this is a little better than the excerpt i posted last time. it was fun to write.
Standing again, I made my way back to the girl. I bent down and just stared at her for a moment.
She had short, black hair, styled into a pixie cut, bright green eyes, and thick, full lips that were painted a black that was so black, even the slight gloss gave off a sinister, dark vibe. Her skin was slightly pale, most likely due to her death, but she was not as white as others cadavers I had seen. Her jaw was her most defined feature. She was petite, looked to be around four foot eleven. On the outside corners of her eyes, she wore black eyeliner, giving her eyes a look of depth, even in death. Around her pupils, streaks of yelled made her eyes look even more spectacular. But her eyes weren’t the only incredibly noticeable thing about her. More noticeable was her style.
She had a pair of black and red pants with chains hanging from the belt loops, swinging to connect with each other. But I lost sight of the pants when I reached her knees. From the knees down she had on platform boots that she most likely wore to add height to her small stature. With the boots she would be five foot five. Her boots were almost identical to the kind I wore, except mine were heel and mine didn’t have red and black buckles. Her black blouse was on the bed behind her and I leaned in to examine the wounds on her torso. She had cuts on her stomach, not severe, in fact, not very deep.
My gaze continued to her neck. I’d seen the slash as soon I’d entered the room. Now, I was really paying attention to it. It appeared to from ear to ear, at least two inches deep. Maybe three. The M.E., Carla Montoya, a bright, Hispanic woman with more than a decade of medical history behind her, and a wealth of knowledge, as well as plenty of spunk, walked around me and bent down at the opposite side of the girl’s head so she was kneeling across from me. She pulled gloves over bright pink nails as she glanced at her bag and took out a plastic ruler.
“Three point five inches deep,” she exclaimed, “and eight inches across. Ear to ear.”
Owen Cassidy walked in and patted my head. I looked up and smirked.
“Any idea what kind of knife could have done that damage, doctor?”
Carla rolled her eyes at being called “doctor” and answered Cassidy, “Bigger than a pocket knife, smaller than a meat clever.” She put back her ruler and took out a thermometer.
“That narrows it down,” he mumbled.
“But I’m not a highly experienced criminal investigator or a forensic scientist, so I wouldn’t know.”
“It’s probably either a combat or hunting knife,” I said. “I have one. Looks about the same.”
Owen glared questioningly at me. “Why do you own a hunting knife? PI’s really get that much hassle?”
I shrugged. “The product of a childhood of an abusive dad and a drunk mom that didn’t know I existed.” I didn’t say it like, feel sorry for me. I was just stating a fact, but Cassidy’s face softened. “I have a lot of weapons. I’m packing more than meets the eye right now.”
The boyish grin was back, his eyes widened and he ran his eyes over me quickly. I could tell that his gaze meant he was trying to imagine where I was hiding the weapons.
“If you two are done flirting shamelessly, maybe you could help me get the girl’s body onto the gurney and out to the truck. TOD's hard to estimate correctly until I get her back on the table. Too many factors.”
Connelly entered the room and whistled. “Cassidy, help Carla. Dern, do whatever it is that you’re paid to do.”
“When Miss Oliver hired me to solve this, she didn’t tell me that Metro and the FBI were being involved. I thought for once I would get a crime scene all to myself.”
“At least Metro’s gone,” Cassidy said as he lifted the girl’s body with Carla.
I pulled out a notepad and a pen and jotted down physical appearance, position of objects in the room, and then I pulled out my camera and snapped shots. I could feel a stare on my back the whole time.
i just wrote this today, so i havent had a chance to edit it, or whatever, but its not bad. if i do say so myself.