The Stray

"Always a pleasure, Stone."

"Our private detective would like to see someone," Peterson said.

"Do you have an appointment?" Doc acted as their cicerone among the many tables he was working on. Pale silhouettes under white sheets from which nothing but feet and name tags sprouted.

"The lady said she'd wait for him," cop humour.

"Elizabeth Perkins." cut Mason short.

Doc walked over to the table on his left and discovered the bluish body of a young woman, caught in her most beautiful dawn.

"Female, 21 years old. Height five feet seven inches, weighing approximately..."

"Skip the introductions, Doc."

"Arms have obvious bruising."

"Fingers." Mason said aloud.

"She was forcibly restrained," Peterson said.

"Perceptive as usual."

"The location of the bruises tells us that the attacker was facing her," the coroner continued.

"Signs of forced entry?" Mason turned to Peterson.

"None. When they found her she was on the floor. Only her blouse and skirt on. On the table two used glasses."

"Liquor?"

"In one was water or brew, in the other a light tea. Doc has already ruled out possible traces of poison or narcotic."

"The rest of his things?"

"Scattered all over the living room."

"Was she raped?" asked Doc.

"There's nothing to suggest rape."

"An angry lover?" proposed Mason.

"A husband who came home early from work?" suggested Peterson.

"There'd be a body missing," Mason pointed out.

"Maybe the boyfriend, tired of sharing her, decided to come out of the closet and she threatened to leave him."

"The lover in love theory? Peterson, how humiliating!"

"Who can say that?! Everyone seems to be going crazy these days. And without alcohol, there's nothing else to keep human impulses in check."

"You look better since you've been on tonic water, Pete. The 18th Amendment thinks about your health."

"As if Prohibition didn't triple the workload," he complained to himself.

"Are there any witnesses?"

"The body was discovered by the caretaker at 6.45pm. The door of the flat was half-opened. The man saw two men enter the building: the first went up at about 4 p.m. but, as he had been there before, he didn't ask any questions; the second, a notary, asked about the Perkins' interior at about 5.30 p.m."

"Have you identified them yet?"

"They're working on it."

"What about the husband?"

"Samuel Perkins, a Sunshine Cab driver, is..."

"Disappeared, I guess. When was he last seen?"

"What a lovely reunion! Pity he wasn't invited: I would have brought something." Standing in the doorway of the morgue towered the burly homicide detective Matthews. Peterson's hand went immediately to Mason's chest as the newcomer advanced toward them. This was neither the time nor the place to let tempers flare.

"I came to say hello to Doc and tell him a few cheerful stories. Now that he's a father, he needs more constructive anecdotes than the evolutionary cycle of maggots in corpses," Mason improvised, throwing a smile at Doc, who caught it and began to shake his head vigorously.

"Yeah, congratulations Doc. Take care with that creature: one creepy family member is more than enough!" barked Matthews, giving the doctor half a sidelong glance. Mason did not spare an ounce of contempt for Matthews. They were separated by Peterson and the naked body of a poor girl to whom fate had reserved a terrible fate.

Doc frowned in surprise, and Matthews emerged:

"Still playing cop, Stone?"

Mason met Peterson's gaze, convinced that spark would start a fire, and reassured him with a smile. A smile that turned into an amused grin when his eyes landed on an item in the cart next to the girl's body.

"Hey, we're celebrating, Matthews: relax, put on a hat and have a drink."

Matthews' face became a mask of anger, his white fists along his sides, clenched just tight enough to stop the blood. Mason was handing him a pythal.

"Try it, but I'm convinced you'll do just fine," he continued.

Matthews covered the distance in three wide strides. His size, so heavy, was no impediment when his anger took over. The world was full of rabid dogs. Especially the NYPD, when enlisting was a solution to a hot meal and warming hands with some poor guy who had no fault other than being in the wrong part of town. Matthews was a watchdog. He always had been, and he was now that he'd traded in his uniform for a name tag and a desk among dozens of others. Big and stupid enough to be the nightmare of every half-wit in New York.

"Let's be calm!" chimed in Peterson.

"Throw this clown out, Peterson, or Doc will have to make room!" Matthews was foaming with rage. If he had left, Peterson would have barely restrained him.

"Don't worry, I was just leaving. For a morgue the atmosphere is getting a little too hot." Stone walked around Peterson and Matthews, showing no haste in doing so.

"I don't want to see you around here again, is that understood?"