She was naked when she died.
The cold water flowed through the gutter where her remains lay, washing away her sins and those of the parties responsible for her current state of lifelessness. Only a flickering street light could make her visible under the shroud of darkness with trails of white bouncing off the plastic sheet was wrapped in, as if she were posing for a morbid photoshoot.
Not that she’d ever done anything to merit such a gruesome fate. Destiny has its own sacrificial lambs and the blue-eyed brunette just happened to be one of them.
An old hobo made the harrowing discovery.
“I walk around here every day at the same time. From far I saw this weird reflection.”
The officer taking his statement could barely make out what the toothless man was saying.
“Could you repeat that slowly please? There aren’t any interpreters at my disposal right this second.”
A few feet away, the crime scene investigators were laden in what appeared to be full body gloves in their effort to gather evidence and snap photos of who they’re currently dubbing as Jane Doe.
“Too bad it’s the last time anyone’s going to take her picture,” said lead detective Christina Romero. “She was a looker all right.”
“She might be a model then,” her partner Justin Chamberlain responded. “We can try to match her photo to a modeling database or ask around agencies.”
“Model. Prostitute. Same difference,” she threw back at him whilst lighting up a Davidoff cigarette.
