The pair of them worked diligently and efficiently, moving around the scene as little as possible but determined to be a thorough as they could, as they both had an unspoken understanding that this murder was unlike anything that either of them had worked before. Having worked as a team for nearly three years now they intuitively understood one another and this past experience had turned them into a well-oiled machine, and they each in turn recorded their observations or pointed out certain injuries – the obvious opening-up of the abdomen from the sternum down past the vagina – the removal of the intestines and certain organs like the uterus and kidneys – the severance of the right carotid artery, with blood splattering’s on the wall to the right side of the bed supporting this – the position of the body, which was lying flat on her back but with the axis of her body inclined to the left, with her left arm stretched out towards the panic-button on the wall. Other observations included the careful parting of large flabs of skin from the costal arch to the pubes, with both sides peeled back and folded across the mattress, revealing the ribcage, with parts of the spine showing through the empty cavity where the organs had been removed. The face was cut with multiple lacerations to the cheeks, forehead and eyes, and the nose had been sliced off. Both legs were open with the knees bent and the soles of the victim’s feet flat against the mattress, and both legs had deep wounds on the inner thighs and calves.
They worked with their minds switched on to the task at hand but with their personal thoughts and natural revulsion temporarily held in check, and just as they were finishing with this initial survey of the crime scene they both heard a gentle tapping on the glass door behind them. Sergeant Beumers moved across and lifted the edge of the curtain to see who was standing outside.
“Ah, it’s Tweedledum and Tweedledee, the jizz squad,” he remarked, before opening the door to let the two forensic technicians slip inside.
Fully suited and booted in their white paper hooded coveralls and surgical mouth coverings, both nodded hello to the pair of cops before one of them griped, “for God’s sake, who the hell has been walking all through the blood? Don’t you guys ever listen? When I say don’t disturb the crime scene I mean stay the hell away and let us professionals take over.” He looked up from where he’d been scowling at the pools of blood, stared hard at the two officers, before his eyes shifted to look past Pieter’s shoulder towards the bed. “Fuck!” he exclaimed.
Pieter and Beumers exchanged a look. “Exactly,” Beumers replied.
Moving past the techie, Pieter slapped him gently on the shoulder. “It’s all yours”.
Then he and Beumers quickly removed their blood-soaked galoshes before stepping outside into the alley, to breath in the relatively clean air.
Trompettersteeg was possible the narrowest and most crooked of alleyways in all of Amsterdam. Barely three feet wide along its whole length, it was impossible to pass another person without turning sideways and squeezing by. Half of its length, at the bottom where it opened out by Gottahaves Coffeeshop onto Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal, was covered over with a brick ceiling, this dark and frightening tunnel covered in graffiti and plastered with flyers. The other end near where they came out onto, which was occupied by around a dozen windows and their girls, and which was the only segment with any lighting, opened out onto a hustling and bustling intersection of other alleys and side streets and the indoor segment of window brothels. The place was hundreds of years old, creepy as hell, and was the heart of the Red Light District. And tonight it was jam packed with tourists and groups of men, all packed in and desperate for a glimpse of the working girls, some drunk or reeking of weed but most of them good-natured and out for a memorable night on the town. Oblivious to the horrors just inches from where they shuffled by.
With a glance up both lengths of the alley, Pieter turned to the uniformed officer standing guard just outside the glass door of the room they had exited.
“Get rid of all these people will you. Seal off both ends with tape. But don’t let any of the other girls leave just yet. Oh, and get the memory cards for the CCTV cameras from the security cabin behind Durty Nellies pub.”
“The girls won’t like it. And their pimps will kick off. The girls here charge the highest prices, they can earn a couple of thousand euros each per night,” Beumers told him.
“I don’t give a fuck. If they don’t like it, tell them to contact their union.” Pieter nodded at the uniform, who scurried off into the shadows.
He stepped back one step until he leaned against the wall opposite the murder scene, looking at the glass door and the red light around the frame.
“Was the light still on when her pimp found her?” he asked Beumers.
“He says he didn’t touch anything, so I guess so.”
“It must have happened pretty much as soon as her client entered the room then, before they even got down to business.” He scratched at his chin, his fingers
