My Life with Death

Near Washington, D.C., November 28, 2018

I. INVESTIGATION

I looked at the abandoned buildings and warehouses that emerged from the morning fog and snow showers. I parked in front of a crowd of curious people eager for fame, by at least a few seconds in the frame of one of the many news cameras and those who, out of perverted appetites, longed to capture a photo of the dead body. I muted the radio, trumpeting for the entire bike a moment ago. I pressed the button next to the steering wheel, turned off the engine, and reached into the back seat for my bag. I opened the car door and stepped out with my right foot. I smelled a familiar scent when my heel touched the ice-covered ground. The air was full of the crime scene's smell and decaying flesh, which had already attracted hungry insects and rats.

I carried the atmosphere of the place in high heels and clothes that did not belong in such a place. At every step, I waved my badge in front of the police officers and onlookers. As I made my way through the crowd of peeps, I passed under the yellow police tape, behind which a group of investigators was already wading through the snow in swarms with cameras, white gloves on their hands, and evidence bags. With their sharp eyes, they scan every millimeter of the ground under their feet so they do not miss anything at any cost. They looked for evidence and documented everything for subsequent reconstruction. The coroner was standing over the body, conducting the initial examination, and writing down all the findings on the plates he was holding in his hands, well, she was having. I pulled on my latex gloves and slowly approached the body.

"Hello Cath, what do we have here today?" I greeted, immediately opening the conversation with the first question without looking at the body.

It was a terrible sight. He was lying there as if he was just sitting, leaning against a concrete wall - artistically decorated with juvenile delinquent graffiti - but that could only be a dream because one thing directly contradicted the idea of a man just lying hungover in this desolate place and that his head was missing. But he didn't seem to have any other injuries. It was, well, definitely weird.

"Agent," the doctor said, looking up from her body to look at me.

"What the hell is that?" I wondered. "Have you ever seen anything like this?" I added.

"The last time was in the Middle Ages," she replied humorously. I didn't want to believe my eyes.

"Fine, so what have you come up with so far?" I asked, still looking surprised.

"At first glance, I would say that the wound is not the cause of death. There's too little blood for that—unless he's been dressed, which I doubt from the smell," she took a deep breath, "...alcohol."

"Time of death?"

"Full rigor mortis hasn't set in yet, and liver temperature is no use to us this winter, but I'd say no more than 6 hours," she replied. "I will know more information only after the autopsy."

"He's got frostbite," I said. "it was freezing at night. He's not exactly dressed for a night walk. They probably killed him somewhere else," I said. "do we have an identity?"

"He didn't have his papers with him," she said. "Perhaps it will be in some database? I have already sent the fingerprints to the laboratory," she added.

I looked around me. Local police were interviewing witnesses who reported the body to 911—a well-dressed young man and woman in their twenties. I headed towards them.

"Excuse me," I addressed them, pushing the guard away. "I'm Special Agent Stepman, FBI. You found the body, didn't you? Where were you last night?" I spewed out questions. "You certainly weren't just walking around here," I pointed out.

The man looked at me while still holding the woman - who had his jacket over her shoulders - in a hug.

"We were... at a party... nearby," he said nervously.

"Where?" I emphasized the question. "you know I'm asking because I can still smell the alcohol on you now."

"Not far from...," he cleared his throat. "It wasn't quite a legal party, you know," he added.

"Drugs?" I asked directly.

"Yes," said the woman.

"Couldn't he have been there too?" I asked, pointing in the direction of the victim.

"I don't know," said the girl, increasingly shaking. "God, I'm probably going to throw up..." The woman turned and ran off to relieve herself.

"What about you, sir? Don't you recognize him?'

"I hardly knew anyone..."

"You mean the illegal party?"

"Yes. I got there through a friend from school, and he was through someone else. You know how it goes," he stuttered to himself.

"I know it. Thank you, sir?"

"Maison. Jerry Maison," he introduced himself.

I turned to the policeman. "Take care of them," I said practically as an order.

Meanwhile, Cathrine had already left with the body to the autopsy room. Only the detectives remained at the scene, still going through every centimeter, looking for clues.

"Agent," one of them addressed me. "We found this over there," he pointed. "It was lying next to the body," he added, handing the evidence bag to me. "Well, this is very strange," I said.

A headless doll wearing the same clothes as our victim was lying only a meter and a half beside her. Perverse.

More and more falling snow covered the ground. We were losing evidence. Visibility was getting worse and worse. The cold and fatigue of the long day began to show. After long hours of ant work, even the most assertive individuals broke. No evidence was found. I was hoping there would be something on the body, at least. And the giant iron in the fire was the cloth doll, which could tell us the most about the killer and the victim. It was all strange. I didn't know what to think about this murder and the person who committed it. But somehow, the image of the body leaning against the wall and the doll was familiar. My next step was to review the old cases to see if they were the next in the series.