Sable Alley Read online

  “What is this?” I ask, uncertain why she would give me the evidence.

  “A note. I believed the person who killed Ruby wrote it.”

  Maybe, she thinks I know the name, but I have no idea. “Who is Ruby? And who killed her?” I ask, feeling silly.

  “That’s your job to find out.” DS Green pulls open the top drawer from her desk and brings out an Information Electronic Tablet, or an IET for short. “This is for you. It’s part of your uniform. Sign into it. The microphone to record conversations is attached to the back of the device and can be removed. Make sure you always wear the microphone on your shirt or coat. It doesn’t matter where.”

  I give her the evidence bag and take the device. I had one of these when I was a community support officer, but it was the elementary model that was capable of basic functions like scanning thumb chips and contacting fellow police officers and headquarters. This IET is a little heavier and nicer, and it should have more options unless it’s the same kind I had before. Attached to the back of the IET is a flat round microphone flush with the surface. I press it to make it come off, and I hook it to my collar. Then I press my thumb on the illuminated green welcome screen. A single yellow line slides across, reading the chip in my thumb. My badge number and name remain on the screen for a few seconds before fading to reveal a list of options.

  REFERENCE NUMBER

  INTRA-MESSAGE

  EMAIL

  NOTES

  All are separated by lines and highlighted with different colors. I select REFERENCE NUMBER. A single entry with fourteen digits is in red. I press on the field. The details of the entry read:

  EVIDENCE NOTE 1. PARCHMENT PAPER, Ruby is dead in Sable Alley is written on the note. Blood spots. Cup rings. End entry. DS Maisie Green, Badge 47564, February 19, 2018, 0800 A.M.

  I scroll down and see the picture of the parchment paper and then exit out of the option. I select INTRA-MESSAGE. I have zero messages. EMAIL has two unread, which I’ll look at later. The NOTES are blank.

  At the bottom of the screen is a blue band with a camera icon, microphone, call feature, a question mark for search, and an emergency app. The device is more valuable than a gun in my opinion. Every detective has this upgraded model.

  Wait a minute. Is this what I think it means?

  “I’m no longer in training?” I ask in shock.

  “That’s right, Kipling, you’re officially a detective constable with your first homicide case.”

  DS Green is making a mistake. I’ve only been training for a month and a half. Most of the time I watched Robinson, never truly active in the investigative method. When he processed crime scenes, he didn’t explain what he was looking for or how certain conclusions were made, and if I asked, he always shushed me.

  “I’m thinking,” he would say. Or “I’ll tell you later.” He’d never tell me later.

  I learned nothing from him. I’m not ready.

  “I’m not ready,” I remark as I try to give her the IET.

  “When it comes to the first case, a detective never is.” DS Green interlocks her fingers over the desk, refusing the device.

  I try to think of another reason without telling her about Robinson and his nonexistent training methods, but I’m coming up empty. My mind is racing with fear of failure and all the problems that could happen if I take over a case.

  She notices how terrified I am. Her hard exterior becomes surprisingly compassionate. “Detective Kipling, I know you just started, but you’re very capable of doing this job. I wouldn’t put you on a case if I thought you required more training.”

  “But DS Green…”

  “You’re not going to be alone. A community support officer will be assigned to work along with you. But since he or she won’t be a detective, Robinson will be available to assist if you have questions. Also, you have an entire squad room of experienced colleagues at your disposal. Feel free to use them. When I decide who your CSO will be, I’ll let you know.”

  I look down at the IET. The welcome screen is on display. “Sable Alley,” I say mostly to myself like there’s courage behind those words.

  “The body is there waiting for you. You’ve been assigned a car, weapons, and I almost forgot.” She reaches into a drawer and places a badge and credentials on the desk. “You’ll be needing these.”

  I stare at the symbols of authority. The badge and credentials always get people’s attention. I pick them up, letting the weight of the badge rest in my hand. Never thought I’d get this far so quickly.

  “Are you sure about this?” I ask with concern.

  “I’m confident with every decision I make. Choosing you is not an exception.” She closes the drawer and leans back. “One last thing before you go. Twenty-eight euros were deducted from your salary for being late. A letter of reprimand is in your email for you to sign. Send it back to me by the end of the day. That’s an order.”

  “It wasn’t my…”

  “No excuses. Don’t be late again. You don’t want to start your detective career with blemishes on your official service record.” Her compassion is long gone.

  “Thank you, DS Green.”

  She turns to her computer, and I leave with the IET, badge, and credentials.

  I’m kind of excited. Not that someone getting murdered is a good thing. It’s just finally I can get away from Robinson and work on my own. But is going solo the best thing for me? Especially since I don’t have the expertise to work this case alone.

  Back at my desk, I grab my satchel. I place the IET and credentials inside. I clip my shield unto my belt and adjust it.

  “You’re a detective,” Robinson says, scratching at an eyebrow. “Barely two months. Impressive.”

  “I’m going to mess this up,” I reply.

  “Naw, you’ll be fine. You were taught by me, the best.”

  He thinks way too much of himself.

  “Want me to come with you?” Robinson is clicking his shoes together. His hands are behind his head.

  I do need his help. I haven’t learned anything, oddly thanks to him, and all the other detectives are busy working their cases. Robinson is free, or it looks like he is. He’ll have to do. Having some kind of back up is better than not having anyone at all.

  “I need your help.”

  He throws on his jacket.

  I head for the arms room. The sergeant gives me four full cartridges and two pistols. I make sure my weapons are on safe and clear as soon as the gunsmith hands them to me. They appear to be in good shape and clean. In this job, the newbie always gets the garbage, what nobody else wants. I’ll take what they give me. At least, I have weapons just in case.

  Next stop is the motor pool. My assigned car is mostly a gray four-door sedan. The back passenger side door is black with a bullet hole in it. The back seats are cut up. The front seats are faded, and so is the dash. The mounted computer screen is cracked in all four corners. When I turn the ignition, the engine rattles to a start. Once again I get the garbage, but hey, it runs, and I have wheels to get to work.

  I’m a detective constable. What have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter Two.

  “I remember my first case,” Robinson says as he lights a cigarette. “It’s been six years. An old man was stabbed thirty times. The butcher knife was left in his chest. His wife killed him. She said that he was watching too much porn. He was tied to the bed. His guts were sliced up and coming out of his stomach. When we first got there, she was watching TV,” he laughs, “and drinking champagne, celebrating the murder of her husband. The robe she was wearing and bunny shoes were bloody.”

  “Murder isn’t funny.”

  “You don’t think bloody bunny shoes are funny? I think it’s funny.”

  “Sounds like she snapped.”

  Robinson grabs the handle to the window. It comes off the panel. “What a shitty car.”

  I don’t disagree.

  “Anyway…” He drops the handle to the floor and continues, “she’s se
rving fifty years in prison. I hear she’s a model inmate.”

  “Do you ever visit the people you put in prison?”

  “Only when a case I’m working is connected to a convict.” Robinson blows smoke to the ceiling. “Otherwise I stay away as much as possible. Cops don’t have fans in there.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I reply smartly.

  “So, Detective Constable Victoria Kipling, where are we headed?”

  “Sable Alley.”

  “That’s a bad neighborhood. Somebody always getting beaten or murdered. The whole place needs to be leveled. Send those people out to live with the savages.”

  Anger rises in my cheeks, but I keep calm. “I hate that word,” I reply. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t say that.”

  “Sorry, Kipling, you’re not a…uh…one of them.”

  “Still, it’s demeaning.”

  “You’re absolutely right, but I tell you what. Those people don’t care about anything. They eat their young and spit them out. Your best bet when it comes to this case is to solve it quickly and move on.”

  I can’t stand the way Robinson talks about people he thinks is beneath him. He has no sympathy anyone. As long as he’s not affected, then it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of his life. He works his cases, but he has little heart for the victims and their families.

  I make the last turn onto Chatsworth Rd Street. A police van with the lights on is parked near Sable Alley. A uniformed community support officer paces the entrance. I stop the car behind the van.

  “You’re nervous,” Robinson replies. “I can take over the case if you want, work it under your badge number. All I need is your IET.”

  I give his offer serious consideration for ten seconds and make up my mind.

  “No, thanks. This case is mine.”

  “Seriously, Kipling, what do you know about investigating a crime? A month and a half of training. It’s not long enough. You’re going to fail. Let me work it. I’ll have it solved by the end of the week, tops, and I’ll make you look good while doing it.”

  His words have the worst effect on me than my own. I’m actually angry that Robinson thinks I’m not good enough, but I can’t let him take over. This is my chance.

  “I got this,” I tell him.

  “No, you really don’t.”

  “Do you know what DS Green told me this morning?”

  I have Robinson’s attention. His eyes widen as if I’m about to tell him a juicy rumor.

  “She said she was making me a detective because of how good you are as a trainer, and I didn’t need to be under your wing as long as I would have with other detectives.” The lie is sour, but it works.

  “DS Green said that?” He puckers his lips and nods his head. Robinson loves admiration. Anytime someone toots this man’s horn, he’s all for it, and he’ll celebrate his own accomplishments even when its uncalled for.

  “You’ve taught me what to do. It’s time to put it into practice, and if I have questions, I have you.”

  “Okay, it’s your case, Detective.”

  I grab the IET and credentials out of the bag. Robinson has already made it to the community support officer by the time I get out of the car. Both are lighting up cigarettes. I take a deep breath to center my thoughts and my raging nerves, and I walk over to the alley.

  “CSO Sam Clarke,” Robinson points his thumb at me, “this is Detective Constable Victoria Kipling.”

  We shake hands. CSO Clarke is a brown-eyed, bright-faced young man. And he’s a cute guy in his police uniform, but he looks newer to the force than me. I find myself smiling way more than I should, and I straighten up.

  “DC Kipling,” CSO Clarke says, “nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  “The coroner is waiting for you in the alley.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Robinson lifts the police tape.

  “Actually, why don’t you hang back? I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right here.” He waves me through.

  I take long awkward strides. I’m nervous to the point I’m adjusting my jacket, and it doesn’t need to be fixed. I look up at the tall buildings that block the light. Only a sliver of the sky shows. At the other end of the alley, another community support officer is at his post. He stands in the middle of the entrance. I think he’s facing the street, but I’m not sure.

  When I finally get to the coroner, she offers a hand and says, “Dr. Lucy Turner.”

  “Detective Constable Victoria Kipling.”

  “First case?”

  “Yes.” I look back at Robinson. He’s laughing it up with CSO Clarke.

  “Are you ready for an update?” she asks.

  “Certainly. Yes. Go ahead.”

  “Your victim’s name is Ruby Taylor. She’s twenty-five years old and live in the Crow Building at the end of the alley. If you look beyond the officer down there, you can see the door across the street.”

  He’s standing in the way, but I do see windows and parts of the steps.

  “Did you scan the identity chip in her thumb, or did you find some other kind of identification?” I ask.

  “I scanned her identity chip,” Dr. Turner replies. “According to her medical record, she’s never been pregnant, and there are no documented hospital stays or emergency visits. Due to the blunt force trauma to the skull, I’m going to call this a homicide for now. After the autopsy is completed, I’ll update you with additional findings. What is the reference number for your case?”

  I press the option on my phone and show her the number. She selects it and swipes down on the screen. A barcode comes into view. She scans it with her device. Her information quickly downloads into my phone. There isn’t a lot of material, but I hope it’s going to be helpful in solving the case.

  “I recommend that you look at the body and take your own pictures,” she says as she hands me a set of gloves. “Are you allergic to plastic?”

  “No, not that I know of. Isn’t the forensics team supposed to take pictures?”

  “It’s always best if you do it as well.”

  I put on the gloves. Dr. Turner removes the tarp. Ruby Taylor’s tangled red hair is caked with blood, skull bone fragments, brain matter, and…glitter? One eye is open. The other is covered by her hair. Honestly, it doesn’t look like she has a right eye. Lips are blue, slightly open, partially showing her teeth. Half of her head is beat to a pulp.

  What stands out is the red dress, a ball gown actually. Tulle peeks from underneath the soft red fabric. The finished edges twitches from a passing breeze. Tiny sequins dot the shawl. It’s dirty now, bloody, not so pretty. Where was Ruby coming from in such a beautiful dress? I bet she was a sight before she was killed. Such a waste. It saddens me to see her dead. This alley was never meant to be the end, not for her, not for anyone.

  The palms of her hands are dirty. Perhaps from where she touched the cobblestone ground. Fingernails are clean, but they’re cut to the nub. I take as many pictures as I think I need. My online file can hold thousands of pictures with plenty of room to spare for the evidence list, witness list, and whatever else I digitally collect. So, I’m not shy about taking pictures of every angle of the body and the scene.

  I check inside of her purse next. For some odd reason, it’s empty. A girl carrying a purse with nothing inside is unusual. Why carry one at all?

  Finished with the body search, I carefully look around the immediate area. Several undefined scuff marks from shoes are in the mud. I check the victim’s boots. There is no mud on the edges of the sole. I take pictures anyway and several more of the shoe tracks.

  After feeling certain I got enough on and around the body, I take note of the rest of the alley. Black water trickles down the cement gutter that stretches center length of the path. The smell is a mixture of spoiled food, human and/or animal wastes, and the dead body. I hear little squeals of rodents. The wall closer to the body doesn’t have any
windows and no doors. Garbage cans are lined up against the opposite wall. Stair railings are above them, leading to multiple windows at different levels. I see a woman looking over the edge. Her head is wrapped in a scarf. I can’t make out exactly what she looks like. She may be on the sixth or seventh floor. I’ll have to see if I can find her later.

  I turn my attention to the garbage bins. There are ten of them. The first one I get to, I tip over, letting the garbage fall out. It’s not a lot, but there’s enough to make the stink in the alley worse. I search through the compost and junk, not finding anything. I put everything back and check the next bin. Some doesn’t have anything in them, while others are full to the brim. Several times I almost heave my guts. Thank goodness I didn’t have breakfast. The ninth bin is when I find something that connects to Ruby. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to find anything, but I didn’t want to leave the scene of the crime without checking. There’s a sheet of paper with her name printed on it and signature. It’s a photocopy. At the top is a sentence that reads she agrees to said terms on the nondisclosure agreement. I take a picture of the note, front and back.

  “Do you have an evidence bag?” I ask Dr. Turner.

  She reaches into her kit and holds one open for me while keeping her distance. I must smell awful but digging in the garbage was worth it. I found a clue.

  The last bin doesn’t turn up anything. I need the entire nondisclosure agreement. I don’t believe it’s here. The copy must be in Ruby's apartment.

  On my part, I’m done, but my crime scene hasn’t been fully processed. I take out the IET and make a call.

  “Alexander King,” he answers in his normal dry tone.

  “This is Detective Victoria Kipling, badge number 773218. Where are you? I’m in Sable Alley with a murder victim.”

  “Down here.”

  I look in Robinson’s direction. There’s only him and CSO Clarke. “I don’t see you.”

  “We’re at the other end of the alley. We’ve been here for about five minutes.”

  I turn around. King and the forensic team are walking towards me. They’re all suited up in white from head to toe, with goggles attached to their foreheads. They all have tackle boxes in hand, closing the distance quickly. When they get to me, I ask King to dust all the garbage cans for prints, and I give him the nondisclosure signature page to test for fingerprints. He asks for the reference number, and I give him the IET so he can scan the barcode to the case. Once everyone is up to date, they get to work, and I watch, hoping to catch some ideas or pointers. I don’t feel so inadequate with them around.