Gladyss of the Hunt. Arthur Nersesian

was carefully putting away his tools and chemicals and asked if they’d found anything.

      “Yeah, a sperm archive of every man born in the last century. I don’t think they ever changed the sheets.” He nodded toward the body. “No sign our killer had sex with this one, though.”

      “How old was the victim?” I asked.

      “Early twenties,” he read from his report. “Blonde hair. Several identifying tattoos that could have been done in prison.”

      The maid, an older black woman in a torn wool sweater, appeared at the end of the hallway. She was pushing a broom cart out of one room, heading toward another.

      “Excuse me!” I called, walking over to her. “Are you the one who found the body?”

      “Hell yeah, and I’ll never forget it. Never saw no one with no head before.” She spoke with a faded island dialect. “And some policeman took my fingerprints, but I was telling them, I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

      “They’ll just be elimination prints, to make sure we can rule you out. Did anyone interview you?”

      “Yeah, some guy with a bushy mustache.” That was Hernandez. “Oh, and the cop who was just here. He took my name and the name of a tenant who’s lived down the hall a long time.”

      “Did you ever see the victim before, when she was alive?” I inquired. I wasn’t supposed to question anyone, but I was alone and I had time to kill.

      “Yeah, I told the other officer. She came here from time to time.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Yeah. I remembered her ’cause she tipped me once, when the room was a real mess.”

      “How’d you know it was her?”

      “The cop let me look at her face,” she said. “I remembered her tattoo.”

      “What tattoo?”

      “She had a tiny tear drop near her eye.” I had noticed it.

      “So when was the last time you saw her?”

      “A month or so ago, I guess. I don’t really remember. The old desk clerk, Sam, he used to have deals with some of the girls.”

      “What kind of deals?”

      “He’d give the girls a room, just for an hour or so. After a guest checked out, but before I’d clean them. He died a while back, before the big sweep. Maybe the new guy does it now.”

      “Would you recognize any of the johns who were with her in the past?”

      “Maybe, if I saw them, but I didn’t know her regulars.”

      “Does this place have any exits other than the one through the lobby?”

      “The fire escape out front,” she replied.

      Some detective, a young guy in a Gucci knock-off, came in with a uniform cop named Ray. I sensed they were only there for a little sightseeing.

      I thanked the cleaning lady, and followed them into the room. The sightseers fell silent when they saw the vic, so I asked them to watch the scene a minute while I dashed out.

      I thought there was at least a chance the killer had left some trace behind, on his way to and from the room. Flicking on my Maglite, I pointed it at the floor as I headed down the hallway. Stopping myself, I paused, closed my eyes, and took some quick shallow breaths—a technique I had recently learned that was designed to heighten my awareness. After a moment my heartbeat quickened. I knew I was ready.

      I continued to the staircase and looked down all the way to the lobby—nada. I went back up. On the half landing, just above the murder scene, I spotted a double A battery in the corner. Let it be relevant to the case, I thought as I bent over. Almost through sheer force of will, it became a tube of lipstick. When I rolled it up, and saw the color was bright orange, I realized I had stopped willing too soon. It didn’t quite match the color worn by the victim. Still, I held it by its edge as I returned to the room.

      “We gotta dash,” one of the sightseeing cops said when I returned.

      An old wooden folding chair was now leaning against the hallway wall. I opened it, unlidded my cold tea, and waited for the Johnny-come-lately from Homicide South.

      Ten minutes later a surprisingly young guy showed up, a cigarette between his yellow teeth and a gold shield dangling from a leather wallet that was wedged in his jacket pocket.

      “How’s it going?” he greeted me.

      “You’re a detective?” I asked astonished. With his fuzzy post-adolescent mustache, he couldn’t have been much older than me.

      “What do we have?”

      “I only looked inside,” I said, in case he was testing me. “Her head is cut off, and her limbs were taped together.”

      “Holy shit!” he said, then snapped a photo of the victim from the doorway. “Do we have a name?”

      “Not to my knowledge. Seems like she was a hooker.”

      “So how many murders does this make it?”

      “You’re the detective, you tell me,” I replied. “Are you allowed to smoke in here?”

      When he grinned, I realized I hadn’t been following proper procedures. I flipped open my memo book and told him that if he wanted to enter the room, he had to sign it first, since I was technically in charge of the scene. I should’ve gotten the earlier sightseers to do likewise.

      “Let me finish my cig first,” he said and walked back down the stairs.

      It took me a minute or two before I realized he wasn’t coming back. Whoever that kid was, he wasn’t a detective. Probably a reporter, damn it. They were constantly monitoring police radios.

      Twenty minutes later, I heard coughing in the distance. The cough slowly grew louder and was accompanied by an odd thud. Finally a rugged, older man emerged from the stairway, panting for air. He walked with a distinct limp. This guy had detective written all over him.

      As soon as he saw me, he nervously planted an unlit cigarette between his lips.

      “My fucking foot is killing me.”

      “Who exactly are you?” I asked.

      He took his wallet from his pocket and flipped open his gold shield. “Detective Sergeant Bernie Farrell. Is the rest of the squad here?”

      “Just me, sir.”

      “Who are you again?”

      “Officer Chronou.”

      “First name, dear heart?”

      “Gladyss, with two esses.”

      “Tell me no reporters came by, Gladyss.”

      “Actually this young guy just came by . . . He said he was a detective, but he kept asking me questions.”

      “Make me glad, Gladyss with two esses, and tell me he didn’t snap a picture.”

      “He took a picture.”

      “Shit! Exactly what does ‘protect the crime scene’ mean to you?”

      “I’m really sorry, sir,” I said.

      “No, I shoulda told . . . See, some asshole reporter got ahold of the mugs of the last vic, as well as the crime scene of the first vic, and has been running stories on the case.”

      Detective Farrell went over and stared down at the body. He hung his hand forward and pursed his lips like a gargoyle. “Shit,” he said. He walked around the room until he came to the window, then stared up at the surrounding buildings silently for several long minutes.

      “Why don’t you warn him off?” I said, if only to awaken him.