Val followed Howie to the parking ramp, walking fast, trying to keep up. Her thoughts churned quickly, one rapid anxious hiccup to the other. She was nervous and excited at the same time. This would be her first real death scene investigation and she couldn’t wait to be part of it, though she had no idea what to do once she got there.

When they arrived at the car Howie said, “The victim was found just like the other one. Her teeth were removed and left on the bedroom pillow. The rest of her is missing.” He popped the trunk and placed several bags of equipment inside. “The apartment manager discovered her about an hour ago.”

Val opened the door and slid onto the seat, her heart beating hard. This story was nonstop on the news. She couldn’t believe it had happened again. And this is where we are heading. She took a deep breath and tried to hold her emotions together.

Howie got in behind the wheel, placed the key in the ignition, and quickly explained more. “At the first crime scene, there was an attempt to obliterate all physical evidence. Meticulous cleaning was performed. The killer wiped away not only fingerprints, but almost all visible signs of blood. Investigators had to use luminol to see where it was. And it was everywhere. Floors. Walls.”

“Luminol?”

“It’s a chemical that reacts with the iron component in blood. Even if it’s cleaned with detergent and no longer visible, luminol will still detect it.”

“I don’t remember hearing about this on the news.”

“That’s because this information was never released to the press. There’s no way this was a gang killing as they originally suggested. No member of any gang would have gone to that kind of trouble. From the preliminary report the cops sent to us, it looks like the same thing happened with this new victim. It’s so ritualistic that this has to be a serial killer.”

“The new victim, what’s her name?” Val asked.

“Francine Donohue.”

Howie made it to the Eastville Projects, one of the city’s most run-down subsidized housing developments, in less than five minutes, but they were far from the first to arrive. Squad cars lined the street; reporters hustled and cameras were positioned. Small groups of people stood outside the entrances to the adjacent buildings. They obviously lived here. Val shuddered at the thought of anyone having to live here. The tenements were ugly, bland, rectangular brick buildings. Nothing about them was the slightest bit appealing, or hospitable.

The Eastville Projects had a reputation that was established well before her own childhood. In these projects death came more frequently than the repo man. Gang fights, domestic disputes, drug deals all happened frequently. People shooting each other over cocaine or methamphetamine was common here. But Jesus, what happened to Francine Donohue was anything but common, even for a crime haven like this.