian asked.
“Oh, likely,” the other guy said. “No sign of a blood trail from her being dragged in. Ample blood in the vicinity to suggest this was the spot where she was murdered.”
“Not a single person saw a thing.” Ian stroked his chin. “Not even the bloody building custodian who lives right off the entry. Everyone was asleep or heard nothing at all.”
The old guy shrugged. “Odd, considering the violence and, one would suppose duration, of the attack.”
“Unless she was killed quickly and mutilated after,” I said.
Ian spun around and came face-to-face me. He was speechless with shock the way Dr. Trambley had been and I wanted to say, Clothes don’t make the man, people. Deal. But that wouldn’t have been smart and the one thing I never was, was a dumbass.
“And just what do you know about this murder?”
“Only what I overheard from a milkman this morning and what your buddy here said just now. The milkman seemed to have a lot of the details right.”
Ian mulled this over for a moment then moved on to the next question. “And what brings you here? I thought I had left instructions for you to meet me at the station.”
“I asked where you were and they told me, so here I am.”
Ian folded his arms and studied me in a textbook, suspicious cop way. “Does the thought of murder not trouble you, young man?”
“Of course it does but, my dad…my father’s brother is a police detective. Aunt Mary and Uncle George never liked my father much and weren’t all that fond of his brother either. You know how it is.”
“Quite.” Ian stared a bit more, glanced to his buddy who seemed to buy my story, then turned back. “What makes you think she may have been killed quickly?”
“It’s just a guess.” Based on repeated reading of that stupid conference program and way too many reruns of every cop show ever on TV , I added silently. I tilted my head toward the sheet-draped body. “Can I take a look?”
Ian considered it for a long time before he lifted the sheet and watched me like a hawk.
Yeah, this was nasty, but no nastier than the three days dead junkie my Uncle Rich made me look at, and the aftermath of the warring drug dealers shootout Dad once showed me. “Scared straight,” Mom called it. I thought of it as the this is where you’re headed, dumbass show and tell. Like I didn’t know. Maybe if they actually paid attention they’d have noticed I never crossed any line I couldn’t jump back over. Yeah, well, that was then and this was now or before or some crap. I cleared my throat and looked at Ian. “Not a pretty sight so early in the morning. Or ever.”
“Indeed.”
I peered around. My dad and uncle would bitch a storm at the contamination of this crime scene. There were dozens of fresh footprints, some of them bloody, around the corpse. With the poor light and the number of sightseers, there’d be little hope of doing a proper crime scene analysis even if such a thing was possible. The body was all these guys had to go on. No wonder Jack never got caught.
I glanced back to the dead woman. She was smaller than my mom, maybe five feet two to five four. Heavier build. Probably fortyish like Mom though. Her clothes looked old and worn, black jacket and little hat tied beneath her chin, dark green skirt with a brownish underskirt or slip
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