by Leslie Wolfe
Michowsky put on a glove, then touched the fishing line. It was taut and resistant. He pressed a little more, but the hands refused to move. Something else must have kept them in place.
“Let’s see if there’s more,” Michowsky said, squinting to see if other ties supported the body. “Check her head. It’s too upright to be natural.”
“I’m not touching her until Doc Rizza gets here,” Fradella replied.
“Smart choice,” Doc Rizza said, appearing behind the yellow line. He approached them, followed closely by his two assistants, carrying the usual piles of gear. “Let’s set up here,” he added, pointing to an area near the tower.
His first assistant, a young man they all called AJ, set down the stretcher and prepared the body bag, unzipping it. Then he opened a case and handed Doc Rizza the liver temperature probe.
Doc Rizza grabbed the probe, not taking his eyes off the young girl’s body. With his gloved hand, he gently examined her fingertips, then invited with a gesture the crime scene technician, Javier Perez, to come and scan her fingerprints. Then the coroner pulled back gently a few strands of her long, blonde hair, exposing a deep incision in the left side of her neck.
Michowsky liked to watch Doc Rizza work. He was old style, respectful and meticulous, taking his time, not constantly obsessing over stats and numbers and reports. He was trustworthy; he cared.
“I got preliminary cause of death for you,” Doc Rizza announced.
“Shoot,” Michowsky said, ready to take notes.
“I’ll go with exsanguination, due to sharp force trauma to the neck. For now. You know the rule. Don’t quote me on anything until I finish my report.”
“Murder weapon? Any hints?”
“I’ll have to take molds… most likely a scalpel. No hesitation marks. He’s done this before.”
Doc Rizza ran his gloved hand through his thinning hair, wiping the sweat beading on his shiny scalp, then stopped and stared at his hand for a split second. “Smart… really smart…” he muttered. He removed the contaminated glove and threw it in the waste bag, then put on a new, sterile glove.
“She’s not in the system,” Javier announced, putting the fingerprint scanner away and grabbing the high-resolution camera. “I’ll start with the photos.”
“Not yet,” Doc Rizza replied. “Give us a minute.” He searched for additional fishing line ties and found a few more. They were difficult to see in the shade under the tower structure.
Her head was held in place by a line tied below her jaw and another looped around her forehead, hidden in her hair. Her shoulders were suspended as well, with the line loops also covered by carefully positioned strands of hair.
“I would have expected more ligature points,” Doc Rizza said, moving away to make room for Javier’s camera. “What else do you need? Oh, yeah, time of death.” He checked the probe and frowned. “Preliminary TOD is between 12 and 16 hours ago, maybe more.”
“Then she was brought here hours after she died,” Michowsky said. “This beach is populated until 9:00, even 10:00PM every night.”
“Yeah. It opens up the distance to your primary crime scene, sorry about that,” Doc Rizza confirmed. “She could have been killed miles away.” He turned to Javier. “You done yet? Help me cut her down.”
AJ approached on the other side, supporting the girl’s body, and Javier handed him the tools he asked for in a quiet, professional voice. He cut the fishing lines one by one, but the body maintained most of its posture.
“Are you sure you got all of them?” Michowsky asked.
“Yeah,” Doc Rizza replied. “It’s just rigor. Confirms my TOD estimate. Most likely she was brought here with rigor already set.”
Michowsky turned away, leaving Doc Rizza and his techs to finish up. He walked around the police line to the two kids huddled together a few yards away and beckoned Fradella to join him.
When they got near, the two teenagers raised their heads and looked at them without saying a word.
“I’m Detective Michowsky, this is Detective Fradella. I understand you two found the body?”
“Y—yes,” the kid replied. “I’m Carl, and this is Kris.”
“And that’s it? You just found the body?” Michowsky asked. “You didn’t see anyone, hear anything?”
“We didn’t. I swear,” the boy replied a little too fast, triggering Michowsky’s curiosity. Was he hiding something? Most likely nothing more than some understandable anxiety.
“What were you two doing here, anyway?”
“Watching the sunrise. Nothing else, really,” the boy replied. “Who was she?”
“We don’t know yet. If you remember anything else, please give me a call.” Michowsky extended his business card. Kris reached out to take it.
“Can we please go home now? Please?” she asked in a subdued voice. “We—we didn’t tell anyone we were going out. My parents will—”
“Don’t worry, they’re on their way. We called them already.”
Kris started crying. “Why? We didn’t do anything!”
“Don’t go anywhere, you hear?” Fradella asked.
They walked slowly toward Doc Rizza’s van, slowly enough for Michowsky to be comfortable.
“God, I need some coffee,” Michowsky said, rubbing his chin forcefully. “I need to zap my brain with something.”
“What do you think?”
“About the kids? I think they’re more scared of their parents than of the entire situation.”
“No, about this case. I’ve never seen anything like it. Do you think it’s a religious freak?”
“It’s hard to say. Sure looks like a ritualistic kill to me. All the posturing, how carefully he made sure she was going to stay in place until she was found, and the sick bastard wanted her found. He wanted a show.”
“Speaking of shows, we got circus,” Fradella said, pointing at two media vans pulling onto the beach. “Who the hell called them?”
From a few yards away, Michowsky and Fradella watched Doc Rizza threaten a bunch of reporters, unyielding until they’d backed their vans away at least 50 more feet. Then Rizza directed a couple of uniforms to put up another police line, pushing the gawkers farther out and cutting their access to the two kids.
“We need to get her ID confirmed, on the double,” Michowsky said.
Fradella nodded, jotting something on his pad. “Run missing persons?”
“To start,” Michowsky confirmed. “Maybe she’s been gone long enough to be in the system. Someone must have missed her.”
“Uh-huh,” Fradella replied. “Do you think it’s the work of a serial killer? I mean, look… the ritual, the posture, the balls on this guy to bring her here, God knows from where.”
Fradella, like most young people, immediately jumped to extreme conclusions. Yet this time, Michowsky couldn’t find an immediate fault to his logic other than the body count. Only one victim didn’t make a serial killer.
“We need three victims to call it a serial. For now, all I know is that we need help. This,” he said, extending his hand toward the tower, “this is much more than we normally deal with. I don’t think we’re equipped to draw the right conclusions here.”
“I’d like to at least try. Would make a nice collar for our team.”
Yes, he was ambitious, his new partner. He was quite promising too. He was sharp, motivated, and his heart was in the right place. However, sometimes he wished for a more seasoned partner, for someone who’d already burned through the enthusiasm of youth and had matured enough to know which battles were worth dying for.
“And risk finding another girl just like that tomorrow? Or next week? Because we missed a clue? Be reasonable, partner, we need help. There’s no shame in that.”
“I thought we could—” Fradella frowned, as he continued his argument but was interrupted by one of the reporters.
“Excuse me, detectives,” the man yelled, bent over the police line as far as he could without falling.
Irr
itated, Michowsky walked toward the reporter with big, angry steps, ignoring the jolts of pain he felt in his back. He approached the journalist and got in his face.
“You’re in my space,” he said quietly, pointing at the yellow line. “Back off.”
The reporter immediately took a step back, but still extended the microphone toward Michowsky.
“Detective, do you have the identity of Dawn Girl? Was this a serial killer?”
Michowsky sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm his taut, raw nerves.
“What’s your name?”
“Brandt Rusch, Channel Seven.”
“Mr. Rusch, I strongly advise you do not put the name Dawn Girl out there. If I see it printed or quoted anywhere—”
“Then what?” Rusch pushed back. “Freedom of the press, remember?”
“Listen, she’s more than a label you slap on a news piece to sell your verbal diarrhea. She doesn’t deserve that. She’s a person, with a name, a family, and loved ones. Don’t do that. Please.”
“What’s to stop me?”
“I can only ask. Nicely.”
“Then give me her name,” Rusch insisted, his crooked smile taunting Michowsky, driving him crazy.
“We don’t have her name, not yet. As soon as we confirm her identity, we will contact next of kin, then we’ll be in touch.”
“You’ll call me?” Rusch laughed. “I’m not that stupid.”
“Give me your card and I will call you. I promise. And no talk about no serial killer either. We don’t have any evidence of that.”
Rusch pursed his lips and shook his head, then shoved his card into Michowsky’s palm.
“You owe me,” he said and turned to leave, making his way through the growing crowd.
A second later, another reporter took his place, wielding yet another microphone.
“Detective, did I just hear that Dawn Girl was murdered by a serial killer? Can you confirm?”
It was going to be a very long day.
Assignment
Tess Winnett refilled her coffee from the hallway pot, keeping an eye on the elevator door. She’d been in early enough to drop off her case report on Special Agent in Charge Alan Pearson’s desk before his typical arrival time. She knew she’d get called in when SAC Pearson finished reading it, and she just wanted the whole deal to be over and done with.
She heard a chime, and looked at the elevator doors again, as they slid open and let out another load, a few of her fellow agents, analysts, and technicians, chatting lively, ready to start their day. Small talk… another minor thing in life she missed, another minor thing she didn’t know how to bring back.
She shrugged off the dark thoughts and refocused on getting her coffee fix. She filled the travel mug to the brim, then started to put the pot back into the machine, careful not to spill.
“You realize you’ll never get laid if you keep doing this, right?” A man spoke loudly right behind her, while passing her by, engulfed in a conversation with another coworker.
She startled and her hands jolted, sending coffee everywhere, projecting it upward. It stained her white shirt and gray slacks. It spilled everywhere on the small table, on the coffeemaker, under it, on the paper tissues, in the sugar jar. A generous splash landed on the wall and rolled down to the floor in tiny rivulets. Another one landed on the carpet.
“Goddamn it,” Tess muttered. What kind of idiot put the coffee machine on a stupid hallway, forcing her to have her back against traffic?
She took a deep breath, regaining some of her composure. The kind of idiot who wasn’t afraid of people had put the coffeemaker there, for everyone’s convenience. There was nothing wrong with that. People weren’t dangerous there, in the middle of the fifth floor of the new FBI building in Miramar, Florida. These people were fine… they were her coworkers. They were safe. She breathed again, deeper, slower, and started cleaning up the mess she’d made.
“Redecorating this morning, Winnett?” an analyst asked, baring two rows of impeccably white and straight teeth, the mark of good breeding and great nurturing.
“Ah, go screw yourself, Donovan,” she replied dryly, continuing to dab at the coffee stains on the wall.
“Always a pleasure to speak with you,” the analyst replied unperturbed, heading toward the elevators.
She let another long breath escape her lungs. No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary; it was just a coffee spill. It happens all the time, in offices everywhere. These spills are the reason behind industrial carpet treatments with Teflon, making it easy on people like her to clean up their messes. No one noticed a thing, but they were investigators. Eventually they were going to figure it out, if she didn’t get a grip.
“Winnett,” SAC Pearson’s voice made it across half the floor. “In my office, now.”
Frustrated, she squeezed the paper towel into a ball and threw it in the trash forcefully, almost tipping the can.
“On my way,” she replied, turning to look at SAC Pearson. He stood at his office door, holding her report in one hand and leaning against the doorframe with the other. He looked tense, impatient. She hustled.
“Close the door and sit down,” SAC Pearson said. He sounded uncompromising, almost cross.
She obeyed quietly and waited for the drill to start, cringing on the inside and bracing herself.
SAC Pearson flipped through the pages of her report and jotted a few things down on a notepad.
“You closed the healthcare fraud case with a nice arrest. Congratulations,” he said, letting out a long breath, as if the acknowledgment of her success caused him physical pain.
She nodded and chose to remain silent.
“You’ve also logged a record number of complaints for a single case. Four written, formally registered complaints.”
She bit her lip and refrained from asking the obvious question. She was sure SAC Pearson would be generous with the details soon enough.
He flipped though his notes, while the frown on his face deepened, furrowing his thick, bushy brow.
“Is it true you chose to visit and question a high-profile witness at 2:00AM?”
She pursed her lips and nodded once, averting her eyes.
“Says here you pounded on his door until he opened it, and by that time, half the neighborhood was awake. What did you need to discuss that couldn’t wait until morning? It was a fraud case, Winnett, not a kidnapping.”
“At that time,” Tess started to reply, then had to stop for a second to clear her throat, irritated by her own hesitation. “Several people had already started shredding evidence. Any minute of delay could have cost us the ability to bring a full array of evidence to support the case.”
“Yes, but you didn’t know that at that time.” Pearson pushed back. “You only found out about the shredding the following day, didn’t you?”
“I sort of did know about it, sir. It was the logical thing for them to do, and the third shift security detail had told me that several executives had been working really late.”
“So it was your gut telling you to pound on that door in the middle of the night, so the governor could call me the next morning with your name?”
She bowed her head, feeling defeated for a second, then she rebounded. “It’s what we use out in the field, sir. And I was proven right.”
Her last comment made Pearson frown even more. His jaws clenched, knotted muscles dancing under his clean-shaved skin.
“You also failed to integrate with the local team, Winnett. You were supposed to form a task team together with local authorities and Medicare representatives. Yet you just bolted out on your own, not informing them of your plans, not even bothering to keep them in the loop. This is not how a team works, Winnett.”
This time he was waiting for her to reply, holding a frustrated eye contact. She resisted the urge to look away and managed to reply, “Yes, sir.”
“When you’re out in the field working a case you are representing this institution, and you have to behav
e in accordance with its standards and policies. We can’t have you embarrass the FBI with your actions, nor can we have you singlehandedly deteriorate the relationships between local law enforcement units and the regional bureau. Our ability to solve cases effectively relies on our aptitude to drive teamwork, engagement, and collaboration. It’s in our policies, in the code of conduct you took an oath to uphold and respect.”
She didn’t find anything to say in her defense. The truth would have been an option, but it would’ve also guaranteed an even angrier response from Pearson. The local law enforcement officers were slow, indolent, and unable to keep up with what she’d tried to do. She’d already wasted more time trying to explain her actions than it was worth. Even if that was the truth, it definitely wasn’t something she’d mention to Pearson, not even to defend herself.
“Speaking of code of conduct, Winnett,” he resumed, “you’re in direct violation, and this time it’s documentable.”
“With what, sir?” Tess blurted, surprised.
“You gambled while on bureau time.”
“I did what?”
“Didn’t you place a bet with a local law enforcement lieutenant? You should be able to remember that bet… Says here you lost a hundred bucks.”
“Oh, that,” she said, then bit her lip again.
“Yes, that. Care to elaborate?”
“Well, I needed the local team to move faster than they were willing to do. To achieve that, I appealed to the man’s ego, and it worked. When I placed the bet I wanted to lose, sir.”
“You manipulated that lieutenant, that’s what you’re saying?”
“Um… yes, sir.”
“Jeez, Winnett. There’s no limit with you. Have you thought about explaining, collaborating, or motivating the local team?”
“Yes, sir, but the bet worked faster. Only took me a minute, and we were pressed for time.”
Pearson ran his hand over his face, as if to wipe away tension, maybe tiredness. Maybe exasperation.
“Finally, you made the arrests on your own, not waiting for backup, and not even bothering to tell your team the warrants had come in. That’s against procedure for a reason. You knew it, and you broke procedure anyway. Why?”