Boston's Man-Eater

XI

Parking into the driveway, I watched the flashing lights from ambulances and police cruisers illuminating the alpine styled house.

Rushing out with my belongings, I dashed towards the group of detectives standing with a few journalists.

"I came as fast as I could," I breathed out.

"Damien Baker, entrepreneur—death by suffocation," Harold asserted, and I quickly jotted the details down.

"Did the killer escape?"

"Unfortunately."

"Any suspect?"

"That damned Lady in Red."

"How did you know?"

"The forensics' uncovered her footprints."

"Could've been any."

"It's hers," he gritted his teeth and I slowly nodded.

"I'll be right back."

I walked over to the woman by the police tape who was taking pictures of the ground, evidence identification markers imparted around her.

And suddenly, a strong hand fastened onto my bicep, with it belonging to a stern policeman.

"Sir, you're not allowed to enter the crime scene."

"I'm not, I just want to speak to the forensic. I'm Kyle Anthony, journalist from the Boston Independent newspaper."

It took him a while for him to finally release his fingers around my arm.

I strode over to the Japanese woman, who was approximately in her thirties.

"Good evening ma'am. Kyle Anthony from the Boston Independent," I announced and she averted her focus.

"Vera Watanabe."

"Do you have any suspects for the killer?"

"Well it seems to be a person in high-heels, if you look closely, you'll see the faint indentations," she pointed out as I crouched to attentively observed them.

"So, it could be the Lady in Red."

"Most probably. It's like she wants us to know it's her, but won't leave enough evidence to give us a lead."

"What if it was a visitor or presumably, a female resident?"

"It's a match, it couldn't have been anyone else as no visitor decides to walk in the dirt, avoiding the pavement. And lastly, there's no fitting shoe size from any of the residents."

"No finger prints?"

"Not a single one found so far."

"Interesting," I mumbled, and tore my gaze off the prints.

Standing up, my eyes locked onto a woman in a white robe, frantically speaking to the detectives with a tear-streaked face.

With a guilty conscience, I approached them and heard her describing the traumatic experience, carelessly stumbling over her words.

"I know it was...her... she...she had those red shoes... and that dress."

"So, you wouldn't be able to identify her face?" One of the detectives questioned, and she blinked, then shook her head.

The split-second hesitation was suspicious, and he knowingly glanced at his partner.

Does she know something?

"We'll find her Mrs. Baker."

"You better," her voice faded out with every step I took.

Before the doors of the ambulance was a stretcher with a body and a blue sheet draped over it. I crossed my fingers and hoped they'd allow me to review it.