The Wicked Hour

by Alice Blanchard

  She stood blinking in the bright sunshine, all her thoughts dog-paddling backward into deeper water. A ripple of resistance blowing through her. No way was she going to get stuck with another drop-everything case. She’d had her fill of notoriety, thanks very much. She didn’t want to go down that path again. She refused to stand in the media spotlight, so harsh and glaring. It was true, Natalie wanted to keep busy—but not this way. Let someone else do it. Let Augie or Mike or Brandon take the case. Six months ago, her life had morphed into a nightmare of tabloid headlines and aggressive reporters calling her all hours of the day and night. There was an aggressive journalist from Syracuse who’d practically insisted he was the only one qualified to tell her story—as if she wanted her story to be told. She’d had her fill of sensational articles and internet stalkers. She was sick of the trollish behavior and just-plain-weird serial killer fanboys. She didn’t want to know how many bloodthirsty people there were in the world.

  But Natalie was holding on to the dead woman’s hand, so pale and fragile, and she simply couldn’t let go. “Okay,” she whispered. “I won’t abandon you.”

  6

  It took two officers in hazmat suits approximately thirty-five minutes to remove the body from the dumpster and place it on a tarp in the middle of the alley, and now the victim was hidden from view by a hastily constructed tent. Half a dozen officers were scouring the crime scene for physical evidence, while Natalie sent more officers out across the neighborhood to canvass for potential witnesses. The coroner was on his way. So was Luke.

  The victim—Jane Doe, at this point—had been found stripped naked between several layers of trash. No clothes or jewelry had been found on her person. The plan was to take the dumpster and all of its contents down to the police impound lot for further scrutiny, once the coroner had performed his preliminary exam.

  Jane Doe was a Caucasian female, five foot three, approximately twenty to twenty-five years old. She had a pretty face and a petite body, and the only identifying marks Natalie could find were a few moles, an old appendix scar, and a recent-looking tattoo of an unknown symbol on her upper left arm. The victim’s hands were bunched into fists, clutching at stray pieces of trash—which meant that she may have been alive when she was tossed in the dumpster. Last but not least, there was a prominent hickey on the underside of Jane Doe’s chin that reminded Natalie of her childhood friend Bella Striver.

  Twelve years ago, Bella had run off to California on the night of their high school graduation, and Natalie had never seen or heard from her again. Bella used to have a similar mark under her chin, an oval-shaped callus about the size of a silver dollar. It wasn’t a hickey, although it could’ve been mistaken for one. Natalie recognized this unique mark. On a hunch, she gently pried open the victim’s left hand—leaving intact the cigarette butt and rumpled candy bar wrapper—and studied the victim’s fingertips. Just as she’d suspected, they were hard and calloused. She checked the right hand—there were no such calluses on the fingertips of Jane Doe’s right hand.

  The muscles of Natalie’s throat constricted. It was starting to make sense. She exited the tent and took a deep breath. She activated her phone and called Luke, but it went straight to his voicemail. “Hi, it’s me,” Natalie said. “I found something interesting. Call me as soon as you get this.” She hung up.

  The centuries-old alley was narrow and poorly lit at night. Yesterday, there had been a steady flow of foot traffic less than thirty feet away from the dumpster. If Jane Doe was attacked in the alley, then chances are she would’ve screamed. However, since it was Halloween, her cries for help could’ve been mistaken for mock terror. Halloween season was all about drunken shrieks of laughter. Would anyone in that rowdy, noisy crowd on Sarah Hutchins Drive have come running?

  Natalie felt sick to her stomach. There was a faint smell of decomp on her clothes. When Willow was killed, Bella had come over to Natalie’s house and stayed up with her all night long. They talked quietly, and Bella let Natalie cry on her shoulder as much as she needed to.

  Now Natalie tried to shake off her sense of detachment, but it kept threatening to overpower her. Like her father used to say, “You have to be fully present at a crime scene. Alert and aware.”

  Focus, Natalie.

  She ducked back into the makeshift tent and propped the tent flap open, letting in a swath of sunlight that illuminated Jane Doe’s mahogany-colored hair. Her vivid blue eyes reflected the azure chill of the November sky. On the back of her hands were ink stamps from various local bars, clubs, and pubs—some recognizable, others blurry or smudged. Natalie took pictures, since they could use these stamps to track the victim’s whereabouts last night.

  Jane Doe’s skin was cold to the touch, but no cooler than the surrounding air temperature. Since a naked body cooled faster than a clothed one, the estimated time of death should’ve been six to eight hours ago. However, although the victim was found naked, she was covered in garbage and not exposed to any air currents, which meant she would’ve cooled down at a slower rate than normal, approximately ten to twelve hours.

  Natalie winced as she rolled the body over. She had seen fossilized and rotting cadavers and oozing remains at the police academy. Her own experience had taught her to pack a jar of Vaseline in her kit, which helped with the smell, but she’d forgotten to replace the empty jar. She knew a lot of facts about dead bodies. For instance, buried bodies decomposed seven times more slowly than a body dumped aboveground; the odor of death penetrated air-conditioned rooms and trash bags; the molecules escaping from a decomposing body often clung to your hair and clothes, so that hours later you could still smell the corpse. It was the gift that kept on giving.

  Patchy skin discoloration, called lividity, covered a large area of Jane Doe’s body where the blood had settled postmortem, or after death—on the backs of her legs, arms, and torso. It was proof she’d died lying on her back inside the dumpster, while more garbage was tossed on top of her. What a gruesome way to go. It made Natalie angry. Sweat trickled from her armpits. She would never get used to the horror of seeing someone so young and healthy dead, her life prematurely snuffed out.

  Steeling herself, Natalie pressed her index finger into the back of Jane Doe’s thigh. The skin’s lividity remained. If you pressed your fingertip firmly against discolored skin, the pressure would cause blanching. Once the pressure was released, the discoloration would return. However, five hours after death, the discoloration would become clotted, and any pressure applied to the skin would no longer cause it to blanch. It was not blanching now, which meant that Jane Doe had been dead for five hours at a minimum.

  With gloved hands, Natalie examined the victim’s feet and hands for signs of rigor mortis. There was rigidity throughout the body, which suggested that Jane Doe had been dead for at least eight hours. When combined with the body temperature, Natalie felt fairly certain that the time of death was eight to twelve hours ago.

  Now an alley cat slithered against the vinyl tent, meowing loudly. Natalie poked the cat’s shadow, and it scurried away.

  Who was Jane Doe? A tourist, a resident, or a hired performer? Was this a homicide, suicide, or accidental overdose? Natalie couldn’t determine the method of death—there were no telltale needle marks, razor cuts, or strangulation marks. No bullet wounds, stab wounds, or signs of blunt trauma. There was some minor bruising on her arms and legs, along with a few cuts and abrasions on her knees, which could’ve happened during a struggle or from falling down drunk. Natalie would have to wait for the autopsy report to find out whether Jane Doe had been raped, and whether or not this was the result of foul play, but she couldn’t rule out suicide or accidental death by suffocation, drug overdose, alcohol poisoning, or any other number of findings. Not yet.

  Eight to twelve hours ago, there had been huge crowds on Sarah Hutchins Drive, a mere twelve yards away from the dumpster. If Jane Doe had walked into the alley naked, it would’ve gone viral by now. But if Jane Doe had been fully clothed when she wal
ked into the alley, how did her attacker or attackers get away with it? Did people ignore her cries for help? Or maybe she walked into the alley with her attacker—perhaps a friend or someone she’d picked up at a bar. Maybe they were making love behind the dumpster when she was attacked?

  Maybe someone heard the screams and brushed them aside. Not every witness came forward voluntarily. Fortunately, Natalie knew there were plenty of CCTV cameras in these turn-of-the-century buildings, storefront businesses like Rainie’s New Age boutique across the street, the occult bookshop next door, the antiques store, and the Laundromat a few blocks down. Maybe they’d get lucky.

  Jane Doe’s makeup had been carefully applied, but after a night of partying, her lipstick was worn off and there were little glops of mascara under her eyes. Her layered haircut was a good one, and Natalie had noticed a smear of dried gel on a portion of her hair. She touched the substance and found it to be chalky and sticky. Was that semen or hair gel or something else?

  Today’s absence of people left a neglectful silence behind. A mild breeze sent loose swirls of dust spinning across the brick walkway. Jane Doe and her attacker weren’t the only people to have entered the alley last night. Addicts used these alleyways to score drugs, to shit and piss and get drunk in, and anyone from last night’s crowds could’ve come in here and trampled over potential evidence. An unknown number of employees from local businesses had dumped their trash here, depositing garbage on top of the body, unaware that the victim lay helpless or dead inside.

  Natalie left the tent and stood with her face toward the sun. Soon the coroner would make his preliminary findings and remove the body to the morgue. Afterward, Natalie’s team could take full control of the dumpster and transport it across town to the impound lot for further scrutiny. Maybe they’d find more clues inside.

  In a typical crime scene, you’d find dozens of evidence cards dotting the landscape, but after forty-five minutes they’d accumulated well over eighty orange placards. Not a good sign. All this random trace would create time-consuming false leads.

  She spotted the calico cat slithering along the sooty brick wall, braiding its way through the weeds that grew from the crumbling sidewalk. The cat paused to sniff at a patch of crabgrass, and Natalie went over to see what he was pawing at. She shooed the cat away and plucked a used condom from the weeds, studying it briefly before tagging and bagging it.

  Luke pulled up in front of the alley in his midnight-blue Ford Ranger and got out. “Got your message,” he said, walking toward her. “What’s up?”

  “She played the violin,” Natalie told him.

  7

  Luke ducked under the yellow crime tape and joined Natalie inside the makeshift tent. Jane Doe floated like an ivory carving on a sea-blue tarp. Together they knelt beside the body, while Natalie pointed out the reddish mark on her neck. “It’s called a violin hickey.”

  He leaned in for closer inspection, his frown deepening.

  “Also known as fiddler’s neck,” she said. “It’s a callus created by excessive practicing of the violin, due to constant pressure on the underside of the chin from where the violin rests.” Still wearing gloves, Natalie lifted Jane Doe’s left arm and turned it over so that her hand was palm side up. The dead woman’s limbs were surprisingly insubstantial—as lightweight as a bird with its wings folded. “These calluses on the fingertips of her left hand are from playing the violin, depressing the strings on the fingerboard. My childhood friend Bella had similar calluses. The other hand holds the bow, so there aren’t any calluses.” She gently put the hand down. “Also, I found a gummy substance in her hair.” She showed him. “Could be rosin. Violinists will rub rosin on their bows to make them sticky. The stickiness enhances the contact between the bow and the strings.”

  He sat back on his heels. “So she’s a violinist. Was she a hired musician?”

  “We’re canvassing the area now, trying to find out. We could be looking at a street performer, or part of a string quartet.”

  Hundreds of musicians flocked to Burning Lake during the month of October, when dozens of venues featured rock bands, rhythm and blues, honky-tonk, rockabilly, house music, folk singers, classical chamber ensembles, soloists, string quartets, and madrigals. There was also an annual Halloween-themed music festival, which had been held in Percival Burton Park last Friday evening.

  “Did you find any ID on her?” Luke asked.

  “Nothing yet. After the coroner completes his preliminary, I’ll have the dumpster hauled down to the impound lot, where we can forensically sort through the garbage. Hopefully, we’ll find out who she is soon enough.”

  “What’s your time of death estimate?”

  “Eight to twelve hours ago.”

  He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and studied the body. The victim’s pale skin was smudged with dirt and grime from the dumpster. “What about method of death?”

  “I couldn’t find any strangulation marks or puncture wounds. No signs of blunt trauma, no evidence of violent assault. No needle marks. Just some minor bruising, and a few scrapes on her knees, maybe from falling down. There was a small amount of vomit inside her mouth, which could indicate an overdose. I can’t tell if she was raped. We’re going to have to wait for the autopsy.”

  Luke nodded. “Eight to twelve hours ago … so we’re talking midnight to four in the morning. Why would she walk into a dead-end alley at that time of night? It’s deep and narrow, not very well lit. The dumpster’s a good thirty-five feet away from the street. Maybe the crowd size made her feel safe, but why come in here? For what purpose? Drugs? Hookup?”

  “She doesn’t look like a junkie,” Natalie said. “No track marks or huffer’s rash. No bags under the eyes. No gauntness. Her makeup was skillfully applied. She had a good haircut and appears to be in great shape physically. A jogger, maybe. Her teeth are well-maintained. No infections or skin rashes.” The victim’s opaque gaze was fixed on the tent ceiling. “I found a used condom on the sidewalk a few yards from the dumpster, but it looks pretty old. I’m guessing she’s a musician or music student. Bella used to train at the conservatory in Chaste Falls, if I remember correctly.”

  Luke looked at her. “The one up north?”

  She nodded. “That’s as good a place to start as any, if we don’t find her ID.”

  Luke crossed his arms. “Check the missing persons reports for Upstate New York, starting with Chaste Falls. What about physical evidence?”

  “The only problem is, we’ve got too much of it,” she told him. “All this trash. And a lot of businesses in the vicinity use this dumpster for their refuse service, which means there were an unknown number of employees tromping in and out of the alley last night, dumping their trash here. At this point, I think we’d have better luck with the surveillance cameras. The guys are door-to-dooring now, talking to local store owners and asking for videotapes. We’ve also initiated a request for the traffic cams.”

  “Good. Maybe we can catch her on tape.”

  “If we only knew what costume to look for,” Natalie added.

  “Good point.” He frowned. “Maybe her costume’s still in the dumpster?”

  “Could be.” She studied Luke for a moment. He was freshly shaved this morning. He always wore crisp white shirts that were professionally steam cleaned and pressed. He must’ve spent a fortune on dry cleaning, she thought. He looked as if he’d been lifting lately. Taking care of himself. His face was drawn, and she knew they were both feeling it. A deep sadness, with a brooding, simmering anger underneath it.

  “We’ll need to do an extensive tox screen for prescription meds, illicit drugs, and roofies,” she said. “The sooner the better.” She picked up Jane Doe’s left hand. “These calluses on the fingertips mean she’s right-handed. She would’ve held the bow in her right hand. And check this out.” She turned the pale hand over. “Ink stamps from all the bars and events she attended last night. We can ask the venues for their surveillance tapes as well.”

  “Whic
h makes the tapes our top priority.”

  Looking at the body was exhausting, as if death could suck all the hope out of your heart. “Meanwhile, the guys are processing everything for prints, trace, and biologicals,” she said.

  The sound of sirens broke their concentration. They ducked out of the tent, and the sheer brilliance of the day made her go sun-blind for an instant. The pungent smell of rotting garbage filled her lungs. She waited for her pulse to slow. There was a tune playing inside her head she couldn’t get rid of, an old Aerosmith song called “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.”

  Natalie didn’t want to miss a thing. Not a speck. Not a fiber. Not a hair.

  A throng of curious shopkeepers and sanitation workers had gathered at the mouth of the alley, where an officer was posted. Bright yellow tape cordoned off the crime scene, and red leaves blew across the pavement. Natalie thought about Ellie. She thought about her sisters, so whip smart and funny and beautiful. She thought about all the girls who were dead or had gone missing. Life could be so unfair. Joey called it revolving-door injustice.

  Now the coroner’s maroon van pulled up and parked, its blue-and-reds flashing, and Coroner Barry Fishbeck stepped out. His silver hair and goatee shone platinum in the sun. He came striding over to them, never one for formalities, and got straight to the point. “Where’s my Jane Doe?”

  “This way.” She nodded at the tent.

  Natalie felt a creeping nausea and paused outside the tent, while Luke and Barry ducked inside. That song was playing in a loop inside her head. “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.”

  Okay. What was she missing?

  She crouched down at the tent opening, an early November cold creeping across the back of her neck, and listened to the two seasoned professionals discussing the case, while Jane Doe lay inert and vulnerable, the final kiss of her violin lingering on the underside of her chin.