tech, Fiona Tate, was in her late twenties, with short brown hair and sculpted cheekbones. She snapped photos while moving from the bed toward the bureau and a pizza box.
Vaughan’s first unobstructed view of the female victim challenged his resolve to remain emotionally distant. The girl was about Nate’s age, and she reminded him of the young kids he had just seen in the college dining hall earlier today.
Those fresh-faced, smiling kids stood in stark contrast to this girl, whose sallow complexion and drawn skin stretched over her face. Her eyes remained open, staring with a cloudy, unseeing gaze that echoed panic and fear.
The life span of a sex worker was only a few years. If she had not died tonight, chances were good she would have been dead by her twenty-first birthday. He had seen too many girls like Jane Doe get used up and spit out by the streets. Already he wondered if this case would ever see trial.
Bud fished under the bed and removed a purple bag covered in sparkling stones and fringe. He unzipped the top as Fiona continued to snap photos. The tech dug in the purse, coming up with a handful of condoms, lube, handcuffs, and a flip phone. No ID.
“Is the phone password protected?” he asked.
“Yes,” the tech said.
“Damn.” That phone likely contained the girl’s client lists and communications with her killer.
Vaughan walked a wide circle around the bed, removing a pen from his breast pocket, and then flipped open the pizza box. A stale pile of onions stood inches from a collection of shriveled pepperoni slices. “Someone bought a pizza with toppings they didn’t like.”
Bud studied the victim’s slight frame. “She looks half-starved. But the autopsy will confirm what’s in her stomach.”
“She probably was.” Vaughan flipped the lid closed long enough to take a photo of the generic logo before searching around for any kind of receipt. He found none.
Vaughan glanced back at the bed and the faint impression on the end. It appeared as if someone had sat there watching television. “Was the television on when you arrived?”
“It was,” Bud said. “It was a local news channel.”
“He watched television as she bled out.”
“Jesus,” Fiona said.
Vaughan crossed to the bathroom, where he saw the towel crumpled on the counter. The sink and tub handles looked as if they had been wiped down, but there were no traces of blood on the remaining towel. He looked closely at the shower’s drain and saw faint hints of blood around it. The killer had been naked when he had murdered the girl; then he had showered and dressed. The sequence would have ensured his clothes were not stained with blood.
“When you run the victim’s prints, let me know if you get a hit?” Vaughan asked.
“Will do, Detective,” Bud said.
The probability of solving this case was incredibly low. Statistically, girls like this were considered expendable by their families, their pimps, and the justice system. They had no advocate except him and his overworked staff. But understanding the reality did not dampen his determination to give this girl some dignity and reckoning from the grave.
“Bud and Fiona, keep me posted.” And when both techs nodded, he stepped outside. He squinted toward the hot sun, absorbing its heat, knowing there was a monster out there who believed he would not get nailed for this crime.
He straightened his jacket and strode toward the adjoining room. Inside he heard whispers.
“Open up,” he said. “Alexandria Homicide.”
The knob turned and the door opened, catching on the security chain. A woman with gray hair and pale skin stared back at him. “I already talked to the cops.”
“You haven’t talked to me.” Vaughan held up his badge. “A murder occurred next door.”
She rubbed her index finger under her red-tipped nose. “That’s what the cop said.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Not a sound.”
“When did you arrive?”
“I checked in about midnight.”
That would have been fourteen hours ago and well within the window of the murder. “And you heard nothing?”
“Well, a television show, or maybe it was the news. I could hear it through the walls, but it was muffled.”
He studied her bloodshot eyes before his gaze cut to the bruises near the crease of her arm. “Did you hear any conversation, shouts, cries, screams?”
She tugged down her sleeve. “No. Like I said, just the television.”
If she had been high, as he suspected, she would not have heard a train if it had rattled past the foot of her bed. “When did you shoot up?”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“I don’t