Chapter 1: The Wronged girl

The corpses sitting at the morgue made more noise than either of us, we just stared each other down as the silence wore on. The radio on my desk had been turned off since the start of this “interview” if you could even call it that. I figured neither of us would appreciate being interrupted while talking. To be honest, I’m pretty sure we both hated the damn thing, but I kept it out of courtesy. It’s not every day you get a fifty-dollar radio for your first successful case. 

The woman in front of me, who was unrelentingly trying to bore a hole into my head, was Maria De Vega, one of the PD’s suspects for a recent string of murder’s going around near the red-light districts. Maria was a mechanic who worked at Ross and, allegedly, a well-known vagrant in her area. 

At first glance, you’d think that’d be the case. She had dark skin, with curly hair that was a bit puffy from working at a machine shop (or maybe it’s always been like that). Her face always had a sour expression, as if the world disappointed her and she was expecting it to do it again. Maria was also small, even in comparison to most adult women, with near little muscle definition to be seen in sooty clothes that once belonged to her father, more often than not making her look like a child if it weren’t for her usual surly expression. Not the kind of person you’d think could fix your car, let alone put some poor bastard’s body on a slab, but Maria had a rep for busting in anyone’s mug who got on her bad side. 

Just before we started this crap show interview, one of the PD’s idiot crew started harassing her. Ended in a broken nose and a deflated ego. It was pretty funny to watch.

But enough about that, “Ms. De Vega–,” I try to start, but I cut myself short when she glares at me. Her fiery eyes glinting with the light that sifted through the blinds. Right, there’s no last name business when it comes to her.

“I told ya before, detective. It’s Anne,” she bit out. Her expression remaining menacing (then again, it always was). “Right, and you still get to call me Detective Crook?” I countered. She’s always insisted to be called ‘Anne’ rather than anything else, not by her last name, or even her first. God help the last poor soul who called her by her first name. “Get to the point, detective,” she snapped, “I need to get back the shop before the boss has my head. Is this about the Bloody Barbies again?”

Bloody Barbie was the nickname Maria gave to the murders ever since she’d gotten involved as a suspect. It was an apt name. Each crime scene that had been investigated was painted red with each victim’s blood, and in each one there would be a bloody doll left behind (though, not exactly a Barbie), no less than three feet away from the body. 

So far, most of the victims found were men above their twenties, and that was about it. One day, some cop made a few connections to Maria’s relationships with some of the victims, even adding in the fact that she shared a neighborhood with some of them, then there was the case of her reputation. A lot of crap was stacked up against her on this case, it was really easy to land her as a suspect. I give her a strained sigh to answer her question and she gives one of her own an exhausted one.

She wasn’t the killer. I knew she wasn’t. But we both have little choice in this.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” she muttered, loud enough for me to hear, “I had nothing to do with their murders.”

“I know you don’t, M– Anne…”

“Then why do you keep bringing me back here?” She shot at me, giving me a tired glare.

“One of the boys is convinced you had something to do with them. You know what goes around the grapevine,” I remind her. She shakes her head, a soft groan leaving her as she rubbed her temples. I felt her frustration.

This was the fourth time in a month that she’s been brought in, and it was getting on her nerves. Ross wasn’t always the most patient boss, and Anne wasn’t exactly lying when she said Ross’d get a piece of her if she was gone too long. Goings were still rough since the war, and time was money. Honestly, I wish I didn’t have to do this. 

I’ve heard what kind of life Anne lives through a mutual friend of ours. Granted, it was secondhand information— not to mention a great breach of privacy, but it’s all I have to go on considering that she won’t talk to me normally. Usually, I wouldn’t try and pry into anyone’s personal life, but Anne’s being placed as a suspect and the department knows next to nothing about her to either disprove or approve the accusations besides her reputation and general attitude towards people. Safe to say, she isn’t exactly looking innocent in their eyes.

“I don’t have time for whatever bullshit’s being said about me…” she murmured, “How much longer do I have to sit here…!?”

“Just until you answer my questions,” I reply placatingly, the effect however was quite the opposite.

“Again!?”

I sigh, I was just about as tired of these questions as Anne was. “I don’t make the rules, Anne,” I reach down and open a drawer in my desk, grabbing a few folders including a new one. “You’ll only be here for ten minutes.”

“Last time I was here I was yelled at for three hours.”

I grip the folders in my hand tightly, "Fucking Killer…" I sighed 

“The questions are shorter, I promise,” I lay down the files on my desk and flipped through, reviewing them for a bit. “Besides, since Pete’s death, the PD’s got some new questions for you.” At the corner of my eye, I see her hand clench as soon as I mentioned our new victim. I pause.

“You alright?” I ask idly,

“Let’s just get this over with,” she replies tersely,

Maybe it was nothing, but… I fiddle with the pages for a bit and observe her. She was fidgeting, her thumb spinning the ring on her finger, her golden eyes glancing at the clock.

She knows something.