The pool of blood had spread across the floor and congealed with the white Persian rug.
"What a tragedy," I murmured.
A young brunette woman peeked up from behind the couch "Sorry, what was that?" she asked.
I took a sip of my hot coffee, the steam fogging my glasses. I hated that. Placing my cup on the coffee table I removed a cloth from my back pocket and began to clean the lens.
"I was saying, what a tragedy."
"Oh, ya it is. Only twenty years old, so much of his life left to live." My partner thought I was referring to the victim, I wasn't. She glared at me then nodded to my coffee to remove it from the table. Such a stickler. I slicked back my greasy blonde hair, returned my glasses to the bridge of my nose, and grabbed my coffee off the glass, a translucent ring was left behind, whoops. Well, this hangover wasn't going away any time soon, might as well help her out.
I knelt beside her. "So?"
"So…" she paused like I should know already, "We have a twenty-year-old male, bludgeoned to death. No murder weapon or object in sight, no fingerprints and no genital fluid."
"Semen. Why can't you just say, semen."
"Because it's vulgar."
I rolled my eyes.
"Also the only blood is our victim's."
"Let me get this straight. What you are saying is, whomever did this, knew what they were doing."
"Whoever."
"What?"
"It's whomever when referring to an object pronoun. So whoever is the correct word." Like I said, 'a stickler.' I rose from my haunches, my right knee protested, causing me to wince.
"When are you going to get that looked at?" she asked.
"Soon," I grumbled. Inspecting the rest of the living room, as well as the kitchen. She was right. No trace of anyone else having been here. No broken windows, no forced entry, nothing out of the ordinary but a dead man. I took another sip of my coffee. The dark roast slightly burnt my tongue, still hot. I prefer it that way; I hate cold coffee. I made another pass at the kitchen, to see if anything stood out. It was very clean - too clean.
"Jen, come look at this," I called to my young partner. She got up from beside the victim.
"What am I looking at?"
"The kitchen, tell me what you notice."
She glanced around, "It's a clean kitchen."
"Exactly, too clean. Who do you know that has this clean of a kitchen?" Don't say I do.
"I do."
"Alright, Mrs. Clean, how about the toaster." I stood beside the toaster.
"I don't have a toaster, I'm gluten-free."
"Jen...this toaster."
She walked over to the toaster, "Ok, this toaster."
I went to grab it but she stopped me.
"Gloves."
She passed me an extra set of gloves. I exaggerated the snapping noise, demonstrating I was starting to get a little annoyed.
"Look." I picked it up.
"Yes, it's clean."
I waited hoping she would clue in holding the silver appliance above the counter. She just stared at me. "Jen, no crumbs!" I tipped the toaster upside down, a piece shifted inside, but nothing fell out. "It's a brand new toaster. No one gets the toaster this clean and if you say I do so help me--"
"Nick, I'm gluten-free."
I placed the toaster back on the counter, grabbed her by the shoulder, and spoke as softly as I could, "Detective Wilson, I know you are gluten-free, sometimes you just need to play along."
"Right, sorry. I know I take things too literally."
"It's ok. Now, what does it mean that we have a brand new toaster?"
"The toaster is the murder weapon," she said.
Finally, such a brilliant person, yet common sense lagged. Suddenly, I got a sinking feeling. This wasn't right. If the vic was on the other side of the marble island how would the killer hit her with a toaster that would have been plugged in over here? Unless they were fighting in the kitchen, but then why grab the toaster when there are knives right beside the toaster. I grabbed a random knife from the bamboo block. No water spots, no signs of any use. I opened the fridge. It was empty, it wasn't even on.
"Umm...Jen?"
"Yes?" She was watching me curiously.
"This entire kitchen is new. Now that I think about it, this entire apartment is new, nothing has been used." Before she could reply I dashed in my excitement towards the hall that led to the bedrooms, to confirm my hunch. My knee got angry and spasmed, almost dropping me to the rich oak hardwood floor.
Jen rushed over, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," I pulled my lips in, a feeble attempt to stifle the pain. "Moved a little too quickly." Slowly she helped me stand upright.
"You'll need to ice that tonight."
I held back a snappy response. Nodding in agreement. I let Jen check the rest of the condo while I stood by the door on my good leg, helpless. After a short while, the pain subsided and Jen returned. She confirmed what I feared, everything in this place was brand new.
"What does this mean?" she asked.
"It means he's back."
Ten Years Earlier
The passenger-side door of the charcoal grey Crown Victoria swung open as the driver leaned over the console to open the door.
"Get in!" he yelled.
I stood in my doorway as the torrential downpour continued, two days straight. Why did I move here, I thought to myself as I sprinted across the path from my doorway to the open car door. In that little space of time, I was soaked. Angrily, I got in the car and slammed the door.
"Hey now, don't take it out on the Crown Vic." George's voice was smooth. I never understood how he smoked at least a pack a day, yet his voice sounded pristine. He even had one lit now, the smoke filling the car like a Vegas casino.
"Do you mind?"
"I don't if you apologize to the car."
"Really…" I waited to see if he was serious. He took another long drag. "Sorry buddy," I tapped the glove box apologetically. George put his cigarette out.
"Where too?" I asked.
"You'll like this, it's a penthouse downtown, some rich prick has been murdered." He pulled the shifter into drive and we hit the rainy streets. We sat in silence enjoying the rock station Geroge always had the radio set to. The song Tears in Heaven came on and Eric Clapton began to sing. George turned it down to a faint whisper.
"Don't like Clapton?" I asked.
"No, I do. Song seems a little too real for the moment."
I was slightly confused at his comment until we arrived at the crime scene. A half dozen squad cars had set up roadblocks and strung up that all too familiar yellow tape around the area of the victim. The officer checked our credentials before allowing us to pass. We parked and approached by foot, rain still coming down. Another officer, the one who was first on the scene sauntered over. He explained the situation, having gotten a call from the doorman that a man, one he recognized as a resident from the building, was dead near the front entrance. We thanked the officer and walked over to the body. He didn't look as though he had just fallen out of his room on the 75th floor. The doorman had also told the officer his room number.
"Curious," said George
"What is?"
"His only apparent injury is on the back of his head, here," he pointed with the back of his trusty ballpoint pen to a spot just behind his right ear.
"So he didn't fall. Did he slip and hit his head?"
"Well let's think about this. He is face down, if he had been walking and slipped on a wet step he would have gone backward thus hitting his head, otherwise, he would have caught himself with his hands and in the event his hands were full, well that would be obvious. Sure, he could have then tumbled and rolled onto his face but he wouldn't have ended up here, just off to the side of the last step towards the building. He was placed there making it seem as if he fell or jumped from his room, which I'm guessing is directly above."
Watching George grow an idea was always fascinating, it's why he is the best detective in the city.
"So someone placed him here to make it seem at first glance that he jumped from his room--"
"Assuming his room is above this spot," George interjected.
"Right, assuming that then the next logical explanation would be... it was an accident and he fell walking but we know that isn't possible either."
"Correct."
"So why go to all the trouble to make it appear this way."
"Someone is trying to keep us guessing. His eyes narrowed. I think it's time we had a chat with this bellmen." George stood and ventured towards the glass doors of the tower. A stout man wearing a red suit opened the door as he approached. I picked up my pace and he held the door for me too. I nodded my appreciation.
"Mr. Bellman." George started.
"Henry," he said with a British accent.
"Henry, you claim this gentleman lived here."
"Yes, that is, er, was Mr. Jenson. He lived here five years, room 7501. He was moving out."
"Do you mind if we see the room?"
"Not at all." Henry pulled out a key chain and produced the one that activated the elevator. It dinged open and we all got on. Henry leaned over and pressed 75 on the dash.
"Henry?"
"Huh." he seemed nervous.
"When did you notice Mr. Jenson outside?" asked Geroge, I normally let him do the talking.
"Around 10 pm."
I checked my watch, "It's just after eleven now."
"You didn't see anyone else around that time?"
He thought back, "No, I specifically remember it was slower traffic tonight because of the deluge. I believe Mr. Jenson had been gone for a few days. I think he was getting his new place set up."
"You wouldn't happen to know where that is would you?"
"I do actually, he gave me the address in case any packages arrived. I could forward them along."
"We are going to need a copy of that address." The door to the lift dinged again, as they reached the 75th floor.
"First door on your right, here's the key." Henry handed over the apartment key, pressed the ground floor button, and disappeared behind the sliding doors.
"He seemed nervous," I said.
"Well, it's a lot to take in," said George brushing aside any notion of Henry being a suspect. He did know best.
"Here, you do the honors." he passed over the brass key.
It was a grand place, with beautiful windows overlooking the entire city, mountains, and ocean in the background. Two stories, with that style of a staircase where the one side of each step isn't attached to anything. George went straight for the patio, doors closed. He flicked the latch and slid the glass door over, stepped into the rain, and briefly looked over the edge. It was dark but with the flashing red and blue and the building's outer lighting he was able to see the body, directly below the room.
"Well, there we go. That proves the killer placed him there afterward." Geroge turned around to look at me as I was inspecting the decor.
"Why do people set up their homes with these fake items when selling?" I asked, picking up a weird ornate ball from a bowl filled with similar balls.
"From what I understand, It works. People find it cleaner I suppose," he said.
"I think it's weird, I like a place to seem real, not fake." I dropped the ball back in the bowl. We left the room, seeing as it had nothing to do with the murder, so we thought.
Unsure of the next move we decided to sleep on it, and by sleep, I meant, go to a nearby bar to drink whisky until we passed out as whisky does.
The next day, back at the precinct we sat down and focused on what we knew, and it wasn't much. Dead male outside his apartment was all we had, until two nights later when another turned up dead. Similar head wound, but this time on a boat. That's where I hurt my knee, I slipped on that stupid boat deck. I never understood why they get so slick in the rain, they are on the water. Anyways, the next month we saw five more murders all with the same M.O.: young male; head wound; new, fake, or staged location. We were stumped. After that brutal month, the murders stopped. We waited a week, a month, and before we knew it five years had passed and still no sign of our serial killer, who we had dubbed, The Mover. We gave up, George retired a few years ago and that brings us to today.
Present Day
I looked up from my black coffee to see if Jen had any comments on my story. I could tell she was trying to figure it out. After leaving the crime scene we went to my place so I could recant my story. We sat in my empty apartment in silence for a moment.
"Sorry about the place, I'm moving."
"Oh, it's fine." Then she smiled at me, "I got it."
"It wasn't a real estate agent, mover, or stager."
"That's not what I was going to say."
"Oh? Go on then."
"I bet the killer is a woman."
'What makes you say that?"
"The plot of it all. The targets were all young chauvinistic men. Men that would do whatever it took to climb the proverbial corporate ladder."
That was overly specific, but accurate considering all the dead men had been successful in their male-dominated fields.
"The head wound wasn't aggressive, it was meticulously placed, practiced." She swung her empty mug pretending to mimic the strike. "I'm guessing she pretends to be interested in the location as a buyer, assuming all the places from ten years ago were for sale?"
I nodded yes, and leered at Jen, she was getting intense about this whole thing. I had never seen this side of her.
"Then she asks to meet the seller alone, part of her quirk. Being lustful men they agree, thinking sexually about the female buyer. That's when she does the deed and then plants the body. This is the hardest part, because how does a woman move a body alone without help, or maybe she had help. Either way, it all seems pretty far-fetched...got any more coffee?"