I See You, Jack! Chapter 6
Created | Updated Feb 24, 2024
I See You, Jack!
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Chapter 6
Blue lights bounced off the wet pavement. Police tape sagged under the weight of the rain. Jeez, this bloody weather!
SOCO had been here for what seemed like bloody hours now, the roadblock on Duke Street was causing mayhem as the City woke and rush hour began.
John was actually glad he'd been given crime scene log duties. At least he was warm and dry in the Panda. Cracking the window only to verify and note the officials coming and going, items removed from the scene.
The incident log was pretty sparse still.
The body had been found 02.33 hrs by a council worker, the gully sucker working overtime to clear the drains, gutters failing to cope with the stupidly heavy rain.
Police patrol, AR12, at scene 02.40 hrs.
The circus began seven minutes later, the night jack declaring a suspected murder scene.
02.50 and John was (thankfully) diverted from his foot beat, grab keys, grab Incident Log, grab a butty, (hurry up and wait), and prepare for a bloody boring night shift.
He wound the window down, cursing as the rain immediately soaked his sleeve. Coroner.
'Who's the OIC Offs?'
'Night jack. . . is. . . sorry, haven't seen him since I got here!' he consulted his log, 'Officer In Charge, D/C Meredith, Mike, think he's around the corner with SOCO mate, I'll move the cones, let you through?'
John gestured to the grassed area on his right.
'You're alright, Offs, I'll leave the van with you, have a looksee first, not getting stuck in the bloody mud!'
John checked ID, noted the arrival in the Log, informed CH, Coroner At Scene, liaising with OIC CID, then went back to staring at the bloody rain.
Around the corner, the night jack, (or Detective covering the night shift) , Mike Meredith, stood under the one tree on the small patch of greenery the council laughingly described as a park, trying to scrape the mud from his shoes whilst he watched Scenes of Crime Officers do their stuff.
It never failed to amaze him how dispassionate these guys and girls could be. Faced with scenarios most people would have nightmares about, they simply switched into professional gear, and went about their business, calmly cataloguing and examining the gory human wreckage that was currently on display, surrounded by a red puddle in the rain and mud.
'On display'.
Strange thought, but that was what came to mind, immediately, no doubts, this poor girl had been left for all to see (to witness maybe?), no attempt at hiding the body, she lay like some kind of macabre artwork.
Jeez, Mike, get a grip! He scolded himself for going off on one. Don't presume, don't put things in boxes, at least not yet!
His eyes went back to that grey face, eyes wide, dead and dim, mascara running down her cheeks as the rain bounced off them. Quite a pretty young face, ravaged by heroin misuse, but pretty.
What a bloody waste of a life, poor thing.
His gaze returned to the obvious cause of death.
The neat scar ran across her neck, almost ear to ear, upturned at the corners, the knife (or razor - the idea of a cutthroat came unbidden) sharp enough not to tear flesh. Surgically precise.
Nearby drains had been searched, but as yet there was no sign of the murder weapon, but Meredith was sure he was looking at a razor or scalpel cut.
Around the blackening wound, bright red, crimson against the pale skin, was what appeared to be lipstick.
The sicko had actually emphasised the curved cut, making it look, to all intents and purposes, like the girl was smiling, a second mouth, bright and fresh, replacing the natural thin, blueing lips of her death mask.
He'd seen something like this once before. Not as precise, but close enough to stir memories. Crude reflections of the girl before him.
Years ago, as a new probationary constable, he'd been given crime scene duties, sitting in that squalid flat for hours.
The police had been called, concerns for the occupant and her son, no more than a toddler. Front door ajar, they'd found the lad, starving and thirsty, covered in his mother's blood.
The kid had been there, according to the Coroner's estimation, around three days, sitting on his mother's makeshift bed, crying for her to wake up.
Social Services had stepped in, coaxing what they could from the shattered child, trying to fill in the gaps.
Mum was a part-time prostitute, full-time smackhead. Neighbours, sick and tired of the constant stream of men coming and going at all hours, had only rang 999 when they realised they hadn't seen the lad for days, eventually seeing the open door, they'd heard muffled cries coming from the flat. Finally becoming concerned enough to bother making the call.
The police had found the body. Naked and blood caked. Throat cut from ear to ear.
The poor child had (God knew why) told the Social Workers that he liked mummy looking pretty, glad she'd put on a new face for her to wake up to. Mummy always felt better with a new face on.
Mike couldn't shift the memory of that day. The precise cut on her throat now masked with smudged lipstick, the boy fascinated with making mummy smile through her new mouth.
Two days he'd had to sit in that bloody awful flat, logging in SOCO, the medical examiners, and the constant stream of CID officers. A right of passage for most young bobbies with the desire to become a detective.
Meredith unconsciously rubbed his palms, the memory of that coppery blood smell that had taken so long to get rid of coming back to him. Christ, he still hated the smell of blood!
He shuddered in the rain, shaking his head at the image, the arrival of the coroner snapping him back to the now.
