Chapter 12: A High-Risk Occupation Leads to Death
With the seven-month deadline looming over him, Theodore had grown exceptionally eager for cases—any cases that might prove his worth.
But Felton wasn't New York. Here, even the police department operated with just five precincts: Southeast, Southwest, Northwest, Northeast, and Central. The city was small, the population modest, and while local customs ran fierce, homicides didn't happen every day.
The Homicide Team's routine had settled into a predictable boredom, and Theodore's main daily activity had become training exercises that felt increasingly pointless.
A few days later, Diane's husband Reese arrived at the police station, dust-covered and weary from his long journey. He'd come to claim the bodies, his wife and son.
Reese was an honest-looking middle-aged man with calloused hands and tired eyes. He collected his family in silence, but encountered Brian and Sitt at the station entrance. Sitt had been detained briefly for assaulting an officer, though the detective hadn't pressed charges, so he'd been released the next day. Now he'd withdrawn the charges against his father, hoping to use him to rescue his sister.
The three men regarded each other in tense silence. Then, without warning, they began to brawl.
Reese, hardened by years of truck driving, fought both Brian and his son simultaneously—and won. Consequently, all three men found themselves right back in detention at the police station.
May 23rd arrived as an unremarkable Monday. A prostitute had died.
The Homicide Team's reaction was notably indifferent. They didn't even bother activating 'special task force' mode. Wenner finished his perfunctory report and handed the case over to Theodore—the only detective without accumulated cases, sitting idle at his desk.
The office remained thick with cigarette smoke, and everything continued as usual. Bernie glanced over from his paperwork, let out an incomprehensible chuckle, then returned to studying his oil well miner case. He didn't even offer to accompany Theodore to examine the body.
Theodore went to the morgue alone.
Old Patrolman Samuel Douglas, who doubled as the forensic doctor, listened to Theodore's request with a peculiar expression. "Are you a regular customer of hers?" he asked bluntly.
Theodore shook his head, puzzled by the question.
Samuel limped toward the morgue—his leg had been injured during WWII, and after leaving the front lines, he'd settled in Felton as a forensic doctor for fifteen or sixteen years now. "Do you two know each other?" he pressed.
Theodore shook his head again.
Samuel let out another chuckle similar to Bernie's, regarding him with an 'I understand' expression as he pulled down a registration form from the wall.
The deceased's details read: Name: Candy
Cause of Death: Death due to High-Risk Occupation
Followed by a long series of slashes indicating previous similar cases.
Candy was obviously not her real name—just another 'stage name' like Jane, Amy, or Lily, adopted for professional purposes. The cause of death was equally straightforward: in this era, unless there was a clear pattern of identical methods occurring densely and continuously in the same location, the death of a prostitute in America was simply classified as 'death due to high-risk occupation.'
Theodore began to understand why both Bernie and Samuel had chuckled. Unless he was personally involved with Candy, his serious investigation would seem absurdly out of place.
"I want to see the body first," Theodore said, his expression stern, giving Samuel no room for further speculation.
Samuel, however, had an unusual sense of humor. He wheeled out the gurney and asked, "Are you sure you want to see her?"
Theodore nodded.
"Are you sure you're mentally prepared?" Samuel continued. "Aren't you afraid of losing your virility?"
He let out a cackle that made Theodore's skin crawl.
The humor faded as Samuel grew serious. "You need to be prepared. You may have seen her in all sorts of ways—dressed, undressed—but you haven't seen her like this."
Without further warning, he pulled back the white sheet.
Candy lay completely naked, her hands folded across her chest as if she were merely sleeping. But death had drained the life from her features, leaving behind something that belonged more to the morgue than memory.
Samuel shifted into professional mode. "Linear bruising on the left cheekbone." There was a faint but distinct handprint on Candy's left cheek.
"The fatal injury was a linear fracture above the foramen magnum, resulting in brainstem contusion and death." He moved to examine between her legs with clinical detachment. "No semen detected. No signs of sexual assault. No ligature marks on the neck, no restraint injuries on the limbs."
Samuel re-covered the body with the white sheet and delivered his conclusion: "This was a business transaction gone wrong. She was unlucky—got slapped, accidentally struck her head, and died."
He pushed the gurney back into position and pulled out a hip flask, taking a swig. "If you've got energy to spare, you might ask Wenner for funds to buy gloves for your Homicide Team. Stop stealing mine."
Samuel had essentially done Theodore's job for him, offering an experienced prediction that aligned closely with Theodore's own assessment. More importantly, he'd proven his conclusion correct—this was indeed 'death due to high-risk occupation.'
"I'll need a written autopsy report. Thank you, Samuel," Theodore said, heading for the door and grabbing two pairs of gloves on his way out.
"Hey! Hey! If you need gloves, go ask that fat guy!" Samuel's irritated curses followed him down the corridor.
Back in the office, Theodore grabbed his keys and jacket, preparing to visit the crime scene. Bernie, who had been fruitlessly studying cold cases, looked up. "Where are you going?"
"The scene," Theodore replied curtly, hurrying toward the door.
Given the Homicide Team's general lack of interest in this case, any delay might mean losing what little evidence remained. Theodore knew how difficult such cases were to solve. He didn't necessarily expect to crack it, but he wanted to give it his best effort. If he still came up empty-handed after trying everything, at least he could face himself in the mirror.
Bernie sat there for a moment, flipping through case files and sighing. Finally, he grabbed his badge and pistol and chased after Theodore.
He emerged just as Theodore was starting the car—another second and he would have missed him entirely. He slid into the passenger seat, immediately tensing his body and gripping the seat with white knuckles, gritting his teeth as they sped toward the crime scene.
The moment the car stopped, Bernie bolted out, snatched the keys from Theodore's hand, and declared sternly, "Listen, Theodore—from now on, only I drive! Don't you dare touch these keys!"
For emphasis, he moved the keys from his pants pocket to his chest pocket, as if that might keep them safer from Theodore's reckless driving.
Rose Street looked considerably different during daylight hours—much less bustling than it was at night. Without the working girls lining the sidewalks, the street felt dimmer and more ordinary, though most shops remained open for business. Their arrival drew little attention, except for a few curious glances from pedestrians who had witnessed their earlier 'speeding.'
Theodore chose not to argue with Bernie about appropriate driving speeds—at least not yet. He walked toward the Starlight Hotel but was stopped at the entrance.
A young rookie officer stood just inside the hotel doorway, looking nervous as he instructed Theodore to step back beyond the chalk line. Yellow police tape wasn't yet standard practice, and Felton still relied on chalk marks drawn on the ground to secure crime scenes.
Theodore displayed his badge, and when Bernie showed his as well, the young officer immediately snapped to attention, saluted crisply, and greeted them with a volume that startled both detectives.
Felton police badges didn't indicate rank directly, but the decorative differences between ranks were significant enough that Bernie's Sergeant badge was unmistakable.
Theodore politely returned the salute and headed upstairs.
The Starlight Hotel's first floor was exceptionally narrow—the cramped space had been divided awkwardly in two. On the left stood a small reception counter with room keys hanging from hooks on the wall; on the right, a staircase less than two feet wide led upward. The stairs were steep and confining, creating an oppressive atmosphere that seemed to press in from all sides.
Upon reaching the second floor, they encountered an old patrolman who was locking up the crime scene room, apparently preparing to leave. Seeing the two detectives approach, he studied them carefully, his weathered face betraying years of similar scenes and similar cases that rarely got the attention they deserved.
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