was failing and his sons were 500 miles away? To make things worse, his partner was on medical leave, and he hadn't been assigned a new one. So he was working the case alone. His life was shit.
* * *
He stopped at the curb of the crime scene in San Francisco's Mission District. The mouth of the alley was littered with cans and bottles and the remainder of some homeless person's cardboard box home. Jordan didn't move. Instead, he scanned the area for stragglers. The body would wait. No one would touch it. The girl was beyond saving. But if the perp were here, he wouldn't stay long. There were too many people looking around to risk staying and being spotted.
"The sickos love to watch the excitement they've created," a seasoned inspector had told him years before. "Look for them at the scene, at the site of the body dump, the fire, the robbery, whatever. Look in the crevices and cracks, in the crowds of bystanders watching. That's where they'll be. And that's the best place to catch them. Because they can't stay away."
At three in the morning, though, this particular scene would be an easy place to spot an outsider. Other than the two local news vans, four cop cars, and an ambulance, the street was deserted.
From the head of the alley, Jordan could tell where the girl's body had been left. The buzz of police surrounded her as dense as vultures around a kill. Thick yellow crime-scene tape blocked off the area, but the reporters constantly pushed forward to test the borders like dogs edging along an invisible fence. Three officers held them at bay. As he passed, the reporters pushed after him.
"Keep 'em back," Jordan commanded as he moved past the shouting voices. But this crowd was nothing in comparison to the numbers that would show up when the story really got out.
Even after fifteen years on the force, Jordan had never once spoken to the press.
Years ago he thought eventually they would realize he wouldn't comment, but they still sidled up to him, throwing questions like darts at the bull's eye. He had become so proficient at ignoring the clamoring voices, he often missed his own men calling him in the process.
As he approached, the officers moved aside and the girl came into view. In size and stature, the victim could easily have been his own son were it a boy. She even had the same smooth black skin and hazel eyes. Her naked body had been propped against a rusting chain-link fence that lined the back of the alley, an old sheet thrown across her middle. The area beneath the body had been swept clean of trash, broken bottles, and debris that was scattered about the rest of the alley.
Like the last girl's, her arms had been tied with fishing line and attached to different levels of the chain-link fence behind her. With her arms suspended in the air, she looked like a life-size puppet. The fishing line cut into the skin, but it could hold a hundred-pound fish so it worked fine on a little girl's arms.
A piece of duct tape attached her forehead to the fence to keep her head from falling to her chest. Her hands hung limp at her wrists. Her right arm was high as though she was waving good-bye, her left hung low and flat against her chest.
Though not identical, the last girl's position had been similar enough to be recognizable. And like the previous victim, this one wore a pointed party hat. The last hat had been orange; this one was yellow. Maybe there was a pattern here—the rainbow or something. But then the killer wouldn't have skipped red.
The last girl had bled to death. The thought made Jordan sick, and he tightened his gut and forced himself forward. From the look of this victim, he would guess the same. Thankfully, though, it wasn't his job to guess. The medical examiner would deal with cause of death.
The girl's cheeks had been bound with heavy white gauze, the tie hidden beneath her hat. Her cheeks were puffy and swollen, and Jordan could only imagine what torture the child had endured. The best Jordan
* * *
He stopped at the curb of the crime scene in San Francisco's Mission District. The mouth of the alley was littered with cans and bottles and the remainder of some homeless person's cardboard box home. Jordan didn't move. Instead, he scanned the area for stragglers. The body would wait. No one would touch it. The girl was beyond saving. But if the perp were here, he wouldn't stay long. There were too many people looking around to risk staying and being spotted.
"The sickos love to watch the excitement they've created," a seasoned inspector had told him years before. "Look for them at the scene, at the site of the body dump, the fire, the robbery, whatever. Look in the crevices and cracks, in the crowds of bystanders watching. That's where they'll be. And that's the best place to catch them. Because they can't stay away."
At three in the morning, though, this particular scene would be an easy place to spot an outsider. Other than the two local news vans, four cop cars, and an ambulance, the street was deserted.
From the head of the alley, Jordan could tell where the girl's body had been left. The buzz of police surrounded her as dense as vultures around a kill. Thick yellow crime-scene tape blocked off the area, but the reporters constantly pushed forward to test the borders like dogs edging along an invisible fence. Three officers held them at bay. As he passed, the reporters pushed after him.
"Keep 'em back," Jordan commanded as he moved past the shouting voices. But this crowd was nothing in comparison to the numbers that would show up when the story really got out.
Even after fifteen years on the force, Jordan had never once spoken to the press.
Years ago he thought eventually they would realize he wouldn't comment, but they still sidled up to him, throwing questions like darts at the bull's eye. He had become so proficient at ignoring the clamoring voices, he often missed his own men calling him in the process.
As he approached, the officers moved aside and the girl came into view. In size and stature, the victim could easily have been his own son were it a boy. She even had the same smooth black skin and hazel eyes. Her naked body had been propped against a rusting chain-link fence that lined the back of the alley, an old sheet thrown across her middle. The area beneath the body had been swept clean of trash, broken bottles, and debris that was scattered about the rest of the alley.
Like the last girl's, her arms had been tied with fishing line and attached to different levels of the chain-link fence behind her. With her arms suspended in the air, she looked like a life-size puppet. The fishing line cut into the skin, but it could hold a hundred-pound fish so it worked fine on a little girl's arms.
A piece of duct tape attached her forehead to the fence to keep her head from falling to her chest. Her hands hung limp at her wrists. Her right arm was high as though she was waving good-bye, her left hung low and flat against her chest.
Though not identical, the last girl's position had been similar enough to be recognizable. And like the previous victim, this one wore a pointed party hat. The last hat had been orange; this one was yellow. Maybe there was a pattern here—the rainbow or something. But then the killer wouldn't have skipped red.
The last girl had bled to death. The thought made Jordan sick, and he tightened his gut and forced himself forward. From the look of this victim, he would guess the same. Thankfully, though, it wasn't his job to guess. The medical examiner would deal with cause of death.
The girl's cheeks had been bound with heavy white gauze, the tie hidden beneath her hat. Her cheeks were puffy and swollen, and Jordan could only imagine what torture the child had endured. The best Jordan
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