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#2

"Another Dead Hooker"

Written by Joshua David Krenz

 

"When a body has been floating in a river for a couple of hours there are no immediate biological changes. Eventually the normal aspects of biodegradation start to kick in-blood stops pumping, sinews tighten, and high-level brain functions cease. It still takes a couple of hours before all axiom activity has ceased within the body. Sometimes, it takes days. Generally, after a day of floating face-down in a river the corpse has taken on quiet a bit of water-enough to substantially increase the body's original weight. Soon the skin will lose tone, debris will collect within the hair, and parts will start breaking away. Imagine a smurf, covered in twigs-but missing chunks."
-From the notes of Walter Cratchet.

 

It really takes too many people to fish a body out of the water. Especially one wearing spandex. As Walter Cratchet paced back and forth along the edge of the river he stared at the aging thirty-something with squinty-eyes, curly hair, and a moustache in dire need of trimming. Oh. It was Walter. Somewhere downstream a diver appeared out of the murky froth and gestured to the rest of the group. Something had been found.

Behind Walter the aroma of oriental seasoning and graham crackers floated through the air. Job Randall, Walter's partner-who is currently devouring a cup of instant noodles and a graham cracker. Job's doctor suggested that his steady diet of Chinese food and doughnuts really was doing his body no good-in fact it was what prevented him from ever exceeding the 160 mark on the scale. Walter waited for Job to catch up to him, then they proceeded along the river side towards a crowd of cops, frogmen, and general spectators.

"You know," Job started, "you really should think of changing out that costume of yours."

"Costume?" replied Walter.

"Yeah, that get up-with the trench and the whatnot. It really gets-drab?"

Walter had worn the same London Fog trench coat since his mother gave it to him prior to her death. Sure it was stained in places-a little worn down at the elbows, but it was his jacket.

"Look man, the seams are starting to rip apart. At least get someone to tailor it to size."

The two men finally joined the crowd. General policeman training gets you to the front of any crowd whenever you need to be there. General survival training gets you out of that crowd before things go awry. Currently two swimmers clad in wetsuits with large flippers, air tanks, and face masks were talking to an officer on shore. Something had been found.

Earlier that day reports had been phoned in that a black Bentley had been seen dumping a large animal into the river. Normally this wasn't cop business, so the phone calls were forwarded to the local environmental hacks. Then the phone calls about a mutant floating down the river came in. The reports varied-some claimed the thing had a tail. Others witnessed shiny metal claws. Some said it was human, and yet some said it had purple skin. The river moved quickly in most parts. Without a lot of brush or sediment buildup to slow down the object there was no guarantee that it would ever be captured before it floated out into oblivion.

An advanced mobile swim team was set up on the fly. Scuba trained officers were sent out to pick up the right equipment and given a van to drive around town in. Whenever a phone call came in with a "mutant" sighting the van would drive-as quickly as it could-downstream of the sighting. There the van would unload the frogmen, who would scour the area in hopes of finding this object of mystery.

After numerous cold and failed attempts they finally had a successful dive. Two divers were now swimming towards the river's edge holding between them a purple shape. The crowd mumbled nervously-everyone had the same question: what exactly was it?

Another well established lesson taught to officers is the concept of "pecking order." Those with lower ranks were given the duty of crowd control-pushing back the unwanted reporters, family members, and gazers to make room for the real police work. No one wanted the task, but those with the courage to stand up against the order never really lasted long in the force. Sure, everyone wanted to be at the front of the crowd-but then again, not everyone had the training to be there.

The body was slopped onto the river's edge with a meaty plop. Water gushed out of the body almost immediately-some of it from clothes, some of it from other sources. Almost everyone jumped back to avoid getting wet. Walter didn't really care. His shoes were old and scratched-he was planning on replacing them in six-months anyway, or polishing them. Either way, Walter was not bothered by the water-he was more interested in the body in front of him.

She was beautiful-or at least she had been. She had long curly black hair, a tight and form body, and, well-shapely features. He could see now why so many people had been confused when calling in the sighting. Lying before Walter was a woman dressed in a solid purple spandex suit. She wore a black mask, black gloves, a black belt, and black boots. Attached to her belt was a bullwhip-easily mistaken for a tail. Attached to the fingers of her gloves were sharp steel claws. Finally, attached to the hood of her costume sat two cat ears, carefully sewn into the costume.

End Chapter One.

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"Claws?"

Walter stared at the report in front of him. While paperwork tended to bore most other officers he found it a good time to set his head straight.

"I believe they were there for some type of S&M activity-scratching, pulling-things of that nature."

The woman was a Jane Doe. Until four days ago no one had ever seen her. She carried no identification, her fingerprints were not in file, and it would still be a few days before dental records arrived. Various officers-including Job Randall-had volunteered to walk the strip-interview other "Janes" and street trash, question the clubs and the parlors-even make a few stops at a some of the local brothels. Thus far the chief had been denying their requests.

"S&M? Whoo-ee, she was one kinky girl. Did you see that suit she was wearing? I bet it fit tight before it was bloated with water! She was so hot I'm amazed it didn't all evaporate around her."

Walter could only stand so much of Job when he was not eating. When his mouth was occupied with food he could be the most productive officer Walter knew. The rest of the time, well-the rest of the time he was just another tall skinny loud mouth from the east coast.

Ever since a case involving a superhero suicide Walter and Job had been stuck with any and all "super" cases to come through the building. Every wacko with a mask ended up in Walter's office. One guy claimed government experiments to make him a super soldier had encouraged him to take up the fight against injustice. He was found slinging trashcan lids at pickpockets and trying to break into the museum's bald eagle exhibit. Some called them "supers"-others called them "suits". To Walter, it was just more work to be done-only with less people willing to give straight answers.

"You know-I imagine if we had some type of Aqua-guy on the force we could've found her way before the bloating set in. Man she was a hot one."

Once again, they had no leads. The streets were a dead end. No one got any real answers from streetwalkers and smack dealers. They gave you the answers you wanted to hear-"Sure, sugar-I know the one. About yay-high? Bounced when she walked? Yeah, she's a little out of town right now, but I'm here for ya." In this case everyone was interested in being involved. That happens when beautiful dead women start floating down the river. However, they were all following the wrong path.

"The Bentley."

"What?"

Walter had caught Job mid-fantasy, it would take him a second to catch up.

End Chapter Two.

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Very few people own Bentleys. They are rare, expensive, and exotic. Additionally they are not sold at your run-of-the-mill car dealership. They have to be specially ordered-brought over from Europe . Bentleys are driven by people who do not, in fact, drive themselves anywhere. Bentleys are bought by rappers, athletes, and people who make more money by sneezing than Walter will ever make in his lifetime. Fortunately for Walter, there are only three of them registered within the city.

By running a small inquiry through the city's database Walter was able to discover the year, model, insurance policy, VIN number, color (black), accident reports, and the date of purchase-along with the name, address, and phone number of the owners. An added gem-the Bentleys were all registered at the same address.

It was a simple drive to the mansion. Walter did not actually own a vehicle-so he borrowed Job's. In this town, with his income it would be almost impossible to purchase anything with any amount of reliability or safety features, so Walter preferred to walk or take public transportation. Besides, whenever he needed a vehicle Job was a quick call away. However, like Walter, Job's salary did not supply enough for anything special-so Job's 1985 Lincoln Continental did more putting than driving. Walter jokingly called it the Happy Gilmore of Continentals.

Walter continued on his trek out of town. The road seemed to follow a path of its own-going up and down, back and forth, like a little red rubber ball bouncing maniacally off of every surface. The road followed the river-and at times loomed precariously over the edge. One false judgment and a car would quickly become amphibious-or, just sink. Oddly enough, Walter passed by roads that appeared to be even windier than his current route. Finally, after a 43-minute drive through delirium, Walter arrived at a massive wrought iron gate.

The gate loomed over his head-nearing twelve feet high at its pinnacle. Walter was naturally a short man, so tall things had a tendency of intimidating him. Tall things designed to intimidate people frightened the hell out of him. The gate connected to a large stonework wall that surrounded the complex. Walter imagined that with a property of this size all the rocks on Easter Island and at Stone Hedge would need to be excavated in order to supply material for the foundation. It was not a friendly wall. Walter imagined that many a salesperson was turned away by the sheer size of the thing-let alone the two nasty gargoyles set atop the wall now glaring down at him. The stare of the two gargoyles was what affected Walter the most. Instead of being two simple winged beasts, the sculptor had found within himself the ability to turn the observer into a small white rabbit with visions of dismemberment dancing through their head. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Walter approached the intercom system. He had never really used a device like this with any frequency, so he was in awe with the number of buttons present. Finally he settled on pressing the large, unmarked white button that was slightly offset from the rest. A buzzer rang, and a voice spat forth from the speaker.

"Yes?"

Lacking a vehicle of his own, Walter had little experience with drive-through windows and intercom etiquette. So, like all intercom-novices he made the mistake of speaking too slowly, too loudly, and too unnaturally into the device.

"HELLO. MY. NAME. IS. DETECTIVE. WALTER. CRATCHET. I. WOULD. LIKE. TO. ASK. YOU. A. FEW. QUESTIONS."

The voice-an elderly English gentleman-answered with annoyance.

"Sir, you do not need to speak so loudly into the intercom. Nor do you have to speak so slowly or brutishly. It works just fine with normal conversational tones."

"SORRY."

There was a sigh on the other end.

"I will be down in a minute."

A few minutes passed by. Walter could see how far the actual mansion was from the gate--by foot it would be easily a four-minute walk. Soon a figure in a black twin-tailed suit was approaching the gate. He walked to a small identification station set on the side of the road, inserted a key, typed in a ten-digit password, removed the key, and hit another combination of buttons. Finally, a buzzer rang and a small doorway sized hole opened on the gate. The doorway was so well hidden that Walter had never noticed it until it swung open.

The man-a butler-was nothing exceptional. Years of service had taught him how to be effectively unnoticeable unless called upon. His footsteps were quiet, and his body made minimal sound when it moved. He was taller than Walter, and stood straighter-but that was no exceptional feat. He wore a thin black moustache, which matched the darkness of his suit. He was balding, but his black hair had been combed-over to cover most of his head. He spoke in a precise way-so that there was never any question what he was talking about.

"Hello, Mr. Cratchet-how may I be of service to you?"

Walter pulled out a sheet of paper with the vehicle information on it and handed it to the butler.

"I believe all these vehicles are registered to this address."

The butler took the piece of paper, and scanned over it for a second.

"Yes, they are all registered here."

Walter looked at the butler for a moment. There would be no point trying to dance around the topic with him-it was either straightforward or nothing at all.

"About a week ago a call came in claiming to have seen a body being dumped into the river. We pulled a dead girl out a couple of hours later. The call said that some men had been seen pulling the body out of the back of a Bentley. There are only three Bentleys in this city-and all three of them are back there, behind that gate."

The butler stared for just a second-long enough for dramatic pause. His body and facial expression stayed as solid as the stone gargoyles looking down at them.

"Certainly, Mr. Cratchet, you are not implying that anyone in this household has anything to do with this tragedy."

Walter paced himself. "You went too quickly," he thought to himself, "you spilled the beans faster than they could be swallowed up. Now you're on the retreat."

"No. No, certainly not. I just wanted to ask a few questions about the vehicles. When was the last time anyone has used them?"

Again, with stone-like solidarity the butler answered.

"The master keeps them as souvenirs and decoration. They are not driven. Two of the Bentleys were gifts from the honorable Prince of Jordan-a token of appreciation between two friendly states. The third is a sentimental object-something left over from when his parents were still alive."

"Is the master in right now?"

"Unfortunately not. He has been on a business trip touring South America looking to set up some new factories. His two-month tour ends in another seventeen days. Shall I tell him you stopped by?"

A few minutes later Walter was driving-probably a little too quickly-back down the same windy, narrow road to the city. How anyone could live outside of town like this was beyond him. To live in the city is to be a part of it-to understand it, and feel its pulse. Out here-where the buses don't run-is a world of fiction.

He hit traffic going back into town. Instead of a 43-minute drive, this one neared two-hours.

"This is why I walk everywhere. It's faster," said Walter to himself.

Walter entered the office. There was still some paperwork to do. The Bentley was still his biggest lead, but it was going nowhere. He felt stupid for so actively chasing that one down-but it felt so right. First rule of detective work--if it is easy you probably missed something. The Bentley had to have come from out of town. Besides, if the owner of the mansion really wanted to toss the dead girl into the river he just had to walk down the street-not drive an hour into town.

Walter entered his office to find Job eating a sandwich. Pieces of lettuce had already fallen onto Walter's desk and Job's lap-which is strange because it was peanut butter and jelly. Job stopped eating for a second to hand Walter a note.

"This came in for you. Also, autopsy report came back. Nothing too exciting. Still nothing on the dental records."

Walter looked at the note. It was from the chief. It said that the original caller was retracting their statements-they are not sure if it really was a Bentley, nor could they clearly identify if it was in fact a body thrown into a river-it could have been trash for all they knew-and finally, they're not sure if they even saw anyone throw anything into the river that day at all. There mistake, sorry for the inconvenience.

"Damn."

Walter looked at the autopsy report. No sign of struggle. No sign of strangulation or physical violence. No sign of rape. Subject's hymen still intact. Cause of death still unknown-lab tests are being done to detect any toxins within the system. Subject's age believed to be early 20s. Subject shows sign of recent cosmetic surgery-possible facial reconstruction surgery. Subject has breast implants.

Walter set the piece of paper down. He stared at the wall for only a moment. His body filled with hope.

"She wasn't a hooker."

"What?" chocked Job.

"She wasn't a hooker. She still had her virginity when she died."

End Chapter Three.

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Walter never really liked to buy new things. It's not that he couldn't afford it-well, actually it was. More importantly though he liked to make things last. Why spend forty-dollars on a new pair of khakis when you can sew up your old pair for less than a dollar? Sure, the undershirt may have mustard stains on it-but it's an undershirt, no one is really going to notice. The soles of your shoes crack-that's what they do! Why not make the best of it until your feet are too bloody to walk, that's when you need new shoes! Besides, he was just a cop. He didn't need to impress anyone.

However, what Job said about his trench coat hit a soft spot. Since that day Walter found himself mindlessly investigating the coat for holes, stains, tears, and worn down elbows. It dawned on Walter that if he were to do the work himself the coat would be more patched up than Frankenstein-only with a better odor. So, Walter convinced himself to take the jacket to a professional.

Even though the city was massive-and growing bigger every day-there seemed to be only a single seamstress in the phone book. While it seemed a little strange at first, Walter figured that the demand for darning socks was little to none-besides, most people had an Aunt Mindy for the hard stuff, like taking in pants.

It was hardly a long walk to the shop, so Walter decided he could go a couple days without his London Fog trench coat and get the thing patched up professionally. Honestly, he really didn't like the coat that much, but it made his mother so proud to see him in it. The first time he put it on he felt like Matlock-or some other television hack of an investigator. He jokingly quoted an old cop-show "Only the facts ma'am, only the facts," to which his mother clapped her hands and laughed hysterically.

It felt good to think about his mother. Soon after that she passed away, alone during her sleep. Walter rarely said anything funny, so to see his mother laugh at one of his jokes filled him with pride. Walter never really got to know his father-he had died while Walter was still a teenager. Still, he wondered if his father would have laughed at the joke.

Walter entered the shop. It was a lot smaller than Walter imagined it to be. Considering it was the only seamstress shop in a massive metropolitan area Walter had expected it to be a massive warehouse of escalators and sewing machines. Instead, it was two-steps away from being a straw-house-just waiting for a wolf to come by and blow it down.

There was no bell at the front desk. Nor was there an attendant to work the front desk. There was simply a large tabby cat resting in a box of old worn out clothes. Maybe once this cat ruled the shop-hunting down mice like a master machine, bent on killing. Now, however, the cat was too concerned with sleeping, and well, sleeping some more.

"Hello?" called out Walter into the shop.

There was no answer.

"Hello?"

Still, no answer.

Walter was about to leave the store when a small fragile old man walked out of the back room to the front desk. He was barely tall enough to see over the counter, and the wrinkles that covered his face hung down like curtains shielding his eyes. He still had a mass of straight white hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail, tied with a string. The old man wore simple clothes, covered with a simple apron. The apron had been adorned with various pins, needles, and other sewing equipment-making it appear like a junior high science experiment gone wrong. The old man peered over the counter.

"Yes?"

Walter was too busy staring at the dwarf behind the counter to answer with any confidence.

"Sorry-sorry, it's just that-well, I need to get this fixed."

Walter handed over the trench coat to the man behind the counter, who looked at it like a rare old document. The old man pulled out a pair of glasses and carefully examined the coat.

"Yes. Yes, I see," said the old man. His hands were so callused with time that they took on the appearance of leather armor. Finally the man put away his glasses and started filling out a piece of paper.

"It will be a couple days, of course. Work this strenuous takes time. I'll need your name, address, and phone number."

The old man pushed a blue piece of paper across the counter with a stubby little pencil. Walter filled out the required columns and handed the paper back to the man. The old man had just started to tell Walter all the work that would be required to return the coat to a "useable" state when the door to the shop opened.

"Well hello!" said the old man, "I have your order ready for you, just a second."

With great urgency the old man stopped everything he was doing and hustled into the back room. The new patron of the shop walked up and started playing with the cat. The new patron-a woman in her early 30s-looked strikingly familiar to Walter. Her black hair was cropped short-but other than that she had a body that was near identical to the girl they had pulled out of the river. "What is it," thought Walter, "about beautiful women with perfect bodies . . . and cats?"

The old man returned from the back room with a black garment bag-accompanied by a large grin.

"Here you go, dear-I cut it exactly to your specifications, just like you asked!"

The woman stopped playing with the cat-who in turn went back to sleep.

"Thank you. We have been most pleased with your work in the past-so I assume this will be nothing less than perfect."

The old man let out a loud cackle to match his permanent grin. The woman paid for the outfit, and left the store. As she walked away the old man continued to stare. His grin still remained even after she had left the store.

"Sorry 'bout that. She's a regular." The old man looked side to side, then leaned close to Walter-at least as close as the counter would allow. "She runs a brothel down the street-dresses her girls up like 'supers'. Magnificent."

The old man continued cackling to himself as he finished Walter's order.

"Like I said before-should be a couple of days. I'll call you when it's done."

"Thanks," said Walter. "Oh-by the way, you wouldn't happen to have the address of that place, would you?"

The old man let out a loud laugh, slapped the counter, and pointed a finger at Walter.

"I know what you're thinking!"

The old man got out a piece of paper and quickly scratched out the address and directions to the brothel-from memory.

Walter left the seamstress shop with a large smile on his face. He knew where he was going to find the identity of Jane Doe.

End Chapter Four.

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It really wasn't a brothel-at least, from the storefront. It was one of the many strip-clubs that lined some of the dirtier streets within the city. The old man had been right about one thing though-the entire place was decked in a super-hero theme. One part of the room was set to be "the world of the future"-with phallic rocket ships and planets everywhere. The other half of the room was set up as the bar, which looked like the inside of a super-hero observation satellite. The entire room was divided in half by a large walkway going down the center of it. Women wearing nothing but skimpy suits, capes, and masks strutted back and for along the walkway, swinging on poles and reaching for money. In the back of the building hanged a sign over a doorway, which read "Holding Cells". Walter supposed that these rooms were for high-paying customers with-special needs.

Walter walked over to the bar, and grabbed a stool. Soon a bartender wearing a dark blue cape and mask with sharp pointy ears came over to him.

"What can I get for you sweetie?"

Walter leaned forward, and said over the music: "I'd like to speak to the owner."

The bartender laughed for a second-then Walter flashed his badge and her smile vanished. She picked up the receiver on a black phone and spoke some words into it. She nodded, and hung up the phone.

"She'll be out in a just a minute."

The bartender slowly eyed Walter as she crept away from him.

In a couple minutes Walter was joined by the woman from the seamstress shop. She walked over to him, stuck out her hand and said "Vivica Darling, owner and licensed practitioner." Walter shook her hand.

"So-I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

Walter procured his badge along with an envelope.

"Detective Walter Cratchet."

Vivica Darling examined the badge for a second and returned her attention to Walter.

"So Mr. Cratchet-how may I be of service to you?"

Walter opened the envelope. Inside the envelope held a picture taken from the morgue of the girl while she was still wearing her costume, and a picture of her after the suit had been removed. Walter handed both pictures to Vivica Darling. He hesitated for a second-recalling his last conversation with a female relating to a case-then continued.

"Miss-Darling."

She looked up at him. "Good choice," Walter thought to himself.

"A little over a week ago we pulled this girl out of the river. We have no name for her, no form of identification whatsoever. Her prints do not exist in our system, and thus far her dental records are proving to be unhelpful. Please, Ms. Darling-can you tell us who she is?"

Vivica Darling looked at the picture for a couple minutes more before answering. Her eyes slumped with sadness and her face started showing her age. Walter was wrong with his original guess-she was nearing her 40s she just hid it well. Vivica Darling only let her emotions lapse for a moment. She had been in this business for a long time, and knew how not to cry.

"No, Mr. Cratchet. I have never seen her before in my life. Neither has anyone else in my club."

"Please, Ms. Darling-we need to know, so that at the very least she can contact her family."

"Mr. Cratchet-if this girl does in fact have family, and if you so strongly believe she may have been one of my girls, they are better off not knowing what became of her. Let them have their dreams-she ran away to become an actress. Maybe someday she will show up on TV?"

Walter was annoyed. She was clearly hiding something, but Walter didn't know how to get it out of her.

"You are aware, Ms. Darling-that by withholding any information you may know about this subject is obstruction of justice, and you can be held as an accomplice."

Something changed within Ms. Darling. Instead of the sad and friendly ex-stripper he had been dealing with before she became hard and distant.

"I think you presume too much Mr. Cratchet."

"I know what you do here-you run hookers Ms. Darling. I'm going to get you shut down."

Suddenly there was a crack in Vivica Darling's rocky surface. She tilted her head back and let out a loud laugh. Patrons of the club stared for a moment-then went about their normal activities.

"If you really knew so much you wouldn't make so much empty threats."

Vivica Darling looked Walter Cratchet straight in the eyes.

"Mr. Cratchet-you do not have the power to shut me down, nor do you know the people who could."

Vivica Darling broke a smile. She had won.

"Ms. Darling-do you mind if I ask a few of your guests and some of your employees if they have ever seen the girl?"

Vivica Darling continued to smirk. "Help yourself; you will get the same answer from all of them. Never seen her before."

Walter and Vivica got up to leave, but Walter stopped and spun around.

"Just one more thing, Ms. Darling-"

She stopped mid-step and gracefully turned around.

"Have you ever hired virgins to do this job?"

Vivica Darling stared through Walter Cratchet. "From time to time. They are usually too scared to do the work."

Vivica Darling disappeared into the club. Walter spent the next two-hours showing people the pictures and asking questions. A couple drunks made comments about seeing her before, but then started singing old Elvis songs. Vivica was right-no one in the club had seen her before. Walter left, once again with a lead that went nowhere.

When Walter returned to his office, Job had already left for the night. On his desk was the final toxicity report and a piece of paper saying no matching dental records were found. Also, there was a note from the chief telling him that the case was leading nowhere, Walter was needed elsewhere-and that someone else was get a shot at it. Of course, this meant that it was being filed away--to be buried under stacks of bureaucracy.

Walter looked through the final toxicity report. The final nail had been hammered, the last shoe dropped.

Cause of death:
Carbon monoxide poisoning.

End Chapter Five.

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"There are only three Bentleys in this city-and all three of them are back there, behind that gate."
-from the notes of Walter Cratchet.

Walter sat at an old Chinese restaurant. A cold plate of chicken chow fun sat in front of him. Most of the plate was full, except for a small corner where Walter had been dabbing at the rice noodles. He stared at his notebook. It was a small blue thing with tattered edges and coffee stains along the sides. Soon, he would need a new one. Later he will be going to pick up his new-and-improved London Fog trench coat, which is costing him an arm and a leg to fix.

The door chimes open and the aroma of doughnuts permeates throughout the filthy little restaurant. Job Randall had already give up on his "not doughnut" diet. Said it was making him fat. Job Randall walked over to Walter's table, grabbed the plate of chow fun, and started eating.

"Whatcha reading?"

"Just my notes."

"The suit in the river?"

Walter nodded.

"Didn't the chief call you off that case?"

"Yep."

"Anything new?"

Walter thought for a second, and set the notebook down.

"No. But I think I've solved it."

With a mouthful of noodles Job gestured for Walter to go on.

"Jane Doe was just another young girl looking to become famous. She was told that if she dropped everything and took the risk there would be a payoff at the end of the struggle. So she struggled, and auditioned, and struggled some more. Still, there was never any gold at the end of the rainbow-just more struggling. She had a nice body-but not a beautiful one. She acted in high school, but didn't really know what she was doing. Finally, when things looked like there was nowhere else to go a ray of light broke through the clouds. Jane Doe was approached by a stranger--a woman. The woman told Jane that she knew exactly what Jane was going through-it had happened to her too! She told Jane that no matter how hard she worked, no matter how many auditions so scored it meant nothing-not unless you knew someone, someone who could give you a leg up. She told Jane that it was her lucky day-that she knew someone who could give her that leg up. All Jane had to do was suffer for a little bit longer-then it would be blue skies from here on out. Jane believed her."

Job stopped eating the noodles and pushed the plate away. Flies started circling the leftovers.

"They took Jane in for surgery, got her face chopped up and gave her a pair of big ones. They told her she just needed to suffer for a bit longer, do one more thing and then it would be better from here. So they let her heal, and told Jane that her big break was just around the corner. At first, they didn't know she was a virgin. When they told her what she was going to be doing she cried at first. She told them she didn't want to do it. They got angry-'After all we've done for you? You think surgery is cheap?" She was lost, confused, and totally alone. She said that she was sorry-that she would pay them back, she just needed to find the money first. They told her that if she did this one job that they would be square. People pay more to have sex with virgins."

Walter Cratchet and Job Randall had grim faces on when the waitresses-with her permanent smile--came over to drop off the check. She looked at both of them, saw the death in their eyes and snuck away before it spread to her. Walter opened his fortune cookie and laughed. "Love will find you soon. Follow your first instincts."

"Jane Doe was given a name, and an address. She was told when to be there, and on what night. She was given a costume, and told that she must wear it. She didn't really understand why there was a bullwhip, but she drank enough to ignore it. She waited at the pickup spot, expecting some weirdo in a costume to drive up in his father's Camaro. Instead, what she got was a gentleman in a very expensive black Bentley. He had a driver, and a guest-a close personal friend that he had practically raised from birth. They all laughed. They fed Jane strawberries and champagne while they drove around town. She asked them where they were going, but they only laughed and said 'You'll see.' Jane got nervous. She already had been drinking too much, and was starting to feel a little dizzy. Jane asked to go home. The two gentlemen told her that was not an option. She tried to get out of the car, but they stopped her. She was too drunk and dizzy to fight with them, and they were not interested in hurting her. The driver pulled into an empty lot. They told her that they were going to put her in the trunk until she had calmed down, then they would continue their little party. She was too weak to struggle any longer. The Bentley continued to drive around town. Soon the screaming from the trunk stopped, and the gentlemen in the car went to check on her. Jane Doe was dead. The car had a minor leak in its exhaust system. Not enough to be noticed-but after hours of driving around town the car's trunk had with a lethal poison. They took the dead body, still dressed in its costume and flung it into the river. Then, they left. They contacted the people who had arranged the party and told them that nothing happened-offered them money and threatened them. They were the type of people that could do worse than shut someone down. When the police started investigating it they used their influence to block off all paths, to scare off witnesses, and to get cases lost and forgotten. They have the power of making someone disappear."

Job looked at Walter. Quietly he asked a simple question:

"Can you prove any of this?"

"No."

"Then how do you know it's the truth?"

"I don't."

"So let me get this straight Walter-you were able to prove that the suspected superhero suicide was in fact a suicide, and that the costumed Jane Doe who was found dead in the river is still a Jane Doe that was found dead in the river?"

"Yes."

"Walter-you're the worst detective I've ever met."

End Chapter Six.

End Another Dead Hooker.