1
Iknew we were dealing with a homicide. By the tone of Sheriff Daniels’ voice, this wasn't going to be a pretty sight.
I drove the Wild Fury van over to the Coronado. It was an upscale midrise, popular with twentysomethings and young professionals.
I parked in the visitor lot, and we climbed out of the van and hustled to the main entrance. Patrol cars were on the scene, red and blue lights flashing. An ambulance had arrived, along with the medical examiner's van. Today, the EMTs would just be observers. There was nothing for them to do at this point.
The main door had been propped open, and we hustled inside the lobby and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. Deputies and other first responders loitered in the hallway.
Camera flashes spilled out of Apartment #613.
Paris Delaney and her news crew were already on the scene. That girl didn’t miss much.
JD and I stepped inside and moved down the foyer, past the open concept kitchen on the left. That sour sensation of death hit my nose the moment I stepped inside. It tightened my face and made my heart sink.
The smell was unmistakable.
If I had to guess, I'd put the time of death within a day, give or take. Not enough time to be horrendous, but enough time to let you know that something wasn't right. The neighbors hadn't smelled it yet. It wasn’t that strong.
There were no signs of forced entry at the front door.
A young blonde woman sobbed on the sofa with her head in her hands. In her early 20s, she was cute and had a petite figure.
A few more deputies loitered in the living room.
The action was in the bedroom.
More camera flashes spilled out as Dietrich snapped photos.
JD and I stepped to the doorframe and took in the grim scene.
The pale, lifeless body of a young brunette lay atop the bed, naked. Drained of its color, the blood had pooled at the low points. Her flowing chocolate hair kissed her shoulders. Her hands were folded across her waist in peaceful repose. She looked like a porcelain doll, meticulously positioned after death. A white cloth draped over her face hid her eyes.
Just from that first glimpse, I learned a lot about the killer.
There were ligature marks around her wrists and ankles—the skin was bruised and raw. By the discoloration around her throat, she had been strangled. You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure that out, and I didn't need Brenda to tell me. She hovered over the remains, wearing pink nitrile gloves.
At first glance, there wasn't a massive amount of blood, just small abrasions and bruising. It looked like she had been beaten and tortured.
A black cocktail dress and high heels were scattered on the floor by the bed.
The ropes that had been used to restrain her were still tied around the bedposts. They were stained with blood from where she struggled.
That sick sensation twisted in my stomach. It didn't matter how many times you had seen something like this—it always stung. Somewhere out there, she had a mother and a father. Maybe a brother and a sister. A family that would mourn her loss.
Then again, maybe she had no one at all. Maybe that was worse.
The apartment was nice and furnished with style. It was tidy. Everything had a place and was just so. Beachy abstract art hung on the walls in shades of coral and teal. In the bedroom, there was a desk with a laptop. A flatscreen TV rested atop the dresser. There was a larger TV in the living room.
I looked around, taking in the scene, creating a mental snapshot.
On the wall, scrawled in blood, was a crude geometric symbol within a circle. It was hard to tell what it was, if anything—an old rune, a satanic symbol, sacred geometry, who knows? Maybe it was the killer’s initials. It was a calling card, no doubt. He wanted credit for the kill. This guy had an ego.
"Do we have an ID on the victim?" I asked.
“Her name’s Abigail Jordan," the sheriff said with a grim face.
"Who's the girl in the living room?" I asked. "Roommate?”
