through.'
Byrne and Jessica walked through the row house to the north of the crime scene, a long-since abandoned and stripped property. The walls were scarred with years of graffiti, pocked with dozens of fist-sized holes in the drywall. Jessica noticed that there wasn't a single item left that might be worth anything. Switch plates, outlet plates, outlets, fixtures, copper wire, even the baseboards were long gone.
'Serious feng shui problem here,' Byrne said.
Jessica smiled, but a bit nervously. Her main concern at the moment was not falling through the rotted joists into the basement.
They emerged in the back and negotiated through the chain-link fence to the rear of the crime scene house. The tiny backyard, which abutted an alley that ran behind the block of houses, was besieged with derelict appliances and tires, all overgrown with a few seasons of weeds and scrub. A small doghouse at the rear of the fenced-in property stood guard over nothing, its chain rusted into the earth, its plastic dish filled to the brim with filthy rainwater.
A uniformed officer met them at the back door.
'You clear the house?' Byrne asked. House was a very loose term. At least a third of the rear wall of the structure was gone.
'Yes, sir,' he said. His tag read R. VAN DYCK. He was in his early thirties, Viking blond, pumped, and heavily muscled. His arms strained the material of his coat.
They gave their information to this officer, who was taking the crime scene log. They entered through the back door and as they descended the narrow stairs to the basement, the stench greeted them first. Years of mildew and wood rot dallied beneath the smells of human by-products- urine, feces, sweat. Beneath that there was an ugliness suggesting an open grave.
The basement was long and narrow, mirroring the layout of the row house above, perhaps fifteen by twenty- four feet, with three support columns. As Jessica ran her Maglite over the space she saw it was littered with rotting drywall, spent condoms, crack bottles, a disintegrating mattress. A forensic nightmare. In the damp grime were probably a thousand smeary footprints if there were two; none, at first glance, pristine enough for a usable impression.
In the midst of this was a beautiful dead girl.
The young woman sat on the floor in the center of the room, her arms wrapped around one of the support pillars, her legs splayed on either side. It appeared that, at some point, a previous tenant had tried to make the supporting columns into Doric-style Roman columns with a material that might have been Styrofoam. Although the pillars had a cap and a base, the only entablature was a rusted I-beam above, the only frieze, a tableau of gang tags and obscenities spray-painted along the length. On one of the walls of the basement was a long-faded mural of what was probably supposed to be the Seven Hills of Rome.
The girl was white, young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. She had flyaway strawberry-blond hair cut just above her shoulders. She wore a plaid skirt, maroon knee socks, and white blouse beneath a maroon V-neck with a school logo. In the center of her forehead was a cross made of a dark, chalky material.
At first glimpse Jessica could not see an immediate cause of death, no visible gunshot or stab wounds. Although the girl's head lolled to her right, Jessica could see most of the front of her neck, and it did not appear as if she had been strangled.
And then there were her hands.
From a few feet away, it appeared as if her hands were clasped in prayer, but there was a much darker reality. Jessica had to look twice just to be sure that her eyes were not playing tricks on her.
She glanced at Byrne. He had noticed the girl's hands at the same moment. Their eyes met and engaged a silent knowledge that this was no ordinary rage killing, no garden-variety crime of passion. They also silently communicated that they would not speculate for the time being. The horrible certainty of what was done to this young woman's hands could wait for the medical examiner.
The girl's presence, in the middle of this ugliness, was so out of place, jarring to the eye, Jessica thought; a delicate rose pushed through the musty concrete. The weak daylight that struggled through the small, hopper-style windows caught the highlights in her hair and bathed her in a dim sepulchral glow.
The one thing that was clear was that this girl had been posed, which was not a good sign. In 99 percent of homicides, the killer can't get away from the scene fast enough, which is usually good news for the investigators. The concept of blood simple-people getting stupid when they see blood, therefore leaving behind everything needed to convict them, scientifically speaking-was usually in effect. Anybody who stops to pose a dead body is making a statement, offering a silent, arrogant communication to the police who will investigate the crime.
A pair of officers from the Crime Scene Unit arrived, and Byrne greeted them at the base of the steps. A few moments later, Tom Wey- rich, a longtime veteran from the medical examiner's office, arrived with his photographer in tow. Whenever a person died under violent or mysterious circumstances, or if it was determined that there might be a need for a pathologist to testify in a court of law at some later date, photos documenting the nature and extent of the external wounds or injuries were a routine part of the examination.
The medical examiner's office had its own staff photographer who took scene photos wherever indicated in homicides, suicides, fatal accidents. He was on call to travel anywhere in the city at any time of the day or night.
Dr. Thomas Weyrich was in his late forties, a meticulous man in all areas of his life, right down to the razor crease in his tan Dockers and perfectly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He bagged his shoes, gloved his hands, and carefully stepped over to the young woman.
While Weyrich did his preliminary exam, Jessica hung close to the damp walls. She had always believed that simple observation of people who were good at their jobs was a lot more informative than any textbook. On the other hand, she hoped her behavior was not seen as reticence. Byrne took the opportunity to go back upstairs to consult with Buchanan and determine the path of entry for the victim and her killer or killers, as well as to direct the canvass.
Jessica assessed the scene, trying to plug in her training. Who was this girl? What happened to her? How did she get down here? Who did this? And, for what it was worth, why?
Fifteen minutes later, Weyrich cleared the body, meaning that the detectives could approach and begin their investigation.
Kevin Byrne returned. Jessica and Weyrich met him at the base of the steps.
Byrne asked: 'You have an ETD?'
'No rigor yet. I'd say around four or five this morning.' Weyrich snapped off his rubber gloves.
Byrne glanced at his watch. Jessica made the note.
'What about a cause?' Byrne asked.
'Looks like a broken neck. I'm going to have to get her on the table to know for sure.'
'Was she killed here?'
'Impossible to tell at this point. But my guess is she was.'
'What about her hands?' Byrne asked.
Weyrich looked grim. He tapped his shirt pocket. Jessica could see the outline of a pack of Marlboros there. He would not, of course, smoke at a crime scene, even this crime scene, but the gesture told her that a cigarette was warranted. 'Looks like a steel bolt and nut,'he said.
'Was the bolt done postmortem?' Jessica asked, hoping the answer would be yes.
'I'd say it was,' Weyrich said. 'Very little blood. I'll get on it this afternoon. I'll know more then.'
Weyrich looked at them, found no more immediate questions pending. Walking up the steps, his cigarette was out and lit by the time he reached the top tread.
Silence owned the room for a few moments. Many times, at a homicide scene, when the victim was a gang member shot by a rival warrior, or a tough guy laid out behind a bar by a fellow tough guy, the mood among the professionals delegated to probe, investigate, examine, and clean up after the carnage was one of brisk politeness, sometimes even lighthearted banter. The gallows humor, the off-color joke. Not this time. Everyone in this damp and hideous place went about his or her task with a grim determination, a common purpose that said: This is wrong.
Byrne broke the silence. He held out his hands, palms skyward. 'Ready to check for ID, Detective Balzano?'
