The body lay, partially in the tall grass along the highway. She lay, face up, eyes open. Only her legs were in the grass, most of her torso was laying on the paved shoulder of Illinois Route 57. It was just after dawn, there were mists still undisturbed in the farm fields that flanked the ribbon of concrete that left Chicago and wormed its way south, closer and closer to Memphis. The towns that lined the road were like pearls in a long gray necklace. Before the interstate, Route 45 performed the same duties and as often happens this road shared many on and off ramps for the entire length.
It was spring. Warm for a late April day and it had rained a bit earlier. The body lay there uncaring, naked. The young ladies eyes, grayed with death, reflected the flashing of at least fifty flashing roof lights of various Law Enforcement vehicles as well as ambulances and a Crime Scene Investigations van from the Illinois State Police. People milled about seemingly in chaos, but if one observed long enough there was a rhyme, a reason, and a macabre dance to it all.
On man watched. He leaned on his open door using the roof with his right arm and the top of the door with his left to rest. He leaned there, in the clamshell hinge of his car.
Lt. Detective Rob or Corman was the watcher. He had been there at the scenes before. He had been to these scenes before, and had six, maybe seven years more to attend. In the State Police, one didn’t often get this kind of killing, but, that’s what he was there for. Bob Gorman watched, wind gently washing across his rugged face, blowing his tie to one side, even with the protection of the car. His thinning, brown hair sported just enough grays to make him look distinguished, but not old. He could stand to lose twenty-five, maybe even thirty pounds, but he carried the extra well. As he watched, a younger, lighter-haired and lighter weighted man broke away from a discussion with the CSI lead investigator and walked to where Gorman leaned.
“What we got?” Gorman asked.
“Well she’s dead, W-F, late twenties.” Detective William “Sandy” Sanderson, used all the jargon, as most did. The initials confirming White Female. The age fit a profile. Every detail allowed investigators to begin to draw a picture. The choreographed ballet over the dead, was nearly the same everyplace. Every murder scene had it similarities.
There it is. This may be the begining. It is certainly a scene...