Kowalski looked down at her and felt his stomach tie itself in a knot. He had heard the expression over and over again, mostly uttered by overly dramatic bystanders, but never really come across it himself. But here it was now. The all singing, all dancing version. He knew he wouldn't throw up, never had. And he'd seen a lot worse than this. It was a close run thing though. Closer even than he imagined. Sixteen. He tried to ignore it, but his mind kept coming back to it again and again. She was sixteen, this sallow, dead thing chained to a radiator in a dingy downtown apartment. He kept remembering when he was sixteen, spooning on the couch with Charlene Gionaucci with the worlds worst case of blue balls, wishing she wasn't so catholic. Now he was looking down on the body of a kid the same age who had been abused so many times, spooning on the couch at sixteen would have been met with a callous, indignant laugh. If it had been Alice rather than Charlene all those years ago, she would have been taking his pants off and quoting her price before they even sat down. Now this. He saw the marks and his mind tried to deny the knowledge of what they were but it was no good. He had seen a thousand cigarette burns on a thousand victims. He knew. The other marks he knew as well. Pliers, one that looked like the raw, gaping hole that could only be made with a drill. Or maybe he was being optimistic there. It could have been a screwdriver. One would take seconds; the other would have taken maybe fifteen minutes, maybe an hour. There was blood on her thighs too, high up on the inside. He knew what caused that too, was piercingly aware of it. And he knew that even Alice, who had gone through maybe six customers a night for a long, long time would have felt empty, used and violated by it. He wondered if she had tried to scream. She couldn't have of course. They had found her tongue in the kitchen. It had been removed long before the blood got on her thighs. Part of him wondered if she had been strangled before that, a cut so deep her head was almost separated from her body. Razor wire, undoubtedly. He hoped desperately that it had, but doubted it all the same.
"Jesus." Came a whispered voice from his right. He looked around at a blue suit. No more than twenty-one. So wet behind the ears it practically dripped down his neck. He looked utterly appalled. This was either his first, or close enough for it not to matter. Ray felt a sudden burst of longing so hard it almost floored him. To be that naïve. As much as the sight of Alice's pale, almost decapitated body filled him with pity, as they always did, and as much as it made him sick, which they did less and less these days, he did not feel he was doing her emotional justice. He had known her very well. Had spoken to her two weeks ago, had yelled at her, called her names. And still he couldn't muster up the raw, almost physical, pain and horror he saw on this rookie's face. He had seen too much. Friend or not, sixteen or not, Alice was just another dead hooker. Another whodunit where they knew exactly whodunit, where to find him, his social security number, everything. But they couldn't prove it. Never could.
"I know." He said anyway, because in a way he did. He could remember himself at twenty-one. Could almost feel the emotions that had coursed through him when looking down on his first mutilated teenager. Almost. Not quite though. "Anyone find out her name yet?" He asked in a voice that sounded harsh, too officious. The rookie stared at him, vague and confused as only the newest of cops could be. This was his first. No doubt about it.
"Don't you? The Sarge said-."
"Her real name." He barked, more aggressive than he meant to be. The kid flinched. Ray felt bad about that, but he continued regardless. "It sure as hell wasn't Alice. We always knew that. She changed it so much we never did figure it out."
"But you checked out her records. It was Julie, wasn't it?"
"No. They called her Julie when she first went into care. New name for a new life. Her mother insisted" He smirked a little at that. Alice had gone through at least five new lives, that they knew of. "Maybe if I'd checked harder. But I didn't. We need the name on her birth certificate."
"I'll go make some calls. Try to find out." The rookie seemed relieved at the excuse to get away. Ray let him go. Something inside him, some twisted thing, almost made him call the kid back. Make him stand here over a child only, at most, five years younger than he, while Ray made the calls, searched it up, as he should've done already, when he first tried to use her as a witness rather than just an informant. He couldn't make the kid stay. He needed to leave, and Ray was sure that although that need was very strong, there was also part of him that wanted to stay. To watch over her. But the desire to leave was stronger. If he stayed, eventually it wouldn't be. Ray had seen it before, and it never went well. They turned into crusaders, trying to save every victim in the city and destroying themselves in the process. Ray knew the kid would never find her real name. She had buried it too deep. He would dig it up himself when the homicide boys got here and made him leave. For now, he was content to stay, looking down on her like a guardian angel. And wondering how he could get her vengeance.