The next day brings the lovely sunshine of the Californian sun bursting through my blinds that makes me squint as I rise from my bed. My cat, Princess Rose, is busying meowing as loudly as she can for me to feed her. I have to I have no choice. I pour the wet food into her little bowl as she early waits on the ground, still meowing. As soon as I place the bowls down, she stuffs her face full of her breakfast tuna. I stretch my arms and open a cupboard to get my cereal. As the cereal swirls around in the milk I can't help but think about last night. I mean sure it was annoying but I still can't shake what my dad said. What would I figure out why has he never told me?! I grumble something as I almost throw my bowl into the sink and go and get changed.
What feels like two hours later, I'm finally sitting at my desk. Traffic on the freeway was terrible and I had to get some coffee and then park and it was a whole mess. My desk partner, Sam, smirks.
"Rough night?" He asks.
"Or I'm not a morning person?" I suggest.
"Yes, but I mean last night? You wouldn't stop complaining about it." I don't say anything. I'm still too mad to even speak about it. Sam just shrugs his shoulders.
"How far are you on the reports?" he sighs. I'm still trying to boot up my computer but I can distinctly remember being halfway done.
"Almost finished. Hope you haven't procrastinated too much." I snigger.
"Shut it. The powers of the internet are too compelling."
"Ugh." I roll my eyes. Meanwhile, it looks as though a fight is breaking out between Lisa and Simon at the other desk.
"It was the 25th I know it! Look I documented all of this while you just sit there on your ass." Lisa erupts from her chair and leans over the desk. Simon, calm as could be, leans back on his chair.
"And I'm telling you that it was the 24th because we could process him sooner." Simon continues typing away. Lisa sits down quickly but her cheeks are bright red. I'm certain I could hear a sorry escape from her lips but it also could have been bastard. After a while the phone rings. All typing stops immediately. Sam is the one to pick up but doesn't say a word.
"Where? Uh-huh… got it. Michelle come on we got a dead woman by the Dodgers Stadium." He leaps up out of his seat and quickly straps on his badge and gun. I quickly save the document and have a moment on cheering myself for a job well done before following Sam down to the parking lot.
Isabelle could not be in a worse mood. Her husband, Frank, was being an ass once again, her sister Tina had called Isabelle up this morning complaining about her boyfriend, and now the old man whom she took care of insisted on walking around some stupid park when it looked as though he could collapse at any moment and she would really not be happy. Mr Smith hung on her side in limp manner that made her swear that he was literally sagging in her very arms. She thought all hope was lost when suddenly she saw a crowd of people and what looked line a crime scene, judging by all the police cars, the media swarming, and police patrolling all around the tapped off area. Isabelle had never seen a crime scene and knew instantly that this could be a great topic to rub in her sister's face as soon as she started taking about her asshole boyfriend. She dragged the old man along with her while still maintaining a large grin. Approaching the barrier, Isabelle began to see absolutely nothing. All that was there was a particularly annoyed patrolman being heckled by multiple news outlets. Isabelle craned her neck to try and see over the little mound that blocked her view of the crime scene, but all she could see were the tops of people's heads. Mr Smith did not look amused in the slightest but he did not protest. So, Isabelle continued to drag him over to the patrolman to try and gain a little more information. A man was right in front of the others but did not seem like the rest. He cradled his smartphone and typed furiously as soon as the patrolman did anything. That and his dishevelled chestnut brown hair set him apart from the slick suits and microphones stuffed in the patrolman's area.
"And do you know the detectives on the case." The man asked. The cop rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.
"For the last time, I am not at liberty to divulge information about this case. Jeez." The cop left his post in a huff. Everyone, including Isabelle, looked like children upset that all the ice cream ran out. The cameras and reporters began to disperse and start their reports but the man, Isabelle, and of course Mr Smith remained.
"There's nothing here, we should leave dear." Mr Smith muttered. Isabelle could not help but agree and reluctantly turned around with Mr Smith still hanging onto her arms.
I stare at the body for a good minute. Sam is already speaking to the coroner and I can make out the important details. Cause of death was the blows to the head and time of death was early this morning. I crouch down and for a minute I wonder what kind of pain that must feel like. This woman, Greta Reed, is stark naked with her head bashed in and with writing over her torso and boot marks all over her chest. The only reason I knew her name is that the killer helpfully left her purse behind. Her driver's licence, lipstick, a house key, and some receipts were all her belongings. The lipstick color seems to be the same on her body and the only message that sticks out is AGAIN, along with other not so nice terms. I notice that her hand is bloodied. The coroner looks over and shakes his head.
"Probably a wedding ring that was torn off judging by the position." So the creep decided to collect a ring, probably to pawn or to keep? Sam pokes me in the elbow and I turn to see what he's looking at. We can just about see over the little hill the crowd of people behind a barrier. I didn't even know so many people were in the area but whatever.
"Do we have an address?" I turn and ask.
"Yep, 212 Normandie Ave."
"Then let's go, I mean we could wait for the analysis back at work but…"
"Yeah I get it." Sam waives his hand to tell me to shut up. As we walk to the car I notice out of the corner of my eye an elderly man and a younger woman dragging him away from the barrier. However, the man seems less interested in the fact that he's being manhandled and more into Sam and me. He smiles at me in a kind of I-know-what's-up way and it sends a chill up my spine.
Greta Reed's apartment is most notably filled with junk. Everything had been thrown on the floor. The only thing that remained standing was a picture of Greta posing in front of a pyramid. I'm busy shifting through the crap in the bedroom when Sam peers round the doorway.
"Finding anything in this junk?"
"Nope."
"Well that sucks but I found this half eaten doughnut, a unopened jigsaw puzzle, and – " he pulls out a shirt and takes one whiff of the scent. " what appears to be week old laundry. So, Detective Thompson, what kind of a person are we dealing with?"
"No idea." I shrug my shoulders. Sam pouts but I just roll my eyes.
"A person who clearly does not give a shit, also is or was married judging by shoes over there and I think alcoholic." He sniffs the shirt again and nods his head affirmatively. I stand up from my junk pile.
"Great, so you're thinking what I'm thinking?"
"That we need to wait for the autopsy and forensics and we should go back because yes we should." He's wearing one of his wide grins.
"I was thinking that the husband did it. But fine, we'll go back." I storm out of the apartment while Sam is not so subtly cheering.
It took us forever to drive back downtown and it did not help that Sam insisted on using the freeway when I repeatedly told him we could take the streets. So I collapse in my chair with nothing to do and pissed off while Sam cracks his fingers and gets back to writing up reports. Simon shuffles up next to me with coffee in hand.
"Did you kids have fun?" I glare up at him. He shrugs his shoulders and sits down at his desk. Lisa is now making more busy work for herself by reorganizing her desk. I decide my time is best spent surfing the web in my usual manner. First, I check my twitter feed to be somewhat informed on daily issues because I have no time to read the newspaper and I barely listen to the news. Next, I will peruse my subscription box on YouTube before ending my escapades by shuffling through the various sub-reddits. Finally, the phone rings and race to pick it up before Sam even knows what's happening.
"Detective Thompson how can I help?" I grin as Sam glares at me.
"Oh my God, are you fighting with your partner again? Will you stop that?" A harsh female voice comes through on the other line. Naomi, forensic analyst extraordinaire and hard ass loves to scold me every time but I know she thinks I'm cool.
"No I am not, I'm just enthusiastic. So what's up?"
"Come down here with your partner, please." Silence. I press my ear to phone and I realize that she just hung up on me. I stare disgustingly at the phone and groan.
"Naomi has summoned us." I say bluntly. Sam peers over his screen and smirks. I stare at him confusingly but he shakes his head. I don't understand him sometimes. After he made sure he saved his work (or rather I did) we hurry to the elevator and descend down the building into the bowels. I walk out first and there's Naomi tapping her high-heeled shoe.
"What took you so long?" She scowls. Sam and I point at each other and declare, "It was him/her!" Clearly Naomi is having none of this as she just turns around and I guess expects us to follow her.
"I'm on a tight schedule here so let's get this over quickly." Naomi's words feel as though they are constantly piercing my heart.
"Always the charmer." Sam whispers quickly before we enter Naomi's pristine lab. It's like walking into OCD's version of heaven, everything clearly labelled and clean that you could use the counters as mirrors. A bunch of screens display all sorts of information that could make your head spin, luckily we have a nerd to decipher it.
"Please pay attention." Naomi looks to me with a scowl on her face, as I am clearly more interested in anything but her.
"Sorry." I mumble. Naomi groans and turns to face her computer and starts clicking things and typing stuff.
"According to the coroner, death was by blunt force trauma to the frontal lobe." Naomi pauses and slightly turns her head to look at us meanwhile the screen is being reflected off her glasses so it gives off this very insane scientist look, which is pretty much her.
"Is that a question or…" Sam suggests. Naomi groans, again. So I guess that was her way of saying figure it out morons or they don't pay enough for this shit.
"Anyway-" she continues, " I found flakes of skin underneath her fingernails so she clearly tried to fight her attacker off. Also, I recovered some fingerprints on her phone in her purse belonging to a Derek Reed. I ran the prints through and apparently he was arrested last year for a DUI. Unfortunately I couldn't get anything off the skin cells."
"Why?" I ask.
"Because this isn't the FBI or an episode in some police procedural so that means I am not a wizard." Naomi's face turns a shade of red I never saw. A sensitive subject I now know to never bring up again. She waves her hand toward the exit and doesn't say anything but Sam and I are out the door before she even turns back to her screens. One day I will get to know the real Naomi Tanaka.
Back in the office I search through my email and find the coroner report, which makes me giggle slightly, but at the same time I can imagine myself running down stairs to Naomi and seriously rubbing it in her face that she jumped the gun.
"Hey did you see the coroner's-" Sam starts and I just nod my head. We both stare at each other for a minute before breaking out into reserved giggling that is safe for work, because obviously we both want to reaaaallly rub in in Naomi's face. However, my master revenge plot of two minutes is interrupted by a phone call.
"Detective Thompson, what up?" I say while leaning back on my chair.
"Um, yeah there's an old man here to see you about an on going case." Clearly a random guard who got pinned with the duty of playing nice.
"I mean, sure send him up." I shrug my shoulders. I know for a fact we have a pretty solid lead on the husband so really talk to an old man couldn't hurt. The elevator doors open to reveal the poor guard, an old man, and a clearly annoyed caretaker all crammed into a shitty space. The guard is the first to get out and directs the other two to my desk. The old man seems strangely familiar but I can't put my finger on it. The woman sort of wanders off while the old man is seated in a decrepit chair but is still looking at me with a beaming smile like he just won a million bucks. I pull out my notebook and flip to clean page and I notice out of the corner of my eye that Sam is staring in wonder at the scene unfolding because I will not hear the end of this in the car.
"So, Mister?"
"Martin Smith." He says matter-of-factly.
"Right Mr. Smith, you said you had some information?" This is his cue to reach slowly into his jacket pocket and pull out an aging photograph. He places it carefully on the table and taps his finger on it repeatedly.
"Well I was at the park today with Isabelle and obviously I saw the commotion. Terrible what happened to that poor girl, but anyway it reminded me of something I found while I was digging around in my house. This photo of a woman who died, I think, in a similar fashion." I decide to take a peek and to my horror I see a naked woman like Greta Reed with the same head injury. The first thing I notice is that the photo is in black and white but also that it's old. I turn it over and scribbled on the back is Celine Henry February 1947. Wait, 1947! I quickly look up at Mr. Smith who is clearly impressed by my reaction.
"How old are you sir?" I ask, a little afraid of the answer. He chuckles and coughs a little.
"I'm the ripe old age of 95 dear. Now if you want to know if I remember the details of this murder, I can't say I do because I probably glossed over it in the newspaper but still…" He trails off as though he is talking to himself but does not want to enlighten me to the conversation.
"Where did you find this?" I wave the picture around.
"I found it while cleaning my attic but if I am remembering correctly there were more photos in an envelope and they are probably in the floor boards still."
"Why didn't you take them out?" He stares at me long and hard like I should know the answer.
"Because I wanted to respect the wishes of the person who put them there. This person must have a reason to bury such a memory."