Gladyss of the Hunt Read Free Page B

realized I had stopped willing too soon. It didn’t quite match the color worn by the victim. Still, I held it by its edge as I returned to the room.
    â€œWe gotta dash,” one of the sightseeing cops said when I returned.
    An old wooden folding chair was now leaning against the hallway wall. I opened it, unlidded my cold tea, and waited for the Johnny-come-lately from Homicide South.
    Ten minutes later a surprisingly young guy showed up, a cigarettebetween his yellow teeth and a gold shield dangling from a leather wallet that was wedged in his jacket pocket.
    â€œHow’s it going?” he greeted me.
    â€œYou’re a detective?” I asked astonished. With his fuzzy post-adolescent mustache, he couldn’t have been much older than me.
    â€œWhat do we have?”
    â€œI only looked inside,” I said, in case he was testing me. “Her head is cut off, and her limbs were taped together.”
    â€œHoly shit!” he said, then snapped a photo of the victim from the doorway. “Do we have a name?”
    â€œNot to my knowledge. Seems like she was a hooker.”
    â€œSo how many murders does this make it?”
    â€œYou’re the detective, you tell me,” I replied. “Are you allowed to smoke in here?”
    When he grinned, I realized I hadn’t been following proper procedures. I flipped open my memo book and told him that if he wanted to enter the room, he had to sign it first, since I was technically in charge of the scene. I should’ve gotten the earlier sightseers to do likewise.
    â€œLet me finish my cig first,” he said and walked back down the stairs.
    It took me a minute or two before I realized he wasn’t coming back. Whoever that kid was, he wasn’t a detective. Probably a reporter, damn it. They were constantly monitoring police radios.
    Twenty minutes later, I heard coughing in the distance. The cough slowly grew louder and was accompanied by an odd thud. Finally a rugged, older man emerged from the stairway, panting for air. He walked with a distinct limp. This guy had detective written all over him.
    As soon as he saw me, he nervously planted an unlit cigarette between his lips.
    â€œMy fucking foot is killing me.”
    â€œWho exactly are you?” I asked.
    He took his wallet from his pocket and flipped open his gold shield. “Detective Sergeant Bernie Farrell. Is the rest of the squad here?”
    â€œJust me, sir.”
    â€œWho are you again?”
    â€œOfficer Chronou.”
    â€œFirst name, dear heart?”
    â€œGladyss, with two esses.”
    â€œTell me no reporters came by, Gladyss.”
    â€œActually this young guy just came by . . . He said he was a detective, but he kept asking me questions.”
    â€œMake me glad, Gladyss with two esses, and tell me he didn’t snap a picture.”
    â€œHe took a picture.”
    â€œShit! Exactly what does ‘protect the crime scene’ mean to you?”
    â€œI’m really sorry, sir,” I said.
    â€œNo, I shoulda told . . . See, some asshole reporter got ahold of the mugs of the last vic, as well as the crime scene of the first vic, and has been running stories on the case.”
    Detective Farrell went over and stared down at the body. He hung his hand forward and pursed his lips like a gargoyle. “Shit,” he said. He walked around the room until he came to the window, then stared up at the surrounding buildings silently for several long minutes.
    â€œWhy don’t you warn him off?” I said, if only to awaken him.
    â€œWe tried, but there wasn’t a byline on the stories, they were just credited to a special correspondent,” Farrell said. “And surprise, surprise, the newspaper’s editor refused to reveal their sources.”
    â€œThe real fear,” he continued, “is that killers sometimes like to return to the scene of the crime. And this killer does this whole weird human sculpture