My cell phone is vibrating; groggy, as it woke me, I lift it from my nightstand, it shows 'Cap' and 12:09.
"Hello."
"Jones, I sent you an address via text; I need you to take lead on this one."
Trying not to wake Grant, I quietly dress in the same pantsuit I wore yesterday and scurry off.
I'm Detective Teresa Jones, 28, dirty blonde hair, usually done up in a bun, with a few escaping strands. Attractive, I generally dress unassuming, in pant suits.
I graduated top of my class from the police academy at 21. From a young age, reading Nancy Drew, I always wanted to solve crimes, I recently passed my detective exams.
My coworkers call me 'TASK'; I got that nickname due to my dog on a bone approach; my tenacious focus on an assignment to get results.
I pull up in an older part of town, younger families moving in, getting started, renovating the previous generation's homes. I jump out of my Jeep and head inside.
I check my watch and mentally note, 12;17, there is a uniformed officer guarding the door, I ask him.
"Were you first on scene; has it been secured?"
"Yes Ma'am, no one has entered except Al, he just arrived, he's in the bedroom."
I pass through the living room, it appears there was a party earlier, several red plastic disposable cups, wine, beer, and liquor bottles, ash trays on the coffee and end tables.
Standing just inside the bedroom doorway; Detective Al McNabb, a greying 55-year-old, with a pot belly, suspenders holding up the pants of an ill-fitting, cheap, store-bought dark suit, white shirt, top button undone and a loosened dark blue tie, slightly askew.
Al's meticulously surveying the room, looking over the top of the wire rim glasses he wears low on his nose, then through the lenses when jotting notes. He nods as I stop in the doorway.
"Cap wants you to take the lead on this; I'm swamped with the Simpson case; I was nearby, on my way home when the call came in; so, I'll help you out tonight, jot notes until forensics get here."
He steps back, I move just inside the door.
The room is dimly lit with only a small wattage bedside lamp, and a candle on each of the vintage dark wood nightstands on either side of the older, queen size metal framed bed. After putting on disposable gloves, I remove a pen from the inside breast pocket of my suitcoat, I use it to tip the light switch, the trio of bulbs on the ceiling fan illuminate the room.
A normal bedroom, rather small, an antique, tall 8 drawer dresser on the left wall. A matching, wider 4 drawer dresser with a mirror on the right. On the right side of the bed, an old, worn down, patterned area carpet with what at one time were likely white tassels all around the edge, hardwood floors.
On the area rug, on all 4's bound with white rope, is a nude, petite brunette, nipple clamps, blindfolded, red buttocks and red streaks on the majority of her body. A riding crop, a paddle and a flogger beside her.
"Are you hurt Ma'am?" I ask.
"Nothing I didn't ask for; but if you're not here to fuck me, could you untie me please; I've been like this for a couple hours, and am very uncomfortable."
"Sorry ma'am, we'll have to get DNA samples, before we can release you, it won't be long now." Al reassures her.
Spreadeagle face down on the bed is a lifeless, nude, blonde, Caucasian female; the reason we are here.
I'm upset by the scene; it's not gory, there's no blood, but it's sad, uncomforting.
{'This is just wrong on so many levels, I fight back my fierce emotions, I'm a detective, I'm a professional; I've got to compartmentalize my feelings and do my job; I am now this woman's advocate.'}
Her wrists are cuffed to the corners of the tubelike metal headboard. Her ankles tied with white cotton twisted rope to either corner of the foot of the bed. A wedge-shaped cushion has her midsection elevated; to make her ass readily accessible. Several semen streams across her butt cheeks, lower back, and thighs, also seeping from both orifices. The amount makes it immediately obvious there was more than one donor.
Criss-crossed red welts on her back, shoulders, and thighs, her bum cherry red from an obvious spanking, likely from the flat wooden paddle next to her.
There is also a riding crop, flogger and various sexual devices scattered on the bed.
After several minutes of us both scrutinizing the aberrant scene, Al signals the photographer; he steps past me, immediately starts taking pics, the flash creating a strobe effect. After about 100 photos, I beckon the forensic team to enter.
"Start with the woman on the carpet; make sure you get a sample of each stream of semen, there's definitely more than one donor. No one man is capable of all that." Al tells the forensic woman.
When the forensic gal is done swabbing, Al unties the woman on the floor, I get a robe from the bathroom for her. Blocking her view of the victim on the bed, the uniform officer escorts her to the sofa.
The forensic lady finishes getting samples from the victim's body, Al uncuffs the blondes' wrists and I untie the ankle restraints, carefully putting everything into evidence bags.
Flipping the lifeless body; I audibly gasp.
"Oh, my gawd, what a waste, she's so young and pretty."
The youthful long-haired blond, appears sleeping, she could be a model, or an actress. Extremely attractive, and in great shape. Blindfolded with a black satin mask, slightly slanted; she has a red ball gag strapped in place; nipple clamps firmly attached. Her entire front has remnant streaks of red flogger marks. The photographer takes many more pics of the body.
"Maybe her master got a little carried away. Who was her assailant? Is he or she responsible, or is this natural?" Al shakes his head and sighs. "I don't see any sign of foul play, no strangulation marks, no wounds, no blood. Just the evidence of bondage. Rather odd there was no one in the apartment, except the other bound woman."
I add. "She has an engagement ring; we need to find her partner."
The uniformed officer at the door chimed in. "My money's on a drug O.D."
Al checks for needle marks.
