Breaking Into Eggshells

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Death is an increasingly popular pasttime. I could use help finishing this, suggestions are welcome and encouraged.

Submitted: January 07, 2012

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Submitted: January 07, 2012

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Juxtaposed against the inert backdrop of an ancient urban metropolis, the lifeless body of model Felicity Capilla hung like an ornament from a flickering lamppost.  Goosebumps textured her graying skin like canvas, but her beauty was omnipresent, even in death.  As the morning rose and the shadows of windowed giants fell upon the others, hues of blue and red colored her as well.

Exhaust puttered from one of the police cruisers parked within the parameters of the newly-erected barrier around the scene.  Two medal-adorned veterans of the force sat within, drinking Irish coffee to fend off the bitter cold without.  Horns and whining brake discs announced the coming of morning commuters, and the traffic copter hovered several blocks away. 

“What do you make of the bastard who did this, Monhagen?”

“He’s got hubris, clearly.  Forensics can’t find any prints on the girl or the chain she’s hung with.  Say she’s been dead for a few days now, meaning--“

“The killer’s been saving her, trying to figure out what to do with her.  Or worse.”

“Right.”  Gleary approached the strung-up piñata, inspecting the victim.  She wore a dress of fiberglass wrapped with decorative plastics and the blades of her stiletto heels could be no less than three inches.  Her skin was smooth and attractive, despite its lack of blood flow and pigmentation, and free of bruises or lacerations.  The breeze pushed her slightly.

“Can we cut her down?  She’s not a fucking hog in a butcher shop.”  A few badges rushed at the detective’s words, slicing through the crude wrought iron chain with a slash of the Kiwer knife and gently laying the corpse upon a tarp.  Gleary and Monhagen knelt alongside the body.

“Her eyes are still open,” Monhagen remarked pointedly.  This was obvious; the ice-white eyes were the most noticeable aspect of the girl.  The blue striations were colder than the morning and could make a dead man shiver.

“Not a mark on her… that’s quite remarkable…” Gleary sniggered.  Monhagen glared with real contempt at his partner, but a strident breeze cooled his temper.  He tightened his scarf and lifted the dead woman’s dress, to reveal unblemished thighs.

“Odd,” he said, “A beautiful woman, and not one sign of foul play.”

“Guess autopsy’ll have to check for that.  Come on, our work here’s done.  Let’s get a fucking bagel, I’m famished.”

“Hold on, there’s something wrong here.”

“Congratulations, detective, do you want a commendation?”

“Take a look at her head.”  Monhagen parted Capilla’s hair to expose a section of her scalp that had been shaved bare and imprinted with the letters “PKE.”


© Copyright 2017 Crosby Allison. All rights reserved.

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