The First Death

The First Death
co-written by Ylanne and DemiKara


The woman sat just inside the alley in a good neighborhood.  Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and arms loosely wrapped around them as she silently sat in the opening, head down.    Her dark brown hair was short, styled with gel and pretty as could be.  It was the latest in fashion for short hair.  she wore a white halter top with blue embroidery on it, and the skirt that matched, a lovely olive brown color, lay around her waist, a mess.  It revealed the lace underwear she wore the the world, the position she was in, and with her skirt not proper.

The day was otherwise nice, the sun shining, only a few clouds dotting the sky.  Just enough to keep the sun from being too fierce, and not enough to make the day gloomy.  The street was fairly busy, it being a holiday, and many people passed the woman, without stopping, without checking on why she was obviously sad.

Children, women, families passed bad, some mothers making certain their children didn't catch sight of her, people not seeing her, those who did assuming she was homeless, or a druggie, despite her neat dress and styled hair.

It was about another hour before a young man caught a glimpse of her and approached, trying to get her attention without much success. After he earned no response, he checked for a pulse, but, finding none, he reached into his pocket for one of those smart phones that the young people seemed to like these days, and dialed 911. "I think I've got someone dead," he said. "Maybe you should send someone along to take a look." 

"What's your address?" the dispatcher asked, and the informant gave as good a description as he was able to produce based on the area. He didn't live here, but he had a friend who did. His parents couldn't afford the houses in the rather upscale neighborhood. "I'll send an officer right away." 

It took less than ten minutes after the on-duty officer arrived to declare the death an obvious homicide. The captain at the local precinct glanced at the roster of detectives and the caseloads that had been assigned to them. In a city like this, with a crime rate this high, all of the detectives had a constantly heavy caseload. The one man with the fewest cases was one of the most recently promoted detectives -- Isaac Bowdoin. 

As they examined the body of the woman, they might notice the myriad of cuts on the woman's clothes, though they were the least of the injuries, they were merely the most numerous, all over the front and back.  They were random, angry marks.  There was a pattern though, on her chest.  Seven larger marks, deeper marks.

Two almost over the ovaries, then two more, a little higher, on either side of the abdomen.  Two more, where the arm joined the body, and then one as the throat, right above the breast bone.  The mark on the right should blade was slightly inflamed in comparison to the other wounds, as if there was some sort of suction on the wound.

The woman's purse was nearby, a tiny clutch containing lipstick, a cell phone, her ID and some cash.  She was revealed as 21 year old Denise J. Nelson.

"Don't you hate it when you wake up in the morning and a murder case falls into your lap?" Isaac Bowdoin was a fairly tall man with short-cropped dreadlocks and a goatee framing chocolate-colored flesh and eyes that women frequently described as "dreamy" despite Isaac's repeated rejections of any such proposals. 

The young detective found himself staring down at Denise's body with an expression of mild concern, his hands inside his pockets. Dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved green polo shirt, he looked a lot more like a local college student than he did a homicide detective, but that was because Isaac preferred not to adopt the somber suits and carefully pressed trench-coats popular among his colleagues. "We're going to have to get the body to the morgue for a full autopsy," he said, shaking his head. "Let's get what we can before the gawkers arrive." 

The other detectives ran the scene under his direction, and soon enough the scene was fully processed, and the woman's time of death estimated to be the previous night, roughly ten hours ago.  Rigor Mortis had yet to pass, lasting 36-48 hours so the body would have to be taken to the lab as was, where the doctor could ease it into position as needed for the autopsy itself.

The larger wounds had killed her.  The final one had been the death stroke, and would be found to be the one on the right shoulder.  She would have bled out and the loss of blood had killed her.

"I've got far too much paperwork that I have to get done," Isaac said, shaking his head. "Someone stay here, and I'm going to go and talk to her family. Let's find out who the next of kin are, who it is I've got to inform." He looked at one of the officers, motioning to be handed a list of Denise's next of kin. He didn't add that he'd want to find out if she had any known enemies, stalkers, anything of the sort. 

Her next of kin was a mother and father, aged 57 and 56 respectively.  Daniella and John Nelson were their names and they had been at home, their phone numbers 'Dad,' 'Mom,' and 'Home' in Denise's cell phone.

Isaac reached for his own phone, dialing the number marked "home." After he heard a voice answer on the other end, he disconnected and put the victim's name through the database, finding the address listed for the parents. "I'm headed over to the parents' house right now," he informed the folks standing around before heading to his car, which he had parked several houses away from the specific location where the body had been found earlier. 

He opened the door and climbed inside, turning the engine on and slamming the door shut. The sounds of some kind of alternative music played at a reasonable volume, turned down enough so that those passing by wouldn't condemn Isaac as one of those obnoxious youngsters who liked to blast music for no apparent reason. He entered the parents' address into his GPS and after waiting a few minutes for the device to calibrate itself, headed in the indicated direction. 

It took about twenty minutes to make it to the Nelsons's house, which Isaac found strangely reminiscent of the first house that he'd moved into. It was a pleasant, two-story brick and mortar house with black shutters beside each of the windows, and planters beneath each of them that contained little crocuses and buttercups. He parked across the street, and when he cut the engine, Isaac found it decidedly silent in the neighborhood. He supposed this was the sort of area where anything louder than the occasional car passing by earned you the contempt of the neighbors. 

Isaac climbed out of the car and locked it before heading across the street, up the steps to the front door. He rang the doorbell and waited only a few seconds before he could hear footsteps, and then the deadbolt sliding open, the door following a moment later to reveal two middle-aged people who might have been taken directly out of some magazine about the middle-class. Maybe the upper-middle class. 

Isaac cleared his throat. "Mr. and Mrs. Nelson?" he asked. There was a nod, and then he reached for his identification, showing his badge and credentials. "My name is Detective Isaac Bowdoin, Wing City Police. I'm sorry to inform you that we found your daughter's body this morning. I'm very sorry for your loss." 

Daniella's eyes flew to Isaac's, as if to confirm that he was in fact telling the truth, and a little gasp escaped her lips as she reached for her husband's hand. 

The husband took Daniella's hand in his own, looking stricken.  "She said she was spending the night at a friend's.  When she didn't come home this morning, we figured they were out shopping, or hanging out somewhere."  He said and pulled his wife to him, holding her gently.

"What happened to our baby?"  Dead?  Denise was dead?  She couldn't be dead, not their baby girl.  Daniella began to sob and John held her close.  "Maybe we should move to the living room"  Definitely.

"If you don't mind, ma'am," said Isaac, following the couple inside and closing the door gently  behind him. He allowed them to lead him to the living room, which was furnished by a set of matching black leather couches and carefully chosen decorations. He waited for the Nelsons to sit on one of the couches before settling uneasily into the couch adjacent. "We've just begun our investigation, and I assure you we'll do the best we can to find out what happened. We believe your daughter's death was a homicide. Again, I'm very sorry for your loss."

"A homicide?  Denise! But why!  Denise was popular, everyone loved her."  John said firmly.  "We hosted her parties here even.  She was adored at school."  He said and shook his head.  "I mean, yeah she was in college, and she had some weird friends from the school, but she was a wonderful girl, well behaved."

"Do you know of anyone who might have disliked your daughter, or had any reason to hurt Denise?" Isaac asked. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask." 

"I...No."  They said and shook their heads.  "Not to my knowledge."  The father admitted.  The mother shook her head, pressing her face against John's shoulder.

"Denise can't be...are you sure it's her?  Are you sure it's our baby?"

Isaac nodded, unable to bring himself to look either of the Nelsons in the eyes. "We, ah, found her license and other personal possessions on the body," he explained, clasping his hands over his knees as he leaned forward. 

"I...can we see her body?"  Daniella asked, worried now.  "Can we see her body?"

Isaac's lips stretched into a thin line and he stared downward at the rug. "Not immediately, but very soon," Isaac said. "I understand that this is very hard for you, but you have to let us do our job so we can find whoever did this. I promise I will call to let you know when you can come in. It should be within a few days."

"A...Alright."  The husband said.  "Alright.  Call us.  With everything.  Please, call us as soon as you know anything."