“This is how we found her.” The city
trooper gestured at the woman’s body sprawled on the grass behind the dumpster.
“Nobody’s moved the body. We’ve taken all the photos. A purse was found eight
feet from the body. No evidence anything was removed. Cash, credit cards,
license, phone still inside.”
Frowning at the expression of terror
frozen on the dead woman’s face, Detective Parkins muttered, “Not a simple
theft turned ugly.”
“No, Sir.”
“When was the body found?” Parkins
asked.
Consulting his notes out of habit rather
than necessity, the policeman said, “A passerby called at 10:15am. Man toting a
bag of trash to the dumpster. The dispatcher sent me here immediately and I
called your office when I saw the wounds.”
His face glistening with perspiration, he
offered an opinion, “Body’s stiff. She’s been dead several hours.” Looking
straight ahead, the officer quoted from the forensic textbook. “Presumed cause
of death is a severed carotid artery.”
Detective Parkins nodded. “I’ll wait for
the report from Pathology.” He crouched on one knee to examine the corpse. Her
skin was flaccid and dry. Blood had gushed from her neck, leaving red streaks
on her pink shirt. He did not bother to touch the body. The skin temperature
would hold no clues in the sultry heat of the Atalanta summer. Parkins
grimaced. The irregular gash across her throat was horribly familiar.
Glancing at the officer, he noted the
name on his badge. “Look at her neck, Officer Cagle. Seen anything like it
before?”
With a grunt to acknowledge the
Detective’s request, Cagle leaned over the body and frowned. “It’s strange, now
you mention it. I didn’t notice at first. The cut appears to have been made by
a weapon with a serrated edge. I’ve never seen a knife with serrations like
that.” He stared at the detective in alarm and whispered, “What is it?”
“I’d love to know,” the detective
assured him. Standing up, he made a fast decision. He warned, “Keep an eye on
the streets. This case is the second death I’ve seen in three weeks with the
same type of wound on the neck. He glowered at the startled officer. “We may be
looking for a serial killer.”
“A serial killer,” the man repeated
slowly. He shook his head and whispered, “With that weird slash, it may be time
to call in the Secret Supers.”
“They’re an urban legend,” Parkins
snapped.
The officer tilted his head and asked,
“How long have you been in the city, Sir?”
“Six weeks on Monday,” Parkins replied,
running his fingers through his thinning hair. His thoughts were elsewhere. He
stepped aside and beckoned to the ambulance crew waiting with a stretcher.
“Take her to the morgue. I’m ordering an
autopsy.” Suppressing a shudder, Parkins guessed what the pathologists would
find. A body drained of blood just like the first case. Maybe they did need the
Secret Supers. Whoever, or whatever, they were.
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