A POUND OF FLESH

Case Filed

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CASE FILED

3

Ron was stumped. He had looked at the case file on his desk so many times that most of the pictures and notes were forged to memory.

Martha Tobin, thirty eight, no driver's license or passport. Her only means of identification were her finger prints. The cool metal examination table as the backdrop for the last photograph ever to be taken of her. The shoulder length chocolate colored hair slick against her head from being washed, slightly lighter roots growing at her crown. Her skin hued on the yellow spectrum, making her appear older in years. With the make up washed away, signs of preteen acne scared her round face. Martha's last photograph. Unflattering.

The autopsy report revealed the cause of death as a stab of the heart. Unfortunately for Martha it was not the first wound to have been rendered. The examiner had determined that the majority of the inflictions had been cased by a simple pocket knife which was focused on her female anatomy; she had also been gored in her lungs, liver, stomach and spleen. The second instrument - a small dagger.

Bruising suggested strangulation, but they were inconclusive in relating to the murder. They may have been the result of a rough sexual exchange that had occurred earlier in the evening, prior to her demise. They had collected several swabs, which still had yet to be processed by the lab. Unfortunately, they had not been able to obtain a clean print off of Martha at any of the points of contact.

No signs of prescription drugs or illegal substances in her system and her blood alcohol level showed that she was well beyond the point of intoxication. The small collection of belongings that had been removed from her person were also still awaiting analysis. Unfortunately Martha practicing safe sex had ruled out any possible suspects.

There were no witnesses, and even the homeless man that had made the initial gruesome discovery was of little help. The park was a busy place, even in the late summer, with all the walking trails. There were no distinct treads and all the parking lots had been well disturbed.

Martha did have a record, a few counts of solicitation, some drunken disorderly and a few other things, more of a nuisance than anything.

From what Ron had gathered about Martha's life, it was sad. She had two grown boys, who lived far away and from the conversation he had with them, they hadn't seen her in years. Nor were they overly shocked or upset by her death. She had had them as a teenager, neither knew their father, and from what he had gathered, she was hardly a reliable figure in their lives.

She had married once, but it had only lasted a short while. Now in her late thirties she relied on social assistance and prostitution to make ends meet.

***

Ron runs his fingers through his hair. It was a habit he had picked up after he quit smoking. His wife swore that it is causing his hair to thin, she is probably right, but that is still better than lung cancer.

He looks through the crime scene photographs again. Trees, grass and garbage on the shore bank. Then there is Martha.

The body was recumbent with the arms laying posed by the side. The fingers clenched, digging into the fats of the palm, as if even in death trying to pull her mind away from the pain. Her hair a mess of brown matted clumbs lay strewn around her head. Martha's face, ominously devoid of emotion. The majority of her torso had been brutally attacked. The legs were drawn up and spread in a suggestive fashion. And yet, although her skirt was hiked up, Ron did not feel that any of her sexual encounters had occurred from her attacker.

While the event felt personal, there was nothing in her apartment that led him to believe there was anyone in her life. The pictures she had of her sons were from long ago, the corners tattered and faded. There was no food in the fridge, or cupboards, and the place was filthy. The furniture, dated and worn, fit the overall feel of the apartment. The orange floral drapes that hung limply from curtain rods were pulled closed casting a strange color over the room. There were no covers on any of the light fixtures and the bulbs let out a quiet hum, filling the silence.

In the middle of the room, sat a pulled out couch staring at the empty space where a television should sit. A wooden coffee table set off to the side acted as the only surface to rest belongings. With a small kitchenette and even tinier bathroom, the living space summed up Martha's totality.

The worst was the smell. Ron had encountered that very smell several times throughout his career, and while he could never really put an exact finger on what it was, he had decided long ago that it was what giving up must smell like. When he had been going through her residence, he was ever the more certain that he was correct on that assumption.

Ron stares through the pages over and over again, trying to piece together what had happened. From canvassing the area, he was able to piece together that she had gone to a few of her favorite bars, had not stayed long and for the most part was already drunk upon arrival.

Intrepid Park was not on her route home, so Ron had figured that she had gotten picked up sometime after last call and before 2:15 AM. No one recalled her leaving any of her favorite locales with anyone or seeing her get into a car. Martha was just one of those people that everyone loved to forget.

The attack had been vicious but methodical and exact. Five minutes was all it took to do that damage. "Five minutes, maybe ten - there was some skill and definite intent, regardless of how disorganized it initially looked." The examiner had shrugged.

There was not much sign of a struggle, so either Martha had trusted her attacker or she had just given up. Ron thought how sad it must be if the latter was the case. He had talked to neighbors, acquaintances, even her ex and there was no one in her circle that he liked for it.

In his gut, which Ron had learned to trust over the years, he knows there is something that he is missing, but he just did not seem to know what. There is a message in all of this - but what?

***

With the passing days Ron spent fewer and fewer hours staring at the file. What had consumed him now took a backseat to other crimes that were happening. Crimes with leads.

It went from hours a day, to a few hours a week and to help him feel less guilty about ignoring the file, he started to chalk it up to a transaction gone bad, and that eventually they would pick this guy up for something else or someone would confess.

All the lab results had come back inconclusive. The only contributor they could pull had been Martha herself.

And while it had been a sensational news story at first, after a week even the reporters stopped calling. New, more important and scary things were happening. Things that could happen to everyday people and not just hookers.

With no family that cared, the case just got filed away.

It took less than two weeks and it was as if Martha had never existed.

A/N: Thank you for reading. This is the 3rd revision to this section and I have taken the critiques I have received to date into consideration. Based on that I have changed the title and upon review I have added some more details to help develop and guide the story.