isabella [h.s.]

three

**Praying to whatever is in heaven
please send me a felon
And don't let the police know
anything**

HARRY

I duck out of the car, already pulling up the collar of my black coat to protect myself from the drizzle that started just as I was driving here. The sky is dark and the air is cold, the skyscrapers that usually make up the New York skyline now lost among faded shades of black and grey, creating a somewhat eerie visual. The roads are slick with water, evidence of the previous rainfall earlier in the day, and I have to avoid the puddles as I make my way over to the crime scene cautioned off with yellow tape, the bright colour seeming out of place amidst the gloom.

Upon seeing me approach, Detective Powell walks over and lifts the caution tape to allow me through. Shauna Powell is a stern woman from Florida in her late forties, and she's worked in the NYPD for almost as long as I've been alive. Her blonde hair hinted with grey is tied up in its usual ponytail, her fringe occasionally falling into her eyes due to the wind. She's a heavy smoker and has been for years, which is rather evident by the whiff of tobacco she carries and the added wrinkles around her mouth. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen her go more than ten minutes without a cigarette between her lips.

"What've we got?" I ask after ducking under the tape, joining Powell's side as she leads me down an alley where the forensics team are already gathered in their white hazmat suits and masks. We have to dodge past one of them who's snapping pictures of the crime scene on their camera, my eyes squinting in response to the flash as we walk over to the body that's already been covered with a white sheet. If the bad weather didn't make the atmosphere sinister enough, a crime scene in an alley definitely does.

Crouching down, Powell lifts the sheet and carefully pulls on it until the head of the victim is revealed. Just as it always does, and probably always will, the sight of another dead body momentarily steals all the breath from my lungs. I often wonder if I'll ever get used to it.

"Andrea Sun, aged twenty-three," Powell suddenly tells me, snapping me back to reality as she briefs me on the victim. "Found with her ID on her, along with her driving licence and all her bank cards."

"Really?" I check, and when she nods, I feel my eyebrows furrowing at the rather unusual circumstances. It's very strange to find a murder victim with all their belongings still on them, especially when it's anything to do with finances, or anything with information about the victim that makes it easier for the police to identify them. Because once the victim is identified, we can start looking for the culprit, which obviously doesn't work well in their favour. "Potentially an amateur, then?"

"Looks like it," she nods. "It appears she was strangled, so possibly death by asphyxiation, but we'll need to wait for the autopsy to confirm. There are several lacerations on the neck, as you can see, and from the angle we're pretty sure she was attacked from behind and then strangled. Not sure what with, though."