It was the position of her body, plus the skin gleaming as though fresh from the shower and the face so peaceful, that told a story.
“Looks like a, uh, thirty-two year female, dumped in the park. Naked, six gunshot wounds to the back, minimal blood at the scene.”
That was his thought as he circled her prone form, noting tattoos, her baby blue fake nails, and her lithe dancer’s body. Who would do that to this girl?
“Wasn’t killed here.” His partner stooped beside her. “Whomever did this really wanted her died, but why?”
They covered her with a drape, hiding her body from the elements and prying eyes.
“Why her? Young, pretty, and brutally murdered. What’s in your head?”
Where’s her car, where was she killed because it wasn’t here, who is her killer, was she assaulted, who would do this. Who is this girl.
“Who is this girl?” It was more than professional curiosity that made him ask.
He could picture how she died. Smiling up at her killer, her back against her missing car. The tone changing, his anger radiating for some unknown reason. Her running, shots firing in rapid succession. Her body falling, lifeless hitting the pavement. Then a trunk full of blood.
“We need to find her car.”
She’d linger in his dreams until he found her killer. Her body moving on marionette strings as she danced, slow and sensuous. Her wide lifeless eyes begging him to save her.
“It’s like an angel who’d fallen from the sky.”
His partner sighed.
“Fallen angels aren’t usually a good thing. I wonder if God was the one who pushed her.”
He closed his notepad with a snap. “God didn’t do this. Someone who thinks he is did.”