Here is strange and twisted story about a gruesome death of a prostitute. A detective is called to investigate a grizzly scene which looks all too familiar.
The weather was filthy. A mixture of sewage and smog clung to my clothes when the car stopped, the rain began to pour heavily.
“Well, that’s bad luck,” said the driver flipping on the windshield wipers.
I pushed some money his way and stepped out, then, quite suddenly, an umbrella appeared. By his toothy smile and his small talk, I knew the doorman had no idea who I was or why I was here.
“Welcome, detective.” said a voice.
A person, I assumed an assistant, held an umbrella over the man’s head. There wasn’t a single crease on the man’s suit, his chin was smoother than marble, and his hair was slicked back. I knew instantly that he was the hotel manager.
I’d never been inside a five-star hotel. If my kind were lucky enough to travel we stayed at a damp, hole-in-the-wall motel, but this place was bright, shiny, and reeked of uselessness.
Nearly everyone, man and women, wore bright, flashy clothes thin enough to reveal their nipples. A pink poodle rushed past me its owner was tall with straight silky hair.
Her head had been decapitated and left on the toilet seat. The body had been thrown in the tub, her stiff arms and legs were contoured in odd directions. A thick trail of blood led from the bathroom to the living room.
The carpet had stains everywhere, but most of her blood clung to the tub and bathroom floor which meant she was killed there, but why drag her out? Maybe she was killed in the bathroom, but decapitated in the living room?
“Cause of death was decapitation,” said Natasha as she left the bedroom. I was glad to see a normal person around here, “we know this because the skin around her neck is red and hemorrhagic,” she was typing on her tablet, “We’ve already photographed everything so you can move things around.”
I nodded walking back to the bathroom. I believed Natasha about the cause of death, but I had other reasons to examine the head.
My shoes slid on the blood which was more gunky than liquid. With both hands I grabbed the sides of her cheeks. Her jaw hung open and her eyes stared back at me. I used my finger to pull the tip of her right ear forward and there it was a small red triangle.
He loved leaving his mark.
I knew times were harsher and more unfair, but I never thought the county would turn a blind eye as our President killed prostitutes. Filth.