Chapter 13 - High-Risk Occupation Leads to Death
Bernie flashed his badge. The Old Patrolman looked puzzled—why would Homicide care about a dead prostitute?—but he dutifully explained the situation.
"The body was discovered by the boss of the Starlight Motel," he said slowly, accepting Bernie's offered cigarette and lighting it with obvious relief.
He gestured toward the freshly made bed. "When we got here, the boss had already moved Candy onto the bed and covered her with a blanket. Made her look like she was just sleeping."
Bernie frowned. "Were you first on scene? What about her pimp?"
The Old Patrolman shook his head. "Candy worked solo." He waved around the small room. "Several pimps on this street have been trying to recruit her for years, but she always refused. Said the money she earned was with her own body, and nobody had the right to take a single cent of it."
The patrolman clearly knew Candy well. He sighed heavily. "She'd been working this street for quite a while. Pretty well-known in their circles—most of the other girls knew her."
Theodore cut through the nostalgia. "Wasn't she afraid of the danger? Working alone like that?"
A flicker of discomfort crossed the Old Patrolman's weathered face. "Of course, she was scared. Ran into trouble plenty of times. Some guys figured since she was alone, they didn't need to pay. Others tried to rob her outright."
"If she'd found herself a daddy for protection, she wouldn't have ended up like this."
Theodore nodded noncommittally. He had no more questions for now and began walking slowly around the room, observing.
The space had obviously been thoroughly cleaned. Fresh sheets, blankets, and pillows had replaced whatever had been there before. The floor gleamed from a recent scrubbing, eliminating any useful evidence.
After making several circuits, Theodore's attention focused on the wooden headboard trim.
It was the only surface in the room that could have caused the injury to the back of Candy's skull. Otherwise, they'd have to assume the killer had brought his own weapon—which would lead the investigation in a completely different direction with entirely different results.
Theodore crouched in front of the trim, leaning in for a closer examination. He spotted two strands of hair caught on its edge, and what looked like bloodstains embedded in the wood grain.
The light was poor, and the surface had been wiped down, making it difficult to see clearly.
"You have a flashlight?" Theodore asked the Old Patrolman.
The officer called down to his partner, who brought one up from the patrol car. Theodore clicked it on and confirmed his suspicions—definitely blood.
Switching off the light, Theodore began moving slowly around the room, stopping periodically to study different angles, mentally reconstructing the sequence of events.
Bernie and the Old Patrolman stopped their conversation to watch. Bernie's expression grew serious. He quietly pulled the patrolman outside the door and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"He can communicate with spirits."
He pointed back at Theodore, who was standing beside the bed, making gestures with both hands. "See? He's talking to Candy right now. You want to have a word with her?"
The Old Patrolman stared in fascination, torn between curiosity and apprehension. Finally, he silently shook his head.
Bernie clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder.
Theodore, unaware that Bernie was spreading supernatural rumors like a missionary, completed his circuit of the room, then shook his head and headed for the exit.
Bernie raised his eyebrows questioningly. Theodore shook his head again, then asked the Old Patrolman, "Is the trash from this room still here?"
The patrolman looked disappointed that Theodore had apparently failed to contact the deceased, though also secretly relieved. "Gone already. These rooms get cleaned every morning before seven, and the Italians collect everything to sell to the oil company."
"What about Candy's personal belongings? She must have had a makeup bag, something like that."
"Killer probably took it with him."
Finally, Theodore asked, "Didn't the motel boss get a clear look at the killer?"
The Old Patrolman shook his head and explained the arrangement. "Candy and the other girls have a deal with the Starlight. They rent rooms by the hour, and customers pay an extra room fee on top of... other services."
He pointed downstairs. "Keys hang on a board down there—the girls just help themselves. Boss doesn't keep track of who's coming and going. When Candy showed up yesterday evening, he was already asleep."
Their last lead had just evaporated.
Theodore and Bernie thanked the Old Patrolman and headed back to the station.
Bernie insisted on driving—he'd made it clear he wasn't letting Theodore near the steering wheel. Seeing Theodore's silence, he tried to offer comfort.
"Look, you just got here and you've already cracked two cases back-to-back. You might be feeling like you have to solve every case that crosses your desk. After you've been doing this a while, you'll understand that some cases just aren't meant to be solved."
"Like murdered prostitutes."
He glanced over at Theodore. "You know how many working girls get killed in Felton every year?"
Theodore looked at him expectantly.
"At least thirty." Bernie held up three fingers. "Every year, we pull at least thirty bodies off the streets. Some die from disease, others from... unusual circumstances."
"Happens like clockwork. You can't investigate them all—the department won't waste the manpower."
Theodore shook his head. "This case could have been straightforward. But nobody bothered to secure the crime scene. By the time we arrived, it had already been sanitized."
He continued, "If crime scenes could be protected immediately in the future, and everyone entering wore shoe covers and gloves and didn't contaminate evidence, maybe a lot of cases would become much easier to solve."
Bernie studied Theodore with concern, suspecting this was the price of communicating with ghosts.
Of course, there had to be a cost—nothing in this world came free. Theodore had the gift of speaking with spirits, but his mind often seemed to drift into strange territory. Did he really think many people could talk to the dead?
Bernie secretly resolved that when Theodore eventually lost his grip on reality completely, he'd visit him regularly in whatever asylum they put him in. The kid shouldn't have to face that alone.
Back at the station, Theodore returned to the morgue. Samuel's autopsy report contained nothing new. Theodore could only file the case away in a cabinet.
This investigation strengthened his resolve to return to D.C.
Not to admit defeat and join the army—running laps and following orders like some grunt—but to use his family connections and influence to push for technological advancement. To make people value scientific methods, or at the very least, prevent them from cleaning crime scenes after the police arrive.
In this case, Theodore's analysis of the physical evidence had yielded exactly zero useful information.
Crime scene analysis was one of three primary ways to understand a criminal's personality. The other two involved studying the victim and studying the perpetrator.
Scene analysis required answering three fundamental questions: what happened, why did it happen, and who would do such a thing?
Theodore now knew none of these answers.
All because the scene had been scrubbed clean.
And most likely not even by the killer!
Theodore asked Bernie about the promotion path to Sergeant, wondering if there was any way to advance within seven months.
Bernie and several other detectives who'd been buried in case files all turned to stare at him.
Bernie took a deep breath and nodded gravely. "Sure, there's a way. You can go to sleep right now, or I can knock you unconscious with one punch. In your dreams, you can be anything you want—hell, you can be President."
One of the other detectives pointed at Bernie. "It took him six years to make Sergeant, and that's the fastest promotion I've ever seen. Keep dreaming, rookie."
...…
Felton seemed to have entered a peaceful phase—no new cases materialized.
Theodore continued his training under Bernie's guidance, exhausted by the end of each day but energized by his obvious improvement. The fatigue felt manageable when he could see real progress.
On Friday afternoon, just as Bernie was inviting him to visit his home over the weekend, an officer walked in and dropped a file on the table by the door.
"Dead prostitute again this time of year. You guys take it."