Missing The Dead

By Casey Williams

Dr. Leila Maxwell is a forensic specialist, her expertise is at getting the story behind a murder and she's recognized as one of the best. But she soon meets her match as a serial killer goes on a rampage in San Francisco as numerous prostitutes are found murdered. Her investigation then takes on a whole new sense of urgency when her troubled younger sister is declared missing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trellis Publishing
• Release date: Jul 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201661144

Book preview

Missing The Dead

Casey Williams

table of contents

MISSING THE DEAD

YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM A VAMPIRE

VAMPIRE ROCKERS

TO YOUR GRAVE

SHIT HOLE

TWO KILLERS & A HOOKER

THE SCREAMS OF GHOSTS

Chapter 1

*Dead Girl*

She’s young and has the kind of petite body that would forever make her seem more youthful than she really was. I noticed that about small women, say five foot two and under. They always looked younger than their actual age. This girl, I've seen before. She  could not pull off the tough, tank girl look to save her life. Literally. She looked too young.  Too young to be homeless at any rate. Far too young to be selling herself for food and cigarettes.

Her round face is angelic, eyes closed in rest as she lies on the ground, huddled up against the wall of some medical building. The blanket she has draped over her body would usually be too warm for this time of year, but we’ve had a cold snap the last few days, so you can’t really see the sinfully tight skirt and barely there tank top that she’s wearing underneath it. Her sneakers stick out at the edge and her backpack is like a hump on her back.

She’s perfect in every way imaginable. Well, almost.

The mascara and eyeliner on her face is smudged, making her look somewhat like a raccoon and her lipstick is spread too wide around her lips, making them look too big and completely unnatural. Her hair is like a puffy halo around her head; big and blonde and hardened with hairspray. It’s a wonder how she manages to sleep like this.

As I step towards her, my foot taps something that makes a tinkling sound, reverberating throughout the darkened alley. I look down and frown at the beer bottles on the ground. Well, that explains her restful slumber. I shake my head. This poor little girl; living in sin and poverty and there’s absolutely nothing she can do about it.

But I can.

I can absolve her of all her sins, forgive her trespasses and bless her, before I send her back up to her maker. I can give her exactly what she deserves, exactly what she needs. I can make her life mean something. And I will. I can help her in a way that her parents never did. I wish she were sober so we could talk. The trajectories that some girl's lives take always fascinated me. How did she go wrong? At what point did her life take a turn?

In another life she would be sitting in a college dorm uploading pics on Instagram. Or in another time she would be a farmer's daughter, walking through a tobacco or cotton field on a humid morning on the way to church.

But not in this life. No, in this life, she is here. And so am I.

I watch my feet this time as I make my way towards her, a damp cloth in one hand and a bag in the other. No more beer bottles clink as I step towards her. Not even a rat scurries back as I kneel, slowly and gently, down next to her so that my knees brush against her chest. She doesn’t even stir.

I pause for a moment to take in the hidden beauty before me. Beneath all that makeup and slutty clothing is a little girl who just wants to be loved, to be accepted. Too bad for her, luck just wasn’t on her side and she found love in all the wrong places. Shame that she had to go through this all so young.

Damn shame.

Don’t worry, baby, I think silently to myself as I brush back those lovely curls. Things are going to be much better soon. This, I promise you. I reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out the blade. It’s an old one, but trusty. It has not a single chip in the metal, nor a dent or curve. It’s perfect and straight. The edge of the blade is sharp and thin.

Your life is not your fault, my sweet. It is your mother's and your grandmother's and her mother before her. Or maybe we can blame your father. Because odds are that he was never around.

Painless, I think as I run the blade down her cheek. She just barely stirs and I pull it away. One frail hand rises to rub at her downy cheek, before retreating back under the blanket. She stills after another moment. Then, I decide to make my move.

With my knife tucked securely in the crook of my thumb, I use the other four fingers to rip the old felt blanket down, exposing her body to the cool air. Almost immediately, her eyes open wide and she gasps, probably at the sight of me. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody’s had this kind of reaction to me. To be honest, it probably won’t be the last.

I give her one wicked smile, before I lower the rag over her mouth and nose, press down hard as she struggles and attempts to fight back. It’s no use, though; she’s far too tiny. It takes less than thirty seconds for her body to go limp. When that happens, I toss the rag to the side and raise my knife with both hands.

Lord, I say, please deliver this young lady to salvation. Forgive her sins and allow her to join you in the kingdom of Heaven. Amen. Then I plunge the knife directly into her heart and sigh in pleasure as her blood coats my face and chest.

It is done.

Gray soot covered the sky. The scenery had been deteriorating for several years ow: shuttered businesses, a liquor store, a barber shop and a Chinese take out place that had boards up on its windows. A black man walked past with a pit bull that toothed at his fleas. A woman jogged to catch up with him, her bulbous stomach spilling over her jeans. Two homeless men sat on a bus bench, waiting for nothing. A gas station across the street with a young Arab man sweeping up the stalls, looking over at the police activity across the street.

Maxwell, what’ve we got? Detective Lou Pearson asked as he ducked under the police tape and into the alley in Union Square. He had a round head and ears that protruded out a lot wide than they should but he had an alpha aura that most women couldn't resist.

Dr. Leila Maxwell, the pathologist for the area, gave him a grim look despite her attraction to him.

See for yourself, she sighed, looking back down at the body of a teenaged Jane Doe. To the casual observer, the small blonde girl might have looked like she was simply sleeping, her head resting on a garbage bag and her body blanketed by an overlarge piece of glorified felt. But to the trained eye, the truth was all too clear. Leila pulled back the blanket and immediately felt her stomach drop at the sight.

Holy fuck, Pearson said.

I know, Maxwell uneasily spinned a thing diamond bracelet that Peterson had given her. She glanced at the jewelry for a second then at her palms, which were sweating.  Makes you wish you’d skipped breakfast.

Shit, Pearson mumbled. Too fucking young. Getting younger every fucking day.

Yeah, Maxwell fell silent and looked behind herself as if the man who did the killing here were right behind them. Watching.

Your sister does she-

I don't want to go there, Maxwell cut him off. Not now.

Sure, Pearson said. Sure.

Do I worry that she'll end up like this girl? Maxwell asked, more to herself than to Pearson. Yes, of course.

Maxwell knew more than anyone how tough mortality was to process. Especially when it came to people that she loved.

I'm guessing runaway, Pearson said, wishing that his tone didn't sound so repetitious and stodgy. He couldn't help that. He had to remain clear-headed and focused on the task at hand. Finding killers was his job. Killing was their job. He had to be better at his job then them. We're getting a bunch coming down here from Seattle now. Starting to think that maybe there's some organizing behind it.

These poor girls, Maxwell just shook her head. Poor little girl.

You know, I've seen some that start as young as twelve. Twelve fucking years old.

When I was twelve I was whining about braces, Maxwell said. And dumb boys.

Yep, we're all dumb.

Except you, right?

Of course, Pearson gently moved a lock of hair out of the girl's eyes. I used to collect bugs. And rocks. Then I would take an encyclopedia and look them up.

It looks like she's got a single stab wound straight to the heart, but there's no sign of struggle, so she might have been drugged or drunk when it happened. I’ll know more once we get her to the lab, but I think there’s something else you need to see,  Lou.

Dr. Maxwell reached out for the hem of the young girl’s tank top and carefully lifted it up, her blue medical gloves getting soaked with blood in the process. What they saw underneath the girl’s shirt made both of them gag, despite all the crime scenes and bodies they’d seen—together and apart.

"’She deserved it,’ Lou read aloud as he shook his head. Sick bastard."

Looks like it was premeditated, Dr. Maxwell said, so it’s likely our killer knew his victim.

Lou felt his heart pound like it always did when he knew he had to inflict violence on someone. He would have to confront a killer who had an innate advantage over him; he did not have to play by the rules like Lou did. He did his job unencumbered and without restraint. Lou had to answer to Internal Affairs and defense attorneys.

She has a backpack, Leila pointed out. Hopefully she has some ID in there.

Pearson nodded, still feeling sick to his stomach. You know, just when you think you've seen it all. It just gets worse. It gets worse every fucking day. The slaughter of innocents.

She wasn't innocent. Not anymore.

How can you say that when your own—

"Lou," Leila warned.

Okay, Pearson said. You got an idea of the time of death?

Sorry, he sighed. "She's just too damn young. You can't make value judgments on her.

From her body temperature and blood loss, I’d say sometime after midnight and before six AM.

Who found her? he asked.

Barber, came a voice from behind them. Pearson turned to see a uniformed officer, Torres, holding a pen and notepad. He nodded in greeting before reading from the pad: Barber comes into the shop at around seven, sweeps up the place, polishes the floor, then goes to take out the trash. He sees the girl laying down on the other side of the alley and assumes she’s asleep. Kind man that Mr. Davison is, he goes to wake her up and offer her something warm to eat or drink, but girl doesn’t stir. He checks her pulse and realizes she's dead. He didn’t even know what was beneath the blanket until we showed up.

Poor guy, Maxwell says. "When I go to work, I know there’s a chance of seeing a murder victim. He’s probably never seen a dead body before in his life."

Pearson looked over at the man in question. Davison leaned his back against the wall, in an almost sitting position. His elbows rested in his knees and his face was pressed into his palms. Pearson could almost make out the slight quiver of the poor man’s old body.

He’s doing better than I did when I saw my first, Peterson said. I puked on the body.

Yeah, I remember that, said Leila. Dr. Metcalfe nearly went postal on your ass that day. Would’ve had you fired, too; lucky for you, I convinced him to give you another chance.

So I owe you, Detective Pearson stood up. Any chance we can get that backpack sooner rather than later? he asked her.

And compromise my remains?

Lei, the COD is pretty apparent from here, don’t you think? Besides, it’s not going to have any effect on toxicology, right? he reasoned.  Plus, it will give us a head start in ID-ing her, maybe. This way, we can start looking up next of kin, find out where she’s from; the works. Come on, Swee—Dr. Maxwell, what do you say?

Leila sighed. Fine, she said, reaching over the girl’s body to release first one arm, then the other, from her backpack’s straps, But if the doc gets angry...

You can blame it all on me and I’ll take any punishment he throws my way. Thanks, Max.

Leila groaned. Don’t call me Max, she groused, tossing the backpack his way.

Lou scooped it up, avoiding getting any kind of blood on his suit jacket sleeves, though the majority of it had already dried. He turned to Torres. Manny, grab a pair of gloves and hold this up for me.

Torres made a face but did obeyed his superior. Leila held out the box of gloves to him and he grabbed a pair, slipping them one before taking the blood-soaked bag. He held it out for Lou as he unzipped the bag.

Pearson grimaced as he rifled through the clothing, bags of food, a stuffed dog, and...a wallet.

Gotcha, he whispered to himself as he pulled it out and flipped it open. Inside, there was a student ID and a Driver’s Permit, both with the same name: Hayley Elizabeth Lawrence. Right beneath that was her date of birth.

She had turned eighteen only a day before.

Chapter 2

*Little Sister*

––––––––

As Dr. Maxwell stepped into her office, she slid the gloves off of her hands and then tossed them into the trash by the doorway. Her legs felt too heavy as they carried her to her desk and she practically broke the chair when she dropped down into her seat.

What a day. She’d always hated working cases with kids—she considered it the worst part of her job—but at least with the majority of the cases she worked, she knew exactly who’d done it within minutes of starting her examinations. Usually it was an abusive parent or guardian, or some other kid who’d taken bullying a little too far. Sometimes, it was the kids themselves, unable to cope with the hand they’d been dealt in life.

But Hayley Lawrence had been coping just fine—at least that’s how it seemed. Besides her identification, her wallet had held several hundred dollars, all in new bills. She’d been paid recently for her services, though she could find no signs of semen or forced sexual contact anywhere on the girl’s body. She had been a willing partner, it seemed.

Leila fingered the gold and amethyst necklace around the girl's neck. Something that her trailer trash parents could never afford and probably an unspoken consolation to herself for growing up poor.

Leila knew that it couldn't be a suicide from the get-go.  Whomever had cut her open and removed every single one of her organs had probably not even known the victim. They’d just prayed on a young girl they knew to be a prostitute. The poor little girl was so drunk she hadn’t even seen it coming. Her alcohol levels were high enough to give her alcohol poisoning, so she could have already been halfway to death when that bastard found her.

But he could have just gotten her help. He didn’t have to...do that.

Leila rested her elbows on the desk and pressed her face into her palms. She took a stuttering breath and forced back the tears that threatened to fall. Now was no time for tears. Not when there was a psychopath on the loose. And she’s certain that’s what this guy was. Or maybe...

She lifted her head, blinking in the suddenly too bright lights of her office. Through the window, she could see Hayley’s covered form, still lying on the slab, toe tag sticking out beneath the plain white sheet. Her interns, Shi and Danny, were in the process of moving her into storage, where she would stay until the case was solved.

What if it hadn’t been a psychopath? What if it had just been somebody who wanted to make it look like some new age Jack the Ripper-type shit? Somebody who knew her, knew where she slept at night—assuming that she didn’t move around a lot—and therefore knew exactly where to find her? A client, maybe? Her last foster parents lived in San