“Come now, I think they like to be called, Pretty Waiter Girls,” another corrected, with a snarky tone.
“Well, this one wasn’t pretty,” the fat one added.
“O’Bannon, you would still do her. I’ve seen your wife... and your mistress,” the tall, lanky one cut in.
“You know I will do anything with perfect legs, sex on one end, feet on the other!” the fat one added on.
“And the feet are optional!” the thin one blurted out.
Promptly growing disgusted, Detective Longstreet needed a change of company, here and now he favored the companionship of the dead to the living. “Thank you, gentlemen, you may continue your rehearsals for the Midsummer Festival out on the street. I would like to be alone while I examine the body.”
The four comedians wandered towards Pacific Street, joking with one another the whole way. Making impromptu phalli with their forearms and attacking each other.
“Do you really have any theories you would like to share?” the voice came from behind the stack of boxes again.
Kneeling, and taking a deep breath, in preparation, Detective Longstreet uncovered the corpse, and instantly exhaled to control his nausea. Speaking sympathetically, “No, none I care to share,” he took a few deeper breaths holding back the urge to further contaminate the crime scene with his vomit, before continuing, “Why don’t you come out from behind the crates? At least you can understand English well enough.”
“I would rather not, the sight of blood makes me squeamish,” the voice said.
“I am afraid to disappoint you, there is no blood here, or viscera,” he inspected the naked cadaver, or the parts left of her, taking invisible notes and sketches while he worked.
The body had been quartered. Split in half at the waist, then the lower half divided again between the legs. That would entail a sizeable, powerful saw, the sacrum sliced and not shattered. The abdominal wall had been carved as well, by what appeared an incision of surgical quality, right down the centerline from the xiphoid process down to the genitalia. Closer inspection revealed the diaphragm intact, indicating the upper organs, heart, and lungs, should be in place.
Doyle looked up to see a slender built man standing watching him work from the crates, still more than far enough away to not glimpse the body.
“You’re not a copper?” Doyle asked.
“No, I never claimed to be. I am a reporter. Any additional information you would like to share?” the man asked.
“No comment,” the Detective’s only reply.
“Any comment of the similarities of the killings in Whitechapel area of London a decade ago?” he pressed again.
“If you are implying the Ripper killings, no comment. Now please leave before I have you arrested for disrupting a crime scene,” Doyle said in a calm non-threating way.
The reporter had all he was going to find, with a deadline approaching, what he didn’t find here he would make up. He turned to leave, then stopped to ask, “The other coppers don’t like you very much, do they?”
“Men tend to fear what they don’t understand,” he said without looking up from the detailed notations he took.
The reporter shuffled down the street, not wanting to antagonize a future source by wearing out his welcome.
Detective Longstreet watched the man hurry off then went back taking notes and making sketches of the area. At once he realized the body had been discarded here, but why here when they were so close to the bay. Once dumped in the water the body would be swept out to sea.
It must have been a message for someone. Then he noted the hair had been all removed, even down to the minuscule hair on the woman’s face. And lastly, in keeping with this not being the murder scene, they left zero body fluids on the alley cobbles, all very peculiar.
Lost in thought, Doyle didn’t notice the feet, approaching until they were almost upon him. Prepared to chastise the intrusion, he jerked up ready to speak harshly when he saw the face of Doctor Carlyle, the City Coroner and two black orderlies standing three paces away.
“Ah Doctor, I have been assigned the case,” Doyle rose and offered his hand to each man in turn.
Once finished with the pleasantries, Doctor Carlyle waved the two stretcher bearers off saying, “Give us a moment, will you fellows?”
Once the two men stepped back out of earshot, the Coroner continued, “I’d hoped you were. I went to visit Alderman Black last night, interrupted his dinner, and told him I would quit if you weren’t given this case. The case needs you, the city needs you,” said the doctor.
“I wish you hadn’t done that. I am not worth the risk to your family,” the Detective answered.
“The city needs more men like you. You haven’t learned how to play the politics yet, but you will. In the meantime, you’ve me to teach you, or at least cover for you when you won’t.”
“I’m a copper like all these other officers.”
“I never thought I would hear you compare yourself with the likes of O’Bannon and the hundreds of others like him. You’ve a gifted mind towards investigation. You will solve many crimes if we can keep the politicians out of your way, besides I like working with you.”
“You knew what I meant. I am no more special than everyone else.”
“Did you pay to become a Detective?”
“No, the department recruited me.”
“That is the first thing that makes you different, everyone on the force, bought their position from the lowest to the highest. Someone pulled strings to get you on the force. They must’ve paid your fee, like it or not you’ve a patron in the city.”
“Why tell me this now?”
“Now I have a reason. Now you are lead on a case, I thought you should know, someone is watching you and your progress.”
Doyle thought about this new information, and the hotter part of him wanted to walk off the scene quitting police work forever, the more relaxed side
