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I was pissed, and I refused to go down without a fight. I had nothing to lose. With my feet free, I kicked at the driver and tried to loosen his grip.

Suddenly, the larger man was behind me, pulling my sash up around my neck. The more I fought, the tighter the fabric was pulled against my throat. I couldn’t breathe and did my best to free myself. I felt my heartbeat pounding in my ears from the stranglehold, and my vision slowly darkened. Little did I know I would never again set foot on that Nevada pageant stage, or on any other.

1

JONESY

We walked through the double glass doors into the San Francisco Office of the Chief Medical Examiner late in the afternoon, showed our badges, and headed to the bank of elevators. As I hit the down button, I turned to my partner, Detective Sean Lopez. “I always hate this part. I think the worst is the cold disinfectant smell,” I said disdainfully, scrunching my nose.

“Well, that and having to look at a dead body,” he replied with a pinched brow. I couldn’t argue.

Earlier that morning, we were at the scene of a body dump near Fourth and Mission. The body wasn’t well concealed, so I figured it had been disposed of quickly. It was a young woman, still wearing what looked like a formal evening gown—a silk dress with sequins that I found quite impressive. Her head was tilted to the side, her mouth taped shut, and one of her arms lay across her body. She was barefoot, but I noticed she had a perfect pedicure with taupe nail polish that matched her fingernails. Her blonde hair was disheveled, falling across her face.

It always bothered me how someone could have such complete disregard for human life. There was a special place in hell for assholes who murdered and did that kind of thing, but all I could do was my best to find them and lock them up to experience hell on earth before eternal damnation.

I’d been a homicide detective in San Francisco for over fifteen years, and Sean had been my partner for the past four. We worked well together, each with our own strengths. Sometimes we had to play good cop/bad cop during an interrogation, and he loved being the bad cop.

I was African American, six feet three inches tall, with a wiry, muscular build. I played football in college, and with my speed and height, I was ideally suited to be a wide receiver. Sean was half Irish, half Hispanic, and at five-foot-nine and stocky, he possessed the controlled temper that could make a suspect pee his pants. He had been a wrestler in school, and I’d watched him take down guys bigger than him in the precinct’s gym.

The elevator doors opened, and a parade of occupants filed out onto the first floor, heading in different directions. We stepped in once it was empty, and I pressed the button for the sub-basement. “How’s Craig, by the way? Lorraine and I would love to have you two over for dinner some night,” Sean said.

Craig Bannon had been my boyfriend for over three years. We’d known each other professionally for a few years before that, but it wasn’t until he saw me perform as my drag persona, Onyx Storm, that our friendship turned into something more. Craig was a private investigator, and a good one. He’d helped the police on a few cases, sharing information we couldn’t readily get. Many people didn’t like talking to the cops, and Craig could sometimes ferret out crucial information to help with a case. But he had his own clientele who kept him busy most of the time. A few others in the squad room knew about my relationship with Craig and how his information helped close some tough cases. Doing that earned Craig the respect of some detectives, who thought our relationship was at best questionable.

I was openly gay, and a few of the guys also knew I was a singer. I had even sung at two cop weddings that some of the guys attended. What most of my coworkers didn’t know was that I performed in drag on the side. I used it to escape the atrocities of the job. It was a good balance in my life, though unconventional.

I wished I had a performance scheduled that night, especially given what we were dealing with. When I performed, I poured all my energy into it. I loved choosing the outfit, coordinating the makeup and wig, then standing under the spotlights on stage. Most drag queens lip-synced, but being blessed with a higher tenor vocal range allowed me to get lost in my character by singing live. It transported me to an alternate version of myself, where death and homicide took a back seat.

“Craig’s doing well, thanks for asking. It would be nice to get together,” I answered, watching the numbers change above the elevator doors. “I haven’t seen your beautiful bride in a long time. Let’s toss some dates out there.” The letters SB finally illuminated with a ding. When the doors opened, I continued, “I’ll bring it up next time I see him.”

Sean and I stepped out of the elevator onto the white travertine floor that led to the stainless-steel doors of the morgue at the end of the hallway. I shivered at the sudden drop in temperature, my hair standing on end at the back of my neck. Our footsteps echoed as we walked side by side, and the unpleasant smell of disinfectant grew stronger as we approached the doors, making my nose twitch. I was glad I hadn’t eaten lunch earlier, given what we were about to see and discuss with the medical examiner. I wasn’t normally squeamish, but I didn’t want to risk a visceral reaction.

The doors opened with a whoosh, allowing us to walk in together. Dr. Fleming was perched on the edge of her desk, talking on the phone. She looked up, and held up a finger, signaling that she’d only be a second.

“I don’t care, Monica,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Listen, I need to go. We’ll discuss this later.”

Dr. Jennifer Fleming had served as one of the city’s deputy medical examiners for several years. She was a striking woman, in her mid-to-late forties. I’d only seen her a few times in a suit when she needed to testify in court, but the morgue was her domain, and she’d always been in surgical scrubs when I came down there. Today, they were bloodstained.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” she began, setting her phone down. “I assume you’re here to view the young woman’s body and learn what I discovered?”

“Yeah, Doc,” I said, glancing at the doors that led to the main autopsy room. I’d been in the basement more times than I cared to count, but it was part of my job as a homicide detective. Getting crucial details about how a person died, who they were, or where they came from was essential for the case.

“Follow me,” she replied, pushing off the edge of her desk, gesturing to the open door across from us. Dr. Fleming always got down to business, and I appreciated it.

It felt even colder once we entered the sterile room. Two autopsy tables sat in the center, both occupied. One held a black, sealed body bag, unlit by the overhead halogen light, containing another unfortunate victim. The other table had the sheet-draped body of the young woman, fully illuminated. She was the one we’d found discarded by the roadside that morning. Dr. Fleming stood at the head of the table while Sean held back, not wanting to get too close.

“I finished the initial autopsy about an hour ago,” she said, uncovering the woman’s arm closest to her. She picked it up by the elbow, and I saw black stains on the victim's fingers as well as what looked like bruises on her hands and knuckles. “I took fingerprints and sent them to the crime lab for analysis. I haven’t heard back yet, but I put a rush on them. Perhaps by tomorrow. If those don’t pan out, we’ll check dental records.”

“She was a beautiful girl,” I said. She’d been cleaned up and stripped of the smeared makeup. She had high cheekbones and symmetrical features. With makeup and neatly styled hair, she really would have been stunning.

“Do you have an estimate of age?” Sean asked, coming to stand next to me.

“I’d estimate around twenty. I needed to cut away the evening gown she was wearing. Her body was in great physical shape, but a little underweight for her body type and height,” Dr. Fleming assessed. “Based on liver temperature, I estimated her death to be around sixteen to twenty hours ago. She still has stiffness from rigor, but it’s starting to relax. It looks like she might have fought her attacker, considering the bruises and abrasions on her knuckles. I found a small injection site on the right side of her neck, under the bruising, and there was also some epithelial substance under her fingernails that’s being tested. Could be from her attacker.”

As I looked her over, the only jarring sight was the sutures across her collarbones that traveled down under the cover between her breasts. I knew under the sheet there was a single incision all the way to the pubic bone. She also had some bruising on her throat. Autopsies weren’t pretty, especially with the body flayed open, and I was glad the doctor had finished before we got here.

“So…how did she die, Doc?” I asked.

“Asphyxia caused by strangulation. Her hyoid bone was crushed. From what I’ve determined, it was some type of cloth. I found fibers around her neck that were a different color from her gown. I’ve sent them off to forensics to determine what type of fabric it was.” She pointed at the victim’s neck and lifted her arm again. “Besides the bruising around her neck and hands, she also has ligature marks around her wrists and ankles, as if she had been bound.”