White Elephants

(This is a work of fiction. The events in this story may or may not have been true. The characters are fictional and did not exist in real life)

The time was 9:30 at night and there was a dead girl on the street. Her broken body lay twisted in an awkward angle, like a bad accident that shouldn't have happened. Dark blood stained the asphalt surrounding the poor girl's contorted frame, mixed with chunks of blue junk that enclosed her face like the stuffing out of a torn teddy bear. It was like something out of bad movie- the ones with dead people and zombies and blood-sucking vampires that devoured beautiful women. Soft tendrils of night pushed pieces of cement rock against her ruined physique, caressing the cold, damp skin like a lost lover. Occasionally the breeze brought her an empty cup, a cigarette stud, pieces of broken glass- and once even a shabby magazine split in the middle. The pages danced in the soft glow of the yellow streetlight, the light illuminating a beautiful woman on the front cover. Elegant and grace defined the way she stood at an angle, hands resting delicate on her jaunty hips, and feral and barbaric dominated the fierce look plated on the angled bony face. The magazine flew open and the beautiful woman's countenance was pasted on every page, deep blue eyes ravaging the ones that dare take her eyes straight on. It flew closed and blew away gently, carrying with it the aura of frail goodbyes.

The body wasn't discovered until 10 at night when the late- night joggers came out for a quick run.

A shrill scream pierced into the delicate belly of the accommodating night. It was a female voice, one that matched the one given an hour ago in a perfect pitch. The scream died down almost suddenly, and ceased into a series of routine sniffles, and occasionally into a male's deep booming voice comforting the distressed sobs. The tender fingers of the evening breeze embraced the dead girl's face a last time, then reluctantly gave her away to the hustle and bustle of rough human hands and stinky breath tinged with cigarettes and beer, who fastidiously shoved her onto a bellowing vehicle. The dead girl didn't know where she was going. She never knew where she was going,

Back at the station the phone was ringing off the hook. A dark man was typing furiously, hand reaching back to tighten his tie, tongue licking his lips in a wild circle. A microphone stood next to his computer.

"Time of death- a little after 9 PM"

"Cause of death- mass inner bleeding after falling from a three-story roof. Also multiple lacerations on the back and buttocks, more or likely unrelated to the accident."

"Sir." A little man stood at the doorway, face darkened by the dim lighting.

"Go away, Bruce."

"Sir..." He tried again, then immediately shut up when the officer gave him a look of pure contempt. He swallowed.

"Sir. I have the guy on line 2."

"What guy?!"

"I have the big guy on line 2, sir."

The officer stopped typing long enough to gawk at the little man, now fidgeting uncomfortably.

"He said the case is closed, sir."

"Impossible. It barely even started."

"They ruled it as suicide. There will be no investigation."

The officer leaned back in his chair and pushed his fingers through his hair. Then he leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table.

"Does the big guy know that the subject is Nina?"

"The big guy does not involve himself in sentiment, sir."

"Screw sentiment. This could be big, Bruce. Really big. This is freakin Rapunzel."

"Exactly why we shouldn't get ourselves mixed up with media. We've already gone through hell with the black dudes in Central Park. Leave this to the crows, Sir."