A rookie dashed for the door in an uneven limp, gagging like a poisoned dog. Jenkins strolled past him into the room.

Thick velvet curtains. The curtains, and her reputation. Weeks had gone by without anyone noting her absence because of those curtains.

"This place is a goddamn slum."

All eyes on Jenkins. Of course it's a goddamn slum, Jenkins thought. It's even a slum for this shithole of a neighborhood. He flashed a badge and a stare at the cops, and they went back to their housekeeping.

His soles crunched over mirror glass gravel, dragging thick black aspic streaks across the floor. He kicked a rancid dildo from his path and batted aside a worn leather swing harness.

"Looks like a girlscout troop exploded in here."

A couple of cops froze in disgust. Jenkins stared at them for a minute, and then stared at the woman below. Jenkins didn't care. He might as well be in the DMV. He didn't fucking care. He slowly extended an aluminum pointer.

Jenkins casually began probing the corpse. Soft flesh. Soft like congealed pudding. Her hair had been black like pitch, clean, before something began eating at it. He kneeled down to get a better angle as he worked the rubber tip beneath the gash in her shirt. A month ago, she'd been beautiful.

"Forensics has established time of death at sometime Tuesday afternoon."

Jenkins prodded an eyeball, gently, dispassionately.

"Forensics is wrong."

"But sir, forensics has established that-"

"Forensics doesn't handle this kind of thing."

"Actually sir, forensics does-"

"Forensics is wrong. You see that white puddle there? That grease spot right there?"

"Yes..."

"That butter has been there forever."

*   *   *

I'm right. They won't believe me, of course. They'll catalog everything, package up all the blood and the shit and the fingernails in little plastic bags like a school lunch, and spend a fews days wondering where to start chasing phantoms. And then I'll give them an answer that makes a little more sense than anything they've coughed together, and maybe a body to point at, and someone can sign on a dotted line somewhere and this whole mess will go away.

It just won't solve anything.

We go through this little dance all the time. And after each time, they do everything but forget I exist. Fine. I could fucking care less.

Fine.

*   *   *

"So you didn't see anyone?"

"Oh, heavens no. That girl was bringing people in all the time. All kinds of men. And... women, too. Day and night."

"But you didn't see anyone?"

"Oh, oh no, we certainly don't pay attention to that kind of thing."

"Mrs. Kingsley, how long have you known Michele?"

"Oh, I suppose she's lived here for a year... a year and a half."

"So you didn't know her at all."

"What?"

"Never mind. So you never noticed anyone who was regularly around her. Anyone who came by more than once or twice? Anyone?"

"I'm sorry, but I just don't pay any attention to those sorts of things."

"Of course not."

"Do you think there are going to be... I mean, whoever did this, do you think..."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Kingsley. You'll be safe."

"Oh, thank heavens."

"Just don't open your door after dark."

". . ."

"For anything. Have a good night, Mrs. Kingsley."