The acrid stench of garbage and death clung like barnacles to her hair and clothing. Samantha was an enthusiastic investigator. She immersed herself in the scene collecting clues with all her senses.
“For God’s sake boss, you couldn’t go home and shower after crawling around in that dumpster?” The look of repulsion on the Sargent’s face let everyone in the department know that he wasn’t kidding.
There were those on the force who attributed her remarkable success at solving crimes to some kind of mystical power. But Samantha wasn’t superstitious. She insisted that her keen ability to see clues where no one else could was simply her attention to detail and the result of good hard police work. The position of the slain woman, on her back, her feet almost under it suggested that she had been attacked from behind while dumping the trash. A quick slash of the woman’s throat that she didn’t see coming. She dropped where she stood. Rider didn’t believe in coincidences so she spent hours going through the office trash to see if there was a connection.
The sun shone brightly when Rider returned to work at half past seven the next morning. How she could even function on three hours sleep, let alone seem refreshed, was a mystery.
“Sargent,” she summoned as she barged through the door holding two Starbucks cups.
“What is it, boss, had another vision?” Wrendt met her at the door and reached for the coffee she was offering, adding, half embarrassed, “what did you see?”
The detective ignored him. She was now staring blankly at what she had collected from the dumpster at the scene, reconstructing the scene in her mind.
“Do we have the labs on the blood yet?” she asked without looking up.
“Just came in,” Wrendt answered. “The blood in and around the dumpster was from the victim.”
“That was assumed, but what about the wall splatter?”
“O negative,” the Sargent answered sounding confused.
“So… what does this mean? Do we have another victim out there somewhere?” Her pitch rising to emphasise the question. But it was rhetorical, she didn’t expect an answer.
She immediately began calling hospitals on her cell phone as she pulled on her jacket. Hurrying for the door, she signalled Wrendt to come with her. As they walked quickly Rider began enquiring about suspicious emergency room visitors.
“Where are we going, boss?” Wrendt groaned, his overly long hair bouncing as he struggled to keep up.
The detective pointed to the car and gestured to get in. She was talking to the second lead, the emergency room receptionist at Saint Mary’s hospital. No luck there either. The doors slammed. Wrendt was still fastening his belt as they sped off.
Forty-five minutes later as they made their second sweep of the crime scene around the wall, Rider picked up a shiny object almost buried in a tread mark, a small silver medallion.
“I have seen this insignia before somewhere,” she said, “but where?
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