now he’s going to have to leave his hunting ground—’cause we’re going to be waiting for him in all the old familiar places.”
Looking at his wristwatch, Farrell said, “The medical examiner is still at a murder scene up in East Harlem. After he’s been here and checked out this body, you can call the morgue to come collect her. Then it’s the ME’s job. You can seal up the room.”
“No one’s going to relieve me?”
“You’re on a regular daytime shift, right?
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll be done by the end of your shift.”
Hopefully I could still make my evening yoga class.
The detective snapped on a pair of latex gloves, took out his notebook, and started scribbling notes as he walked carefully around the room. Finally he took out a magnifying glass and inspected the floor.
“This guy must’ve used a fucking drop cloth,” the detective said. “Forensics told me, but I had to see it for myself. Except for right here, there ain’t a drop of blood.”
“Wouldn’t a lot of blood have pumped out when he decapitated her?”
“Not when they’re already dead,” Bernie replied. “This guy drugs them, strangles them, and then beheads them. That’s a lot of time and energy.”
“What does he slip them, roofies?”
“Nah, you only use roofies if you want to keep them alive, and he doesn’t want to screw them. He gives them some cheap over-the-counter shit, then once they’re nodding off, he strangles them with his hands.”
After a moment he asked, “So how long you been out of the academy?”
“Six months.”
“So you’re still a proby.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. Then I asked him back, “Do you always work on your own, sir?”
“My squad was here earlier; they’re supposed to come back soon. I had the same partner for nearly twenty years. Bert died recently.”
I suddenly remembered. “Oh! I might’ve found a clue.”
I showed him the lipstick I’d found on the stairs. “It doesn’t match anything she’s wearing, but I thought it might possibly be evidence.” Still wearing his latex gloves, he carefully took the lipstick.
“But you found this outside the room?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a crazy little go-getter, aren’t you? I like that.”
He tossed the lipstick into the trash. “There’s a reason we have a crime scene. You can go crazy if you start on an endless scavenger hunt. Unless of course you find a gun. Those are always keepers.”
“Sorry.” I’d hoped that my Kundalini had finally been turned on.
“Most cops are fat and lazy, so you get points for trying.”
“You said the other victims were all blondes?”
“Yeah, why?”
“And this girl’s pretty tall.”
“Even without her head,” he joked.
“So he must be calling escort services and asking for tall blondes.”
“You figured that out, did you?”
“I’m a tall blonde,” I said.
“Chronou,” he read my name plate. “What are you, Greek?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Greeks are usually brunette.”
“Not necessarily. If you read histories of ancient Greece, they are usually described as a blonde race.”
“But how do I know you’re a natural blonde?” he said, sliding his unlit cigarette back into the pack.
“Does this look like a dye job?” I said, plucking off my hat and ear warmers.
“I don’t know how he knows,” the detective said earnestly, “but with all the vics, the carpet has always matched the drapes.”
I wasn’t sure if he was kidding me, so I didn’t say anything. When I saw the helpful maid passing by, I introduced her to Detective Farrell without making eye contact with him.
“You look familiar,” Farrell said. “I never hauled you in for anything, did I?”
“No sir.”
He gave her a slight grin and thanked her for her help, then turned back to me.
“So how’d you like a juicy ninety-day assignment?” he asked.
“Sure,” I shot back.
The PBA had a rule that cops couldn’t get temporary transfers to homicide for longer than 90 days, because these short assignments rarely led to promotions. Still, it was a chance to get my foot in the door.
“Prove to me you’re a natural blonde and the assignment’s all yours,” he said.
I lifted my right leg, yanked up the cuff of my pants along with my long johns, and showed him the two-week growth of yellowish stubble on my upper calf.
“I ain’t showing you my carpet, but you can see my welcome mat.”
The detective broke out laughing.
“A female cop who shaves her legs that infrequently deserves to be brought in from the cold.”
It crossed my mind that if he did get me a transfer, I’d have a conflict. I was scheduled to have laser surgery on my eyes in little more than a month, to fix my nearsightedness. An eye-glassectomy, as my neighbor Maggie called it. But I’d only be out of action for a day or so.
Detective Sergeant Bernie Farrell wrote down my name and badge number, and asked why my first name had two esses instead of one. I explained that it was an old Welsh spelling.
“I thought you were Greek.”
“I am. My mom named me after an old family friend.”
Two other detectives from Farrell’s squad came by, a rotund black man and a slim white woman, both in their forties. He quietly reviewed several points with them and they all left together.
Over the next hour or so, several other cops dropped in to see the murder scene. I copied down their names and badge numbers. Toward the end of the shift, O’Ryan finally made an appearance.
“So this is your big murder case?” he asked, peeking inside.
“Guess
