Picture Perfect

Picture Perfect.







The bronze letter opener protruded from the victim's forehead like a dagger. A small amount of dried blood surrounded the wound, indicating he had already been dead when the weapon was viciously jammed into his skull. Hopefully, he was already deceased when his eyes were gouged out, possibly by the very same weapon.



Diane Linsky squeezed her own eyes shut for a second, trying to compose herself. Re-opening them, she shot the photo and then moved over to the victim's left and shot several more pictures. The putrid smell of decomposition made her stomach lurch. Holding her breath, she moved to his right. Click...click...click.



"Are you almost done?" asked Detective David Haynes.



"Just a few more should do it, and then he's all yours." Diane continued snapping pictures.



She re-loaded her camera and placed it in her black leather carrying case. "I think I got it. These should be processed and sent to you by morning," she told Haynes.



Diane left the crime scene and headed for the subway. Holding her camera equipment close to her body, she squeezed into the crowded car. When she reached Grand Central, she jumped off the train and hurried across the bustling station. Taking two steps at a time, Diane flew up the stairs leading to the street.



The cold air mixed with sleet, bit at her face. She pulled her hood up and wrapped her scarf tightly over the bottom half of her face, leaving only an opening for her eyes.



She reached the bus stop just in time. The driver opened the doors for her and she made her way toward the only empty seat in the back.



Twenty minutes later, Diane rushed up the rickety stairs in the hallway of her apartment building. The stench of urine permeated the empty space. The once blue walls turned gray from years of smoke and soot. A roach scurried across her foot as she turned the key in one of the three locks. Once inside, she quickly latched the door shut, dropped her bag on a chair and hurried into the bathroom to take a shower.



***************************************



"Each victim is more brutalized than the last. I don't get it. What do these people even have in common?" Haynes asked his partner, Carol McGraffe.



McGraffe shook her head. "It's a mystery, but we'd better figure it out fast. The murders are getting closer together."



Haynes grabbed his cup of coffee and took a sip. He sat behind his desk and picked up a folder. Opening it, he pulled out the crime scene photos. Spreading them out in front of McGraffe, he pointed to victims as he spoke. "Martha Anderson, a sixty-seven-year-old grandmother; her throat cut in her Harlem apartment. And this one. Manual Perez, a thirty-two year old stockbroker, stabbed sixteen times in his heart, nowhere else, just his fucking heart."



McGraffe picked up the next photo and examined it. "Clarice Morgan, a sixteen-year-old cheerleader. All the girl's appendages were cut off. This one was horrible. I mean, they're all horrible, but she was just a kid. My own daughter is thirteen." She put down the picture of Clarice and picked up the next one. "Now, this latest victim, Rodney Jameson. What does a plastic surgeon have in common with a grandmother, cheerleader and a stockbroker? The only commonality is their differences."



"Yes, that and the murderer. We do know it is the same son-of-a-bitch," Haynes said and took another sip of his coffee.



"Well, the yellow rose left at each of the crime scenes is proof of that. He's taunting us. You think maybe there's a copy-cat?" McGraffe asked.



"No. The rose is general knowledge but we still have our ace in the hole..."



"McGraffe, Haynes, get in my office, NOW!" shouted Captain Gibson.



The two detectives immediately got up and headed to Gibson's office.



"What is it, Captain?" Haynes asked.



"This!" He slammed The New York Times on his desk and pointed to the headline.



McGraffe picked up the paper. "Yellow Rose Butcher Strikes Again."



"How did this get out so fast? This just happened last night," McGraffe said.



"There's obviously a fucking leak!" Gibson shouted. "Someone is telling this reporter, Anne Wilson, everything about these murders. Find out who!"



"It could be anyone. You know how many people are at the crime scenes?"



"I don't give a shit! We don't want a copy-cat because of these articles. How does she know all the details? It has to be someone pretty close to the crimes. Is there a medic that is at every crime scene? Find out who is leaking this shit!"



"Yes, sir," McGraffe said. "May I keep this?" She held up the paper.



"Take it, and find this crazy asshole."



Back at her desk, McGraffe read the whole article. "Dave, the details are pretty accurate. Here, read it." She handed him the paper.



After reading the whole piece, Haynes furrowed his brow.



"What?"



"Something ain't right."



"What is it?"



"The details. It says here that all the victims were poisoned before they were murdered. How does she know that? That was never released," Haynes said.



"Shit, you're right. I'm calling the paper. We got to find out who this reporter is and who her source is." McGraffe picked up the phone. Before she had the chance to dial the number, they were interrupted.



"I worked all night to get these to you guys. I thought I would bring them directly to you." Diane gently laid an envelope on Haynes' desk.



"You work fast, Linsky."



"Well, I have to, I have another job. I do some freelance work on the side to make extra money."



McGraffe pulled out the photos taken the night before. "I hope you freelance as a photographer. You have a keen eye. These are great."



"Thanks. I'm hoping to be famous one day, and I certainly can't do it by these types of photos, now can I?" Diane smiled. "Well, I hope they help. I've got to boogie."



After Diane left, McGraffe turned to Haynes. "Hey, you think Diane is the leak?"



"Linsky? Nah, she's just a talented kid trying to make a buck. She's been with forensics for five years now. Why would she, all of a sudden start talking to the press? She could lose her job."



***************************



Bill Simpson grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay from his refrigerator. He popped the cork and set it down on the perfectly set table. She should be here any minute. He ran to the bathroom, splashed water on his face and began to shave. That done, he quickly grabbed his best collared shirt and put it on, being careful not to wrinkle it. The doorbell rang and he hurried to answer it.



"Hello, come in." He gently kissed his date on the cheek. "Hope you like white wine? I opened a bottle a few minutes ago and set it down to breathe."



"I adore white wine, but white doesn't need to breathe, silly," she said.



"Well, it's breathing now." Bill grabbed two glasses from a cabinet and the bottle of wine. Pouring the Chardonnay into each glass, he handed one to her. "I've got to check on the chicken in the oven. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back." He set his glass down.



She smiled. "Take your time. I'll just admire your photographs." She scanned the walls of his living room. Black and white framed photographs were carefully hung along each wall. "I love your work. You have a great deal of talent." She took a sip of her wine.



"Thanks, that's quite a compliment coming from you," he shouted from the kitchen.



She reached into her handbag and pulled out a vial. Looking toward the kitchen, making sure he wasn't looking, she reached for his glass.



Bill came out of the kitchen holding a plate of stuffed mushrooms and deviled eggs. He put the appetizers down on the coffee table and reached for his wine. "I hear you're quite the photographer yourself," he said and took a sip of his wine.



"Oh, I just do that because I need the money. Freelance writing doesn't pay much, you know. But I'm working on something right now that's going to win me the Pulitzer, and then I can do what I really love." Diane reached into her bag and retrieved her camera.



"Oh, what are you working on?" he swayed and then righted himself.



"Well, I have been covering the story on the Yellow Rose Butcher. I use a different name because I don't want to lose my other job."



Bill's vision became fuzzy. His head felt like he had consumed a whole bottle of wine. 



"How are you feeling, Bill?" Diane pulled out a single yellow rose from her oversized handbag.



When Bill passed out, Diane grabbed the bottle of wine, smashed it