Dot

By Marylou Roseman

DOT

Two teenagers discover the body of a young female lying over a sheet of snow in a residential area near the Shawmut train station. The young woman is the first victim of a string of distinctive murders that leaves almost no clues to the police. Dorchester is densely populated, but even so, the killer remains unnoticed.
The investigators purposefully select a different approach to conduct the investigation, but their methodology fails, the body count continues rising, and the analysis becomes more complex. Although the sinister perpetrator leaves his deliberate personal stamp on the bodies, he leaves no clues. His gruesomely unique signature puzzles the authorities, and they become very concerned with the unfamiliar patterns.
The killer's evilness is too ruthless, with many wicked things listed against him, but quite apart from his crimes, he hides a secret, almost as heinous. Who is he, so discreet as to be invisible but a real threat spreading terror across the vast region? What message does he leave behind? What motive does he have for committing such acts like these? The unexpectedly terrifying answers will send a chill down your spine and surely will be something you will ponder over for a long time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marylou Roseman
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224247721

Marylou Roseman

Marylou emigrated from Brazil and has lived in Massachusetts for the past thirty-two years. It is common for those who start writing poems and short stories at a young age to develop an interest in writing a book. Marylou had a story to tell; before she knew it, she had written the first draft of her first book. She is excited to share Three Inch Nails with the world and is already working on her second book, Dot.

Book preview

Prologue

T

he Shawmut train station was more than about journeys and destinations for a tall, slender man. A few minutes at the quiet transportation facility were precious for him since he was a predator looking to catch easy prey on that wintry night.

Due to its isolated location, Shawmut was presumably the least used area of ​​the train station on the subway system by people living in the surrounding neighborhoods, including the tall man. Those facts contributed to his spatial decision-making; he didn’t have to travel far, and fewer people could recognize him, especially at night.

As the train got closer to the platform, it rumbled. The brakes hissed and screeched when the long string of big metal cars, rattling at the couplings, slowed down to a stop.

As soon as the train came to a complete stop, the doors opened, and the passengers walked out quickly, covering their faces with their hands, trying to shield the frigid wind. Preoccupied with reaching their destinations, they failed to notice the tall man with a black ski mask covering his face, watching them unobtrusively, blending in with them in inevitable normality.

After most people had already left for their microcosm neighborhoods of the megalopolis, the tall man remained in the wet, cold, and gray train station, almost empty. He walked to a dimly lit corner with his head down, seemingly content—perhaps because train stations offered him an expressive relationship with death—complementary to other things the charming Boston could provide him.

A few minutes later, the tall man heard footsteps approaching. He instinctively raised his head to observe a young woman walking in a supple, feminine way toward the corner where he stood, oblivious to his presence. He watched her put her backpack down, struggling to fix a blanket that fell from its straps. He looked around with mock disinterest and scanned the area before crouching to aid his promising victim.

The woman looked startled, exhaling a cloud of steam from her breath. She glared at the tall man’s eyes exposed through the opening of his headwear, and his eyes, bright but inanimate, had a significant effect on her; she trembled in fear.

Suddenly, the figure of a man, the last passenger, loomed out of the darkness and approached them. The tall man, afraid of being caught before he could fulfill his purpose, smiled at the stranger, and the woman grabbed the blanket from his hand and hurried away, disappearing farther into the station.

Just after the last passenger left the platform, the tall man watched the train scrapping its feet on the rails and setting off, stretching out on the tracks, disappearing into the wintry night, making an increasing chugging sound, the horn sounding like a sorrowful call in the night, mingled with the loud rumble of its tracks.

Frustrated and angry about his unsuccessful hunting, the tall man snarled, showing his teeth and quickly repeating jaw movements. He didn’t wear gloves or a scarf, and his leather jacket and thin trousers couldn’t keep his core body temperature up that night. However, it seemed like he felt the cold mainly on his face and feet since he wore a ski mask and snow boots. A flurry of wind chill from the northwest whipped heavy snowflakes against him, but he only trembled a little. He stood still, staring into the night, silently repeating the short words, Dot, dot, dot, which he borrowed from the children of Dorchester, simulating the noisy train wheels over the tracks. Observing snowflakes falling wasn’t longer appealing, so he walked into the station.

The automated ticket machines were silent, and the usual turnstiles were empty. Shawmut, the only underground station on the Red Line, was a place for the homeless population to take refuge, primarily to protect themselves from the coldest nights of the year. That night, the handicap accessible, with an elevator from the street level, seemed vacant if it wasn’t for the shadows of two homeless men in the corner, lying sprawled on the tile floors, sharing a dirty, torn blanket. One man had his hooded sweatshirt drawn over his face, and the other drank alcohol from a dirty container.

The homeless men didn’t notice the tall man comfortably walking near them, squeaking his boots on the tile floor, quietly repeating, Dot, dot, dot, unable to forbear the need to say those fixated words. He could shout at the top of his lungs, and no soul could hear him except for the two homeless men. Minutes later, he strolled out of the small brick building and noticed a fierce blizzard looming on the horizon. As his tall shadow dissipated on the well-lit pedestrian walkway, he intrusively disappeared into the night.

The dim lights cast blurry shadows over the sheet of white snow when the tall man reappeared in the parking lot. The snow continuously fell in a mournful silence broken only by the swoosh sound of his boots. With his bare hands, he uncovered the letters of a sign almost buried under the snowflakes and read silently, Do not leave valuables in your car.

The snow continued to fall, increasing the height of the white blanket on the ground. The tall man stood, gazing into the darkness, apathetic to the rest of the world, not burdened with the utmost weight of the heavy snow falling over his head and shoulder. Only after the icy wind had caught the last air from his lungs did he enter his car, and his breathing rate became slow and steady as he observed the snow pounding against the windshield. He took his phone out of his pants pocket and checked the weather. Soon, the blizzard, expected to last until late at night, would cause the trains to stop inside the tunnels due to electronic failures, but that didn’t worry him. He turned the car engine and turned the heater on, waiting for his windshield to warm up and defrost, stoically appreciating the quietness until scattered trucks began plowing the snow from the roads. He continued driving along various roads he knew well, intending to quench his thirst to kill as the snow continued to fall, covering the quaint, serene Shawmut neighborhood. In his wanderings, the tall man looked for people alone in the night to make irrefutable promises—as that was how he recruited his victims. Still, there was no one on the cold, snow-covered streets, which he had deep affection and reverence for because that was where he could find people he could kill.

Suddenly, at a distance, a female figure slowly walked through the heavy snow, appearing to be alone. The woman stopped to look at her phone screen, and when she started walking again, she fell flat on her face in the snow. The tall man got out of his car and slowly walked toward the woman, who, for him, would be easy prey, but as soon as he saw a car approaching to pick her up, he returned to his vehicle shrieking. He drove away slowly with gusts of wind swirling a mass of heavy flakes toward his windshield. The snowplows hadn’t cleared all the roads yet, but he continued driving in hazardous conditions until his car skidded and he nearly got into an accident. To avoid a disaster, he parked his car on a quiet street and waited for the plows to continue the cleaning before he could get behind the wheel again. Then, he resumed driving slowly through the pitch-black night, admiring the architecture combining old and modern styles illuminated by the city lights.

Finally, the tall man entered an empty parking lot of a large building that stood dark on the quiet avenue. That night, the hunting for a victim was too disappointing, but he blinked his thoughts away because he would have more victims than he could manage. Soon enough, his savage killings would make headlines on the local news—sadly announcing another person murdered by him. But for that moment, he had to get safely into the building, a place that could provide him with a welcoming rest. He left his car and could barely walk over the heavy snow. Nobody was there, just dark shadows on a snowy night—and no one could ever swear to have seen him. He struggled to keep from slipping as he walked on the heavy snow toward the back door and disappeared inside. The following day, he got up early and left the building with the black ski mask covering his face, and staggered into the cold, filling his lungs to most total capacity, gazing at the white snow still falling peacefully over the avenue, and then, like a languorous hedgehog that had been in hibernation too long, he strolled to the coffee shop across the street as people began moving in an erratic rush to their jobs.

Chapter One––––––––The Pathway Jane Doe

T

he snow had been falling all night, and the temperature was cold enough to make one’s teeth chatter. Still, daybreak couldn’t come soon enough for A.J. and Devon. The teenagers rose early and raced each other to the kitchen. They were hungry but couldn’t find breakfast, and A.J. knocked on his mother’s door for a minute or two. Getting no answer, he returned to the kitchen, grabbing a few slices of pizza from the large flat box left on the counter a night before.

There’s no way my mom is gonna let us go out, so we should leave before she awakes.

Are you sure? Devon muttered, concerned.

Don’t wuss out. Take some pizza, A.J. whispered.

The boys gobbled their pizza in silence, then put their boots on and grabbed their jackets, defiantly storming out of the house just before A.J.’s mother came out of her room.

A.J.! she shouted. Getting no response, she went to her son’s room and, seeing it empty, she screamed furiously, Not again!

Outside, the snow fell in heavy, thick flakes, blotching out the sky and covering the ground, but for the boys, that was an occasion for fun and laughter. They wrestled around on the ground in a snowball fight until the packed snow from Devon’s hand accidentally hit the side window of a car driving by.

Crap! That’s Mr. Gonzales, A.J. yelled, seizing Devon’s arm and leading him toward a passage that separated a classic Victorian house and a multi-family home. Like most houses on the street, the two places, devoid of their original charm and glory, testified to their ancient past. The once-leafed trees were bare in the small front yard covered by the snow. When the snow became sufficiently thick, it began to fall due to a combination of gravity and pressure, showing the branches stark and sinister, like the tendrils of some mythical creature.

As the boys’ gaze wandered over the passage covered by snow, they craned forward to look more clearly and saw a woman fully dressed lying on the cold ground. The last flakes of snow that had just fallen covered most of her lifeless body, indicating that she had been in the same position for a while.

She’s dead! shouted the teenage friends in unison. They had a dreadful impression that the woman was dead because her body was immobile. United in one fright, they rushed back, shivering on their way back home, slipping and falling on the snow to notify A.J.’s mother, and she quickly informed the authorities.

Someone else must have found the dead woman because, within minutes, three police cruisers with blasting sirens and warning lights cleared a path through a large crowd lined up on the street—which, regardless of the cold—thronged from every direction standing in petrifaction, looking at the body in its eternal expiration.

The police declared the passageway between the two houses a crime scene and roped it off to prevent unauthorized people from entering the area and potentially contaminating it. They correctly positioned their patrol units to keep the traffic away, allowing only emergency vehicles or residents to come through.

It seems like the scene has been preserved; the body seems untouched. Make all these people go home while I call the station, Detective Mark Fray said, prompting the two other officers to wave their hands, yelling to the crowd to leave.

The still-bachelor middle-aged Detective Fray had a large body and a permanent blush on his round cheeks. His cheeks looked like two small balloons inflating and deflating as he strained to breathe. Fray was square-built and tall. Despite his weight, he was incredibly determined; when he couldn’t proceed walking fast, he took the time to catch his breath and continued moving. He had a distinct sense of humor and a constant smile on his fleshy lips.

One by one, people began drifting through the snowy street with their heads and spirits down, clinging to anguish. Some were sobbing—sad and shocked.

After all the curious people had left, Detective Fray crouched down to examine the body.

A hooded sweatshirt was covering the victim’s face. She wore a heavy jacket, blue jeans, pink sneakers, and black knit gloves covering her hands.

Detective Fray carefully removed the sweatshirt and uncovered the woman’s pale face with gloved hands. He saw black duct tape with printed white skulls covering the victim’s mouth with visible streaks of blood on the chin. It seemed like the killer tried to hush the victim forever.

The woman had dark hair and was wearing a pair of thick-framed eyeglasses, which Fray removed carefully. He opened her eyelids, exposing a deep set of green eyes. He closed her eyelids and continued his observations.

It seems like the killer removed and carefully replaced her eyeglasses after he caused injury to her mouth because the glasses are free from drops or smudges of blood. I better not remove the tape from her mouth to preserve any DNA evidence.

I see signs of strangulation on the neck, One of the officers noticed. After searching the victim’s pockets, he found nothing that might have led to her identification.

Detective Fray’s phone rang, and he stepped away to answer the call.

Detective McCarthy just called. He said he had just arrived from Pennsylvania last night and had to stop by the station. Don’t make any mistakes. Write every detail down precisely, Fray instructed the officers.

Detective Phillip McCarthy was an efficient and committed professional with high expectations for his performance. He had barely arrived and was still tired from the trip, but he went to the crime scene to oversee an investigation that would change his life. He joined the case’s team while the forensic photographer took dozens of photos to create scientific photography records of the crime scene.

McCarthy was a forty-year-old detective transferred from Pennsylvania to replace a retired homicide detective. Tall and handsome, McCarthy was slender but well-built. He had thick black hair cut close to his strong head, which framed his perfectly symmetrical face. His brown eyes showed luminosity and perception.

Call a team of officers to help scour the area for any potential suspect, McCarthy ordered the officers. The three cruisers left quickly, blasting the sirens and warning lights, and the hunt was on.

McCarthy helped Fray continue the painstaking examination, tagging and logging all potential evidence, packaging it carefully to remain intact on its way to the crime lab. After they collected all the evidence and the first-responding officers documented every action and movement in writing, they stayed at the scene waiting for the Medical Examiner headquarters staff to remove the body and take it to the morgue.

Please, officers, I beg you to show her face to me. I’m afraid this is my sister, a small voice came from behind, in great distress.

McCarthy turned around with a jerk just as the woman insisted, tears rolling down beneath her half-closed eyelids.

This is my sister Mary. Nobody has seen her for about two nights, and she doesn’t answer my calls.

I’m sorry, ma’am, but we already prepared to remove the body. You can call me to arrange a visit to the morgue for body identification, where you’ll have an opportunity to see the body in a more formal and much calmer setting, McCarthy said softly, trying to ensure that the woman understood his information. He gave his card with his phone number to the woman. She seemed to understand but suddenly became combative, firmly resisting the officers’ attempts to keep her away from the body. During her struggle, her winter hat fell from her head, and one officer picked it up and handed it to her.

McCarthy was sensitive to the reactions and emotions of others in situations like that. He knew how to deal effectively with human responses.

Ma’am, we need to follow some protocols. If you don’t calm down, the officers can take you into custody for disturbing a crime scene, and I don’t want this to happen to you. I know your feelings, but you must calm down and go home. You have my phone number. We can fix this together.

McCarthy’s supportive and gentle words had successfully calmed the woman down. Her body loosened, her voice lowered, and she spoke more rationally.

Okay... I’m sorry. I feel guilty for how I behaved.

No need to apologize, ma’am. Your behavior is acceptable, and thanks for your understanding.

The woman left quietly. No matter how complicated the situation, McCarthy showed his ability to perform the task calmly.

Hours later, McCarthy hurriedly entered the left side of a small gray duplex surrounded by identical duplexes.

With a handmade arm sling immobilizing his injured arm, A.J. waited with his mother in the hallway.

I’m Phillip McCarthy, a homicide detective with the Boston Police Department, said the detective to the woman, holding up his badge in a lanyard around his neck. Your son and his friend discovered the body of a female this morning. For the record—because your son is a minor—would you please state your name?

Shanice Jones. Come on in and have a seat, said the woman, looking at the detective’s short haircut, sparsely covered by snowflakes.

The detective removed his notepad from his pocket and advanced to the sofa, which stood against the wall.

Shanice had short legs that caused her to shuffle when walking. She paced in the living room, agitated.

My son, A.J., was playing with his friend, Devon, and they both saw the body, Shanice said, pointing out to the young man on the sofa. A.J., tell the detective everything.

A.J., please tell me your full name, McCarthy asked, beginning to write the details of the conversation on his notepad.

Antwan Jackson Jones, but please call me A.J. My friend, Devon, came to visit me... as a true Southie friend does when his best friend breaks his arm, replied the young man.

A.J. was tall and skinny, with dark, fiery eyes. On the other hand, Devon was short and chunky, and his eyes lacked brightness. The detective noticed Devon voluntarily nodding while listening to A.J.

What happened to your arm?

I fell in the snow while running back home after we found the dead lady.

Sorry to hear that. It would help if you took A.J. to the emergency room, Mrs. Jones, to make sure the bone didn’t break, advised the detective.

A.J. didn’t fall. When he disobeys, he makes excuses to avoid punishment. He got the arm sling from a friend, I suppose. He knows he isn’t allowed to go outside in the cold because he easily gets a sore throat, Shanice said, disappointed.

Okay, A.J., McCarthy said, laughing at the boy’s apparent mischief.

What do you want to know, sir?

First, I’ll ask you a few questions, and then I’ll question your friend. Tell me what happened since you left home this morning with your friend.

Go ahead, son. Tell the detective all the details. Just like you told me, Shanice ordered, apprehensive.

Me and Devon couldn’t sleep this morning because the guy next door was yelling at his wife, so we got up and walked down the street, and we see this woman in between the two houses. First, we thought it was someone just playing, enjoying the snow. We were loud, and the closer we got, we saw she wasn’t moving at all. I yelled: Hello, are you okay? But there was no answer."

Did you see her face? How did you know it was a woman lying on the snow?

No, sir. She had her face covered with a hoodie, but her shoes looked girly pink. Also, we saw her jug mounds, A.J. said, laughing nervously, showing off the whiteness of his teeth.

Then, you ran back here and told your mom what you saw, and she called the police.

Right!

Thanks, A.J. Now is your turn, Devon. Tell me every detail, something else that A.J. forgot to mention, queried the detective, observing Shanice slightly disapproving of A.J.’s demeanor.

Sir, I remember something else. There was this white truck, and the driver was inside looking suspicious—

That was Mr. Gonzales, dumb ass. He leaves down the street, and he is no suspicious, A.J. said, smacking Devon’s head with the injured arm. The Velcro fastener wasn’t sticky any longer, and the sling came off A.J.’s arm. His mother grabbed the sling and gazed at him, expressing her disapproval.

The detective looked at A.J. with a bit of censure in his brown eyes, and Devon shrieked.

Please contain yourself, Devon, and continue with your statement, said the detective, placing the palm of his hand flat across the face in a gesture of frustration.

That wasn’t a lot of snow over the dead woman’s body.

Good observation, Devon, said the detective, recalling foot tracks deep into the heavy snow next to the body, indicating that the killer must have killed the victim elsewhere and dragged her, dumping her body into the space between the houses.

What time did you think you and A.J. found the body?

I don’t know. Around eight o’clock?

Thank you, Devon. Mrs. Jones, I appreciate the information these young men have with me. If there is anything else they can remember—even if you think it’s unimportant—please, don’t hesitate to contact me, McCarthy said, handing his card to Shanice.

As the detective left the apartment, he could hear Mrs. Jones loudly lecturing the two boys. He knocked on the door of the right-side unit, and an elderly man opened the door, inviting the detective to enter.

I’m Detective Phillip McCarthy from Boston Police. I’m investigating a murder in the area.

Holding a walking cane, the elderly man shakily walked to the sofa and sat beside a woman as old as he was. The woman slumped her head weakly against his shoulder.

My husband is hard of hearing, and I never leave him alone, so we barely leave the apartment, clearly informed the lady. While she spoke, her husband held her hand and looked at her face, showing devotion and appreciation.

You must have someone to help you keep your home this clean, asked the detective.

My oldest daughter comes twice a week to bring groceries, medicines, and other things we need, like doing laundry and cleaning the apartment, said the lady with a comforting smile.

The old couple couldn’t provide any meaningful information but kept the detective’s ears busy, recalling blissful moments of their past in vivid detail. The detective wanted to leave to take care of his responsibilities. Still, he stayed for a while, processing the positive information, just listening to the couple’s stories of love and happiness, in a strong connection only found in everlasting relationships. He left the duplex in a state of enjoyment provided by the interlude between his commitment to his job and the sense of tranquility the couple provided. He strolled down the street back to where the teenage boys discovered the body, hoping to encounter someone braving the chilly winter.

The temperature was approximately twenty degrees Fahrenheit. McCarthy walked fast, feeling the pressure exerted by his boots, and could hear the squishing sound coming from under the sole of his shoes. That chilly morning was quiet except for a murder of crows making noise, about to descend from the bared-limbed trees.

A man, carrying a backpack, binoculars, and a notebook, waved to the detective. As the detective approached the man, he introduced himself.

Hi. Peter Walker. I’m an ornithologist from the Fisheries and Wildlife Division.

Hi. Detective McCarthy from the Boston Police Department.

I work in the laboratory processing data with computers in an office setting. Sometimes, I conduct field research to understand the migration routes of birds. To gather data and study these birds in their natural habitats, I must travel on foot and expose myself to various weather conditions. How can I help you? said the ornithologist, struggling with the frosty winter air whipping his face.

I’m investigating the case of a Jane Doe found nearby this morning. Have you seen anything unusual—any suspicious person around the area?

Nothing that had struck me as strange. I have been here since seven this morning. When the cold becomes unbearable, I enter my car parked down the street and put the heater on. I didn’t see a soul. In this weather, people stay inside, said the ornithologist promptly.

Yeah. I was surprised to see you out here. I think I’ll go back to the office before I freeze to death. You have warm clothes designed for your job; I don’t, McCarthy said, cupping his gloved hands together and blowing into them.

I think it’s time for me to quit. Enjoy the rest of your day, Detective, said the ornithologist, arranging his equipment into his backpack.

McCarthy approached Detective Fray’s office and saw the door ajar, just wide enough to show Fray’s large body and round, blushed cheeks. He didn’t seem well because his shaking hands dropped the newspaper as he turned the pages. McCarthy entered the room and bent down to pick the newspaper up and noticed two swelling ankles squeezed beneath his colleague’s pants hem.

What do you think, McCarthy? Fray asked calmly, with a smile as fat as his face.

Huh? McCarthy muttered.

About the case of the Pathway Jane Doe, as the victim should be known based on the site where those kids found her body.

The Pathway Jane Doe... Although I am used to situations like this, I’m saddened when a woman’s remains are sent to a lonely morgue. Strangely, the killer left her in a strictly residential neighborhood like he wanted someone to discover her body, but he killed her elsewhere, probably far away. It seems like he positioned her body after murdering her, suggesting disposal of the body as something ritualistic or specifically thought out. Usually, that indicates that this case isn’t an isolated incident. I feel like this isn’t the first time the killer has committed a murder, and it wouldn’t be the last, McCarthy conjectured.

So, this’s the work of a serial killer, Fray concluded.

Yes. The killer wants to maintain the woman’s identity a secret, at least for a while, to keep us guessing. It will benefit us to discover his identity by learning the rules of his game. This guy is an arrogant narcissist. I say guy because this is the work of a man. Dorchester is a large neighborhood. We are going to search for a needle in a haystack.

Dot is Boston’s largest and most diverse neighborhood, but it isn’t more dangerous than the other communities; in fact, we have seen a drop in crimes of burglary, robbery, and aggravated assault for the past three years. We have more crimes, but the population here is way more extensive, so we have fewer crimes per capita than elsewhere. We’re used to seeing all kinds of crimes, but this one seems different. Sadly, I must agree with you; we must catch this guy before he kills again.

I left my home state with great sadness, but I think my family and I will feel at home here. There are perceptible crimes in the area, but it doesn’t seem to impact people much because it provides a good life quality. You find an abundance of valuable, amazing things to do. I can’t wait to take my wife and kids to the Faneuil Hall, New England Aquarium, museums, and parks.

Don’t forget the Boston Marathon, Fray said, holding up his chin to signal pride in his birth town.

Absolutely! That’s all my kids talk about, McCarthy responded, sharply focusing on Fray’s face, agreeing appropriately with his colleague.

How was your life as a homicide detective in Philadelphia?

Philadelphia is perhaps the most surprisingly dangerous big city in America. I have been a fifteen-year veteran of the force, but I have much to learn about Boston despite my experience. I started my law enforcement career as a correctional officer for five years and was promoted to detective. I’m an experienced homicide detective—with adequate training, but I’m not looking for acceptance and recognition based on my virtues. I’m not qualified alone; I’m a member of a team of investigators, and I should work as one, McCarthy said humbly.

You think wisely, Detective. We should maintain a straightforward balance between self-interest and equal opportunities, and we can achieve that if we work together.

One of the reasons I was happy to be transferred to Boston was that I was tired of the ego-based disagreements with other detectives. I tried to remain neutral, but they always got me involved—and I always found myself entangled.

We are short-staffed due to the exodus of vets from the police, and we greatly appreciate your arrival.

Well, I have spoken enough about myself. Let’s plan our next move, McCarthy concluded, and the two detectives returned to work, involving each other diligently in the Pathway Jane Doe case.

The following day, Homicide Captain Brian Arcand met with the investigators to give them specific orders.

The captain was a local citizen unequivocally dedicated to his work. The pink, rosy glow on his face intensified his silver hair. He seemed to be not older than fifty, but horizontal groves on his forehead gave his face an austere appearance. That day, he appeared intransigent; a deep frown developed on his forehead, and a powerful brightness filled his deep blue eyes. He remained serious as he spoke, rubbing his silver mustache vigorously.

The autopsy of the Pathway Jane Doe would take two to four days to perform before the results could be released. We should purposefully work fast to be ahead of the killer’s game. I looked at the map, a brick building a bit far but with a direct line of sight to the crime scene. Before the autopsy results are released, you must go to the building and question the residents. Perhaps someone saw something. It’s essential to enter every unit. If any resident puts up resistance, call me immediately. Interview all tenants and write a report, including their first and last names. Then, ask each of them to provide a solid alibi for the time of the murder. It’s a small complex, so it shouldn’t take too much of your time, commanded the captain, looking directly toward McCarthy’s face.

I saw the building but don’t remember its location well. Fray can help me, as he is familiar with the area. Once we receive the complete autopsy report, we can start the identification process and piece together the Pathway Jane Doe’s last movements to get an accurate account of who she had been with before her death. Also, we can immediately commission a behavior profile of the killer based on the autopsy findings, McCarthy suggested.

Yes. This way, we can accelerate the speed of this investigation, Captain Arcand said in agreement, and McCarthy and Fray left immediately, heading to the building near the crime scene.

The first person questioned was an elderly widow, abandoned by her family, who occupied her time exploiting others’ emotions. She undoubtedly tried to help, but not before McCarthy and Fray, in exchange, answered questions about their lives.

Are you married? she asked McCarthy.

Yes, ma’am.

Any children?

I got four children.

"Wow, you’re a busy man. Are you married, too? She asked Fray.

I’m single and have no children. Sorry, ma’am, but we need to rush to interview other residents, Fray muttered before the lady held them hostage with her gossipy narrative.

Oliver Gaston. Apartment twelve. He’s a very strange man, whispered the woman, her eyes quickly moving as she stared at the detectives’ faces.

What do you mean, Mrs.... sorry, I didn’t get your name, Fray said, smiling.

Call me Bea. Brian is self-taught but a good mechanic, certainly the most recommended in the neighborhood. If I had a car, I would trust him to fix it. He works in his own business, a workshop proudly carrying the family surname. The cuticles of his large fingernails are always greasy due to the constant work necessary to him, giving him the means to feed his wife and five children, but I hear him yelling and screaming at them all the time. It seems they’re afraid of him, especially the wife, that poor woman, always looking sad.

Thank you, Bea, McCarthy said, leaving, and Fray followed him to Gaston’s apartment.

When the officers knocked on the door, Gaston let them in and told his wife to leave the living room. The kids weren’t home. Gaston told the detectives that he didn’t hear anything unusual except the loud music some foreign tenants tended to listen to in their language.

Detective, if you want, I can provide a sample of my saliva, sperm, or skin if you find any of these on the victim. Then, you can compare my DNA with the killer’s, Gaston said, winking at McCarthy.

You can also provide clippings of your hair, McCarthy replied, noticing Gaston’s calm demeanor changing; his fists clenched.

That’s a violation of my human rights! The only people allowed to touch my hair are my barber, my kids, and my wife.

That’s not necessary for now, Mr. Gaston, Fray said, interchanging a suspicious glance with McCarthy. We’re only interviewing people now, but I advise you to come to the station to finish the interview. If you don’t show up within twenty-four hours, we’ll knock on your door again.

As the officers left Gaston’s apartment, they heard him mumbling something. The feminine voice of his wife slowly molded and garbled, too far away for the words to be intelligible.

For the following days, the detectives questioned every resident in the area concomitantly and interviewed all in-depth—but no one showed suspicious behavior. All residents were outspoken and cooperative, not afraid to get involved in the investigation, characteristically not the norm of thought and practice of Dorchester’s residents in general. There were no relevant leads to assist the investigators in the expeditious identification and apprehension of the offender responsible for the Pathway Jane Doe murder. Even with the local community’s help, they uncovered no clues; the evidence was not there to declare they had a suspect.

The next day, the police wrote up an interim final report on the murder of the Pathway Jane Doe. She wasn’t known to the neighborhood, confirming McCarthy’s suspicions that the killer dumped her body in the area after he killed her elsewhere.

No one had ever used the area around the site to discard human remains. The community became troubled by the disturbing incident. Although that victim wasn’t part of the neighborhood, the residents sadly reciprocated that it could be their daughter, sister, mother, or friend.

As days turned to weeks, the fear factor in the neighborhood rose significantly, and most women became terrified to leave home, especially at night.

Chapter Two––––––––The Distinctive Tattoo

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cCarthy left the homicide unit, and while walking to the men’s room, he received a brief phone call from the forensic medical examiner, Dr. Susan Dubinsky, stating that she wanted to discuss the Pathway Jane Doe findings