In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,3
climb. The stairs creaked under the weight of our steps, despite the plush carpet runner designed to cushion the wood. Upon reaching the first landing, I detected an unmistakable odor—the sickly-sweet smell of blood. I cleared my throat before commencing the next set of stairs. But death’s odor is a singular one that, once detected, manages to pervade all the senses. With each step, my awareness of it—and my revulsion to it—grew more intense. I could taste it, feel it, almost see it by the time we reached the top.
I had to pause for a moment. I gripped the banister, fighting to suppress the wave of nausea that welled up, threatening to overwhelm me.
Dr. Fields pointed toward the bedroom immediately on our right, facing south toward the street.
We followed with hesitant, slow footsteps.
When he reached the door, he stepped aside, allowing me to enter first.
I took two steps inside before I halted—for there she was.
I stared woodenly, at once repulsed and transfixed by the scene of ghastly carnage before me. The victim lay propped against the bed, her body precisely positioned, hands folded together in a demure pose. Her head had been so badly battered that I no longer recognized the features of her face. Splattered on the blue toile wallpaper nearest the bedpost, intermingled with red blood, was a gray substance I knew to be brain. I swallowed hard, again fighting the sensation of nausea that threatened to resurface.
“What is her name?” I asked.
“Sarah Wingate. She has been visiting since Friday,” the doctor said. His voice was even, but the beads of sweat on his forehead and the way he averted his eyes from the figure by the bed belied his apparent composure.
“And she is a relative of Mrs. Wingate’s?”
“Yes. Her niece.”
To refocus my wits, I forced myself to survey the undisturbed portions of the room. It was apparent it had been decorated in a tasteful and pleasing style—a fine dark blue and red oriental carpet complemented a pale blue bedspread and curtains, and two delicate Chinese vases adorned matching mahogany tables at either side of the bed. It was an atmosphere that suggested wealth and privilege. Yet today, it was nearly impossible to see past this senseless display of violence. I drew closer to the swath of blood on the wallpaper. Not yet dry, I noted as I came close enough to touch one stain, which indicated her death had occurred within the last few hours.
I breathed deeply through my mouth, vowing not to be sick. Such a response to the sight and smell of blood was a liability in my profession, and I never failed to be frustrated with my body’s visceral response. The hollow pit in my stomach was a familiar physical reaction, though it had been nearly six months since I was last summoned to a murder scene. That was in May, just before I left the city. There, I’d seen more than my share of the squalor and crime endemic to my native Lower East Side, not to mention the official indifference to it. Yet my stomach had never gotten used to it. Once again I forcibly willed my nausea to subside.
The doctor and Joe had already begun talking about the case. “When I arrived, her face was covered by that blue cloth,” Dr. Fields said as he pointed toward a crumpled, bloodstained material that lay atop the bed. “I removed it so I could check her identity.”
“Is that cloth from her dress?” Joe asked curiously, walking a wide perimeter around the body to get a better look.
It took a moment for the meaning of his question to register, but I soon understood. The killer had slashed the victim’s dress in haphazard strokes from the bodice down, and the bloodstained cloth was of the same material.
“How old was she?” I asked.
Dr. Fields paused before offering his opinion. “I’d say she was in her mid-twenties. And, judging from the bloodstains, her body temperature, and the fact that rigor mortis has not yet set in, I’d guess she has not been dead long—two hours, maybe three at most.” He sighed and wiped his brow with a knotted handkerchief. “I’ve lived in this town for thirty years. That I should live to witness something like this . . .” He shook his head.
“Were the others home at the time? Did anyone hear anything?” I asked, drawing his attention back to details and descriptions. It was the doctor’s analytical skills that this victim required now, not his empathy.