I'm just a sergeant. I was stood outside a diner on the corner of 64th East and Lexington, drinking coffee and discussing the case with the lead detective, when it happened.
She was the original ball-breaker type, but then, as the only female cop on the precinct, she had to be. The case was the Icon Killer and we'd discovered the most recent victim the night before. This time it had been Greta Garbo. Not the Greta Garbo you understand, otherwise bottom-feeders like us wouldn't have got a look-in. No, she was just a dedicated fan. A looker, too. And, dressed like that, a real catch. And she'd caught him. A real piece of work. He'd already worked his way through Audrey Hepburn, Rita Hayworth and Elizabeth Taylor. Like I say, not the genuine articles. And there she had lain, Greta Garbo, naked on the bed, the purply-pink impression from a cord around her neck. This guy was a real sick puppy.
Both the detective and I turned to look. The street was busy enough. Early evening in the city: suits making their ways home, normal folks out for an evening meal. But one movement stole both of our attentions. We got a good look at their departing asses. He was a fifty something suit, hundred and eighty pounds, give or take. His greying hair was thinning rapidly and he had some nice shoes on his feet. She was a Marilyn type: from the peroxide blonde of her hair to the sway of her hips. Younger and thinner than Monroe, I guessed she was barely twenty and not many pounds at all.
I turned to the detective. She was still watching them as they made their way through the side door of the diner, taking the booth nearest the door and furthest from us.
“Wha'd'ya think?” she asked, still staring at them through the partially steamed-up windows of the diner.
“Suspicious,” I replied. “They definitely doubled back when they saw us. And the way he had his hand on her elbow, he was definitely guiding her.”
The detective dropped her half full cup of coffee in the nearby can.
“You take to him and ask him where he was last night. I'll stay and speak to her, for all the good that'll do.”
I dropped my three quarters full cup of coffee into the self-same can. Coffee pooled like blood on the sidewalk.
We entered the diner. Joe, the manager, smiled and made to speak. Wareski shook her head, the universal indication that we were here on business. We made our way to the far end of the diner. A number of the clientèle turned away or covered their faces. I made a mental note of the places they were sitting. I could always be back later.
We stopped at their booth. Marilyn looked up, all doey-eyed and innocent. The suit slunk further into what little shadow he could find. Sweat beaded his forehead, which he dabbed away with a handkerchief which took an age to appear. We flashed our badges, which stung a shocked gasp from Miss Monroe.
“Will you go outside with my colleague please, Sir!” The detective stressed Sir rather strongly I thought. We only had our suspicions. We didn't know he was the killer. Yet.
The man lifted himself faintly from his seat. There was no way this one was going to bolt. I breathed a sigh of relief. My running days were rapidly coming to an end.
As I escorted the man outside, I could hear the detective over my shoulder. Her words made me, momentarily, pause.
“Good evening, Miss. My name's Detective Wareski. I'm his wife.”
About the author
I am a teacher who lives in the north west of England. I write about many subjects, but mainly I write non-fiction about things that interest me, fiction about what comes into my head and poetry about how I feel.