"Jordan . . . Jordan. Jesus Christ," Woody swore under his breath. Jordan
was so pliable . . . so flaccid in his arms. Blood was dried and matted
into her long chestnut hair . . . the wound was deep . . . gaping . . . it
began to scab . . . the bloody drainage stained the sleeve of his suit
jacket . . . saturated his dress shirt.
"Jordan, the paramedics are on their way. You're going to be okay . . . Jordan, you're going to be okay," Woody whispered . . . the sirens began to wail in the distance . . . slowly becoming closer.
Woody couldn't understand why Jordan was here . . . she must have come to his apartment to tell him something. He never thought that he would find her half-dead on his doorstep . . . she was talking crazy last night when she called his cell phone. Jordan kept saying that he needed to leave . . . he should come to the bar . . . he shouldn't be alone tonight. Woody wrote it off as Jordan's over-active imagination . . . she worried too much. He had to admit that the last few weeks had given her much to worry about. Right now, he couldn't think of much more than Jordan . . . he held her tight . . . only relinquishing his hold when the paramedics emerged on his doorstep.
It dawned on him that he had slept through Jordan's attack.
2 Months Prior.
I made my way through the brush . . . sirens and lights illuminated the dusky evening sky. The embankment by the river was steep . . . I kept slipping as I tried to get to the crime scene. Dad always told me that I wore 'impractical' shoes to work . . . told me that I needed to start dressing more sensible. The sentiment was always echoed by Garrett.
"Jordan, nice of you to show up," Woody said . . . sounding already exasperated . . . I slide down the rest of embankment . . . into his arms. I must have said something lame about women falling for him . . . he looked at me funny, but laughed it off.
"So what's going on?" I asked as we walked along the river to the body.
"It's the same guy . . . the river rapist. This time the girl he chose . . . has some significant political connections," Woody explained as we made our way through the swampy water.
"How significant?" I asked intrigued.
"This is the senator's runaway teenage daughter . . . Jordan, make this go away . . . fast," Woody said nervously.
Nigel was taking plaster casts of the footprints near the body . . . Peter was busy snapping pictures of the deceased. The body was twisted . . . it was a sloppy drop. This was the same guy . . . the girl was fully clothed . . . no obvious signs of sexual assault. The girl was just strangled . . . it was angry . . . the murder was angry. The murderer was also clean . . . never leaving any useful forensic evidence.
"Jordan, this is girl number six . . . you've got to help me stop this," Woody pleaded.
"Let's let the body do the talking," Jordan said as she joined Peter and Nigel in processing the crime scene.
Next Day: Autopsy
"Broke her hyoid bone . . . that's it a clean break. Nothing . . . there is nothing else on this body . . . not a damn thing . . . it's clean. Nigel, tell me you found some trace evidence," I said exasperated . . . the young girl lay supine on my table . . . long brown hair flowing over the edge of the table . . . creamy white skin . . . a stark contrast to the pale white skin.
"A few carpet fibers . . . you are going to love this carpet fibers, Jordan," Nigel said waving me over to the microscope, "Very high quality fibers . . . . very expensive carpet."
"She wasn't raped . . . so the guy took her home to kill her and clean her up. That's awful risky . . . being seen with her for the ride home," I pondered, "What the hell. Did we find any ID on the girl?"
"Woodrow found her purse. Condoms galore," Nigel commented.
"How much money was on her? Nigel, what does a teenage hooker go for these days?" I asked as I looked over the results of her tox screen . . . I was dismayed to see that it was negative for everything except estradiol . . . birth control pills.
"Love, she had mucho money on her. Why would you ask me how much a hooker goes for?" Nigel asked raising his eyebrow.
"You always seem to know everything else," I replied . . . stared at the girl on the table.
"I don't know if that's a compliment or not. How about if I run a trace on these fibers?" Nigel said straightening up . . . leaving the room to go through a vast number of binders containing information on all the bric-a- brac that Boston had to offer.
"I'll find out what the job pays," I left the autopsy room . . . picked up my jacket from my office . . . headed out to the street.
1 Hour Later: Stringer Street
The prostitutes roamed the street day and night . . . girls that should have been in school that day. They looked like baby thirty year olds . . . they have lost all their innocence . . . all they had left was the vague notion that sex somehow equated to love. I walked the streets . . . no one wanted to talk to me. They made sexual comments . . . duragatory . . . it made me cringe to hear that out of a teenager's mouth.
"Hey, you . . . leopard and lace," I called out . . . the girl looked scared, "I'm not a cop."
That seemed to relax her a little.
"I want to ask you about Candice . . . uhh . . . Candy Cane," I cringed when I used her street name.
"What's to know?" the girl asked . . . putting on a snobby front to conceal her fear.
"I want to know everything about her . . . what did she charge . . . who was a regular . . . why was she doing this," I rambled, "I'll buy you a nice meal."
"Fine, but you can't use my name . . . every girl that snitched to the police was killed," the girl said following me down the street.
"I'm Jordan . . . the police would shit if they knew that I was out here talking to you," I commented as we entered a dirty café.
"Jordan . . . who's doing this?" the girl asked suddenly becoming a girl . . . shedding her thirty year old skin.
"What did you know about Candice?" I asked . . . as the waitress came over to our table.
"She wasn't in it for the money . . . she charged only twenty dollars an hour. It made her popular . . . took a lot of business away from the other girls. Not many people liked her," the girl replied . . . she ordered chocolate chip pancakes.
"Why'd she do that? Didn't she need to make a living?" I asked . . . I sipped the strong black coffee.
"She didn't need the money . . . some guy always gave her money . . . a pretty large paycheck," the girl commented.
"So . . . who was the guy?" I asked.
"I don't know . . . Candice said that she couldn't tell . . . he would get in trouble . . . she would be in even more trouble," the girl said.
"Where can I find the guy?" I asked.
"He came around about once a month . . . big black car . . . Mercedes. She never had sex with him . . . he just gave her a handout. Candy called him the sugar daddy," the girl said as she inhaled her food.
"What did he look like?" I asked.
"He was tall . . . had really dark almost black hair . . . his hands were always manicured. He wore a black trench coat . . . and a hat . . . like the one Dick Tracy wore," the girl said . . . I paid the bill.
"Hey, thanks," I said . . . I tossed her a twenty . . . she smiled . . . I told her to be careful.
Day 1: An Hour Later – Police Station
"You did what?" Woody asked, "You paid off a girl to tell you about Candice. Jordan, you need to be more careful."
"Woody, don't you at least want to hear what I have to say," I asked . . . I leaned up against his desk.
"I have a feeling that you are going to tell me anyway," Woody said . . . nervously pacing the room.
"The money Candice had . . . it wasn't from her jobs. She charged twenty bucks an hour," I began.
"Wow . . . isn't that a little on the low side," Woody said finally taking interest in what I was saying.
"Yeah . . . the majority of the money is from this 'sugar daddy' . . . she never had sex with him . . . he just gave her a handout once a month," I continued, "He was tall . . . drove a dark Mercedes . . . wore a black trench coat . . . had manicured hands. This girl had an upper crust friend that was taking care of her."
"I don't understand this case . . . the other girls . . . did they get hand outs?"
"No, they ratted the girl out to the cops . . . if they talked about Candice . . . they were taken care of," I replied.
"Jordan, what do I do next?" Woody asked.
"Let's go look at some carpet," I suggested standing up. "Jordan," Woody lamented as he put on his jacket.
"Jordan, the paramedics are on their way. You're going to be okay . . . Jordan, you're going to be okay," Woody whispered . . . the sirens began to wail in the distance . . . slowly becoming closer.
Woody couldn't understand why Jordan was here . . . she must have come to his apartment to tell him something. He never thought that he would find her half-dead on his doorstep . . . she was talking crazy last night when she called his cell phone. Jordan kept saying that he needed to leave . . . he should come to the bar . . . he shouldn't be alone tonight. Woody wrote it off as Jordan's over-active imagination . . . she worried too much. He had to admit that the last few weeks had given her much to worry about. Right now, he couldn't think of much more than Jordan . . . he held her tight . . . only relinquishing his hold when the paramedics emerged on his doorstep.
It dawned on him that he had slept through Jordan's attack.
2 Months Prior.
I made my way through the brush . . . sirens and lights illuminated the dusky evening sky. The embankment by the river was steep . . . I kept slipping as I tried to get to the crime scene. Dad always told me that I wore 'impractical' shoes to work . . . told me that I needed to start dressing more sensible. The sentiment was always echoed by Garrett.
"Jordan, nice of you to show up," Woody said . . . sounding already exasperated . . . I slide down the rest of embankment . . . into his arms. I must have said something lame about women falling for him . . . he looked at me funny, but laughed it off.
"So what's going on?" I asked as we walked along the river to the body.
"It's the same guy . . . the river rapist. This time the girl he chose . . . has some significant political connections," Woody explained as we made our way through the swampy water.
"How significant?" I asked intrigued.
"This is the senator's runaway teenage daughter . . . Jordan, make this go away . . . fast," Woody said nervously.
Nigel was taking plaster casts of the footprints near the body . . . Peter was busy snapping pictures of the deceased. The body was twisted . . . it was a sloppy drop. This was the same guy . . . the girl was fully clothed . . . no obvious signs of sexual assault. The girl was just strangled . . . it was angry . . . the murder was angry. The murderer was also clean . . . never leaving any useful forensic evidence.
"Jordan, this is girl number six . . . you've got to help me stop this," Woody pleaded.
"Let's let the body do the talking," Jordan said as she joined Peter and Nigel in processing the crime scene.
Next Day: Autopsy
"Broke her hyoid bone . . . that's it a clean break. Nothing . . . there is nothing else on this body . . . not a damn thing . . . it's clean. Nigel, tell me you found some trace evidence," I said exasperated . . . the young girl lay supine on my table . . . long brown hair flowing over the edge of the table . . . creamy white skin . . . a stark contrast to the pale white skin.
"A few carpet fibers . . . you are going to love this carpet fibers, Jordan," Nigel said waving me over to the microscope, "Very high quality fibers . . . . very expensive carpet."
"She wasn't raped . . . so the guy took her home to kill her and clean her up. That's awful risky . . . being seen with her for the ride home," I pondered, "What the hell. Did we find any ID on the girl?"
"Woodrow found her purse. Condoms galore," Nigel commented.
"How much money was on her? Nigel, what does a teenage hooker go for these days?" I asked as I looked over the results of her tox screen . . . I was dismayed to see that it was negative for everything except estradiol . . . birth control pills.
"Love, she had mucho money on her. Why would you ask me how much a hooker goes for?" Nigel asked raising his eyebrow.
"You always seem to know everything else," I replied . . . stared at the girl on the table.
"I don't know if that's a compliment or not. How about if I run a trace on these fibers?" Nigel said straightening up . . . leaving the room to go through a vast number of binders containing information on all the bric-a- brac that Boston had to offer.
"I'll find out what the job pays," I left the autopsy room . . . picked up my jacket from my office . . . headed out to the street.
1 Hour Later: Stringer Street
The prostitutes roamed the street day and night . . . girls that should have been in school that day. They looked like baby thirty year olds . . . they have lost all their innocence . . . all they had left was the vague notion that sex somehow equated to love. I walked the streets . . . no one wanted to talk to me. They made sexual comments . . . duragatory . . . it made me cringe to hear that out of a teenager's mouth.
"Hey, you . . . leopard and lace," I called out . . . the girl looked scared, "I'm not a cop."
That seemed to relax her a little.
"I want to ask you about Candice . . . uhh . . . Candy Cane," I cringed when I used her street name.
"What's to know?" the girl asked . . . putting on a snobby front to conceal her fear.
"I want to know everything about her . . . what did she charge . . . who was a regular . . . why was she doing this," I rambled, "I'll buy you a nice meal."
"Fine, but you can't use my name . . . every girl that snitched to the police was killed," the girl said following me down the street.
"I'm Jordan . . . the police would shit if they knew that I was out here talking to you," I commented as we entered a dirty café.
"Jordan . . . who's doing this?" the girl asked suddenly becoming a girl . . . shedding her thirty year old skin.
"What did you know about Candice?" I asked . . . as the waitress came over to our table.
"She wasn't in it for the money . . . she charged only twenty dollars an hour. It made her popular . . . took a lot of business away from the other girls. Not many people liked her," the girl replied . . . she ordered chocolate chip pancakes.
"Why'd she do that? Didn't she need to make a living?" I asked . . . I sipped the strong black coffee.
"She didn't need the money . . . some guy always gave her money . . . a pretty large paycheck," the girl commented.
"So . . . who was the guy?" I asked.
"I don't know . . . Candice said that she couldn't tell . . . he would get in trouble . . . she would be in even more trouble," the girl said.
"Where can I find the guy?" I asked.
"He came around about once a month . . . big black car . . . Mercedes. She never had sex with him . . . he just gave her a handout. Candy called him the sugar daddy," the girl said as she inhaled her food.
"What did he look like?" I asked.
"He was tall . . . had really dark almost black hair . . . his hands were always manicured. He wore a black trench coat . . . and a hat . . . like the one Dick Tracy wore," the girl said . . . I paid the bill.
"Hey, thanks," I said . . . I tossed her a twenty . . . she smiled . . . I told her to be careful.
Day 1: An Hour Later – Police Station
"You did what?" Woody asked, "You paid off a girl to tell you about Candice. Jordan, you need to be more careful."
"Woody, don't you at least want to hear what I have to say," I asked . . . I leaned up against his desk.
"I have a feeling that you are going to tell me anyway," Woody said . . . nervously pacing the room.
"The money Candice had . . . it wasn't from her jobs. She charged twenty bucks an hour," I began.
"Wow . . . isn't that a little on the low side," Woody said finally taking interest in what I was saying.
"Yeah . . . the majority of the money is from this 'sugar daddy' . . . she never had sex with him . . . he just gave her a handout once a month," I continued, "He was tall . . . drove a dark Mercedes . . . wore a black trench coat . . . had manicured hands. This girl had an upper crust friend that was taking care of her."
"I don't understand this case . . . the other girls . . . did they get hand outs?"
"No, they ratted the girl out to the cops . . . if they talked about Candice . . . they were taken care of," I replied.
"Jordan, what do I do next?" Woody asked.
"Let's go look at some carpet," I suggested standing up. "Jordan," Woody lamented as he put on his jacket.