Thorns on Roses

Tom Jeffries pulled into a parking space, killed the engine, and stared at the sign alongside the entrance to the building.
CITY MORGUE
ENTRY BY PERMISSION ONLY
A shudder passed through his body. He’d seen a lot of bad things in his life, but dead bodies topped the list. How anyone could choose a profession working around and with them was beyond his understanding. Okay, maybe a mortician. They were performing a necessary service for society—and they improved appearances, not…
He didn’t want to go in, didn’t want to be anywhere near the place. However, he had an invitation that left him no choice. Grimacing, he got out of the car and endured a blast of South Florida heat as he walked toward the building. At the front counter, he told the receptionist, “I’m meeting Detective Richards. Has he arrived yet?”
“Please sign in. I think he’s in the back. I’ll call.” She waited, then picked up the phone and punched a button. Turning the sign-in sheet toward her, she said, “Tell Detective Richards that Mr. Jeffries is here.” She hung up. “He’ll be right out.”
Jeffries sat in one of the chrome and plastic chairs for visitors and picked up the South Florida Sun-Sentinel. A sports story dominated the front page, something Jeffries, a transplanted Texan, never grew accustomed to. Unless it was Super Bowl or World Series, he expected national news on page one. He ¬shivered as the coolness of the building crept into him, knowing the reason the thermostat was set low.
A moment later, a man came through the white double doors that led off the reception area. He had cop written all over him. Six-two, bull neck, tight shirt over a muscular chest, and the walk. He carried a sports coat over a shoulder, Sinatra style. “Mr. Jeffries, thanks for coming down. I’m Lieutenant Jim Richards, homicide. Come with me into the back. I’m hoping you can help.” He led Tom Jeffries through the doorway into a corridor. At the entrance to a side room, Richards pulled a surgical mask from a dispenser box. “You can use this to cover your mouth and nose. The heat and humidity didn’t do her any favors.” After a pause, he added, “Or maybe you’re a Vick’s guy.”
Jeffries cut his eyes at him, then took the mask as they entered a colder chamber with vaults along the center of the room. Light filtering through the blocks of glass in the wall fought a losing battle to illuminate the room. Bright overhead fluorescents flooded the area. “You want to tell me why you called me down here? I don’t usually do morgues until after breakfast.”
“With what I’m going to show you, you might decide to skip it…for several days.” He pulled out a drawer and flipped the sheet off a face. “Know her?”
Jeffries glanced and turned away, revulsion then anger surging through him. “Did you practice to be an ass, or does it just come naturally? Give a guy a warning, will you?”
“Big, tough PI. I thought you guys could handle anything.”
Richards did not smile.
Holding the mask over his mouth and nose, Jeffries returned his attention to the slab. A young female lay on it, draped except for her head and shoulders. Her bloated face pointed straight up as if positioned that way.
Jeffries gave her a long look and swallowed. “Who is she? What happened to her?”
“We haven’t ID’d her yet. If you mean what killed her, we’re not sure. I’ll wait for the autopsy. But you want to know what happened? Farther down, under the sheet, it’s not pretty. Some bastards had their fun with her.” Rage rose in his voice, and he paused, visibly getting himself under control. “I’m hoping you have a name. Do you remember her?”
Jeffries squinted, shivering, perhaps from the cold of the air conditioning, perhaps from what he viewed. He pressed the mask tighter, hesitated, then said, “Should I?”
“Apparently she knew you.”
Jeffries looked again and shook his head. “Sorry. Of course, she’s not in the best condition. What makes you say she knew me?”
“Over here.” Richards pointed as he walked to a stainless steel counter along the wall and picked up an evidence bag. “She had this between her fingers. Otherwise, she was naked with none of her clothing where we could find it.”
Examining the package, he saw his business card, Tom Jeffries, Private Investigator. “Interesting.”
“Check the back.”
Flipping the bag over, Tom saw the other side. If I can help, call me. It was signed Tom in his handwriting. “So?”
“That’s your best answer? Does everyone get a note like that?”
“Only those who will take them.” Jeffries pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. “Want one?” He took a card from the billfold and handed it to Richards. “As you said, check the back.”
“If I can help, call me,” Richards read. “You even signed it.”
“Personalizing is part of my trademark. I add the comment, then give them to anybody who’ll take one. I even leave them on tables in the food court at the mall.” He paused to allow Richards to digest his words. “What I mean, detective, is she could have gotten it anywhere.”
“Not from you?” Richards’ look was skeptical.
Tom shrugged. “I don’t remember giving her one. That’s the best answer I have for you.”
“But you could have given it to her, right?”
“I never enjoy repeating myself,” Tom said, his words as cold as the air conditioning.
“Okay,” Richards said, sighing. “I hoped you could speed things up, but maybe not. We’ll ID her, but it will take time and manpower, neither of which I have a surplus of.”
Jeffries looked toward the body. “How’d she die, and how’d she get in that condition?”
“Like I said, we’re waiting for the autopsy, but those marks on her neck point to strangulation. There are bruises on her arms and the lower part of her legs that scream big, rough hands. My guess is she was held down while someone raped her. As for her condition, we found her stuffed in the trunk of an abandoned car.”
Jeffries stared. “You’re figuring what, four–five guys?”
“At least. Even then it would have been tough to hold her. She probably put up one hell of a fight, and it looks like she was in great shape.” He paused, a sad expression on his face. “It always seems worse when it happens to someone so young.”
“Yeah. What do you think—late teens?”
“That general range.” He pulled a picture from an envelope that lay on the counter. “Know anything about this?”
Jeffries examined the photo. It showed a single long-stemmed red rose. Just below the bud, one thorn stuck out, a drop of blood on its tip. “Haven’t seen it before. Where’d you get it?”
“It’s the tattoo on her right buttock, pretty fresh. Looks like she had it done within the past few days.” Richards tapped the container. “As you can see by the ruler, it’s about three inches long. More stem than rose. We’re picking up street talk about a new gang, Thorns on Roses. I’m wondering if this ties in.”
Jeffries’ forehead wrinkled. “You know more than I do.”
Richards stared at him. “For a PI, you don’t seem to get around much. You sure you don’t know her?”
Jeffries returned his stare. “We’ve been there already.”
Richards broke eye contact. “If you hear anything, let me know.”
“Sure. Want to go for breakfast? Your treat?”
* * * *

Richards had been on the force for twenty years. During that time, he’d seen bodies of all ages under all conditions. There was nothing funny about being a cop. His perpetual scowl didn’t exist because he practiced it. The job put it there.
He gave Jeffries a scornful look. “A comedian, you’re not. We’re finished here. You’re free to leave.”
They walked to the entranceway and shook hands. Richards reiterated, “You remember anything, you call. Here’s my card with no cute note on the back.”
Jeffries gave a wry smile. “You should try it. Might get you more business.”
“That, I don’t need.” Richards watched Jeffries walk to his car, a Chrysler convertible, and get in. Wise-ass PI. Haven’t met one yet that doesn’t think he owns the world—even the ones on the right side. I’m betting he knows more than he let on.
He flipped open his cell phone and hit speed dial. “Phil. Jim here. Remember the body we found last night? Well, I just had Tom Jeffries in here, and he says he doesn’t know her. Run a check on him. Pull his PI license for full name and anything else you need.”
“Can do. I took a quick look this morning. He works for Bernstein, Goldsmith, Espinosa, and Bernstein.”
“They’re the outfit that does both ambulance chasing and civil defense, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, you named them. Anything specific about Jeffries?”
“No, but my gut says he’s not on the level. Or maybe I just don’t like PI’s who wear Western hats and boots. Anyway, be thorough. We may be spending a lot of time with him.”
“Gotcha, chief. I’ll dig so deep I’ll find what he had for breakfast this morning.”
Richards smiled, his first of the day. “No breakfast. I got him out of bed.”
“Oh.” Phil paused. “I’ll get to work.”
Richards closed the phone, then stared at it, lost in thought. Phil Summers was the bravest, or most foolhardy, homicide detective he’d ever worked with. They had faced several situations when his courage carried the day. Yet, he ran at the sight of a dead body—unless he made it dead. Last night was typical. One look at the body and Phil lost his day’s rations in the bushes. That’s why he wasn’t present now. Richards had spared him another case of the heaves.