Victims Read Free Page A

nothing.”
    A tall slender young woman, her face obscured as she adjusted the detective shield on the chain she had slipped over her head, nodded. She pinned a plastic ID card to the collar of her lightweight linen dress and checked to see that it wasn’t bunching the fabric. She moved so quickly, so efficiently, that she provided her audience with nothing more than a flash of the coppery-red-gold muted colors of her dress. She worked methodically, ignoring everything but her assigned task.
    The Crime Scene Unit arrived, and from their van they quickly brought out wooden horses with paper signs: CRIME SCENE: DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE. The crowd of observers moved back, pushing itself in place as these barriers were quickly and expertly set in place.
    “Who’s that? That girl, who’s she?”
    “The sister, maybe?”
    “No, they wouldn’t let the sister near the body yet, would they? Look. She’s got a police badge around her neck.”
    “Imagine! She’s so skinny, that girl, and she’s a policeman.”
    She was a slightly built girl and she moved carefully within the periphery of the victim. Without touching anything, she observed and noted the position of the body. She jotted down whatever information could be discerned. Alongside the body was a shoulder bag, large canvas, similar to an airline carrier. Contents were scattered where they had apparently fallen. She noted a wallet, apparently filled with bills; a cosmetic case, a pillbox, small sealed brown envelope. It was more of a contents count; nothing could be touched or examined until Homicide said it was all right.
    “I thought she was the Spanish girl’s sister. She looks a little like her.”
    “They all look alike.”
    Mike Stein registered the remarks; filed them away for later examination. He studied the woman police officer as she stood up and glanced around at the crowd, which was now focused on her.
    In the orangey glow of the streetlight, Miranda Torres’ face took on a deep burnished color: warm, cinnamon brown with a strong underlay of red. Her high sharp cheekbones caught the light, which accentuated the hollows of her cheeks. Her fine jawline was clean and tight. Her eyes were large and dark, her brows black, her lips turned up slightly at the corners into less than a smile. Her black hair was cut very short, very boyish, and framed her face in strong silky wisps along the temples and the forehead. She stood and gazed through the crowd, her face revealing nothing. She might have been staring off into empty space, but a quick pull at the corner of her lips gave her away. The calm expression, the placid veneer, hid a rigidity that was costing her a great deal. She was tall and slender to the point of fragility and there was something proud and tribal in the way she held her head, high and slightly tilted; her back absolutely straight, her body centered like a dancer’s.
    The homicide men arrived. Stein could spot homicide people under any circumstances. They were grim without being horrified. They approached a murder victim prepared for any atrocity, and in some minute corner of their minds they focused on some perverse incongruity in any death scene, something they could all laugh about later. Morgue humor; saving grace. No matter what it was, there had to be something funny about the human condition. They were generally very careful, however, about keeping their jokes, wisecracks and observations “within the family.”
    The crime scene widened considerably as the technicians spread out in the search for a weapon and any other physical evidence. Chalk circles were drawn around blotches of blood which led to the other side of the street. They conferred, pointed, measured, took blood samples from within each circle and photographs from various angles to trace the route and action of the murder.
    There were enough stories coming from the crowd, and detectives moved in, chatted up, looped an arm around a shoulder and let themselves be led along the