Jack Diddley - Chapter Three

Her eyes were strangely doll-like, lifeless. Dark pupils, dilated wide open, staring straight upward as if watching the slow-turning ceiling fan above her with intense curiosity. Pupils surrounded by almost supernatural looking, ice blue retinas. There was too much eyeliner, but it suited her. The sculpted eyebrows were perfect, with just enough light brown shadow below them, highlighting heavy lids. The whites of her eyes showed a hint of bloodshot, like she hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before. There were no blemishes, bruises, or marks of any kind on her flawless, alabaster white facial skin, save for the small entrance wound on the right temple. A small trickle of blood had run down the side of her face, past her ear pooling on the white tile floor of the bathroom. The wound was quite possibly from a .22 caliber weapon or small stabbing implement. It was as if she had just finished putting on her makeup for an evening on the town with some wealthy boyfriend or suitor. The eyeliner pencil was still in her manicured white hand, grasped by slender fingers with nails painted dark red, like the roses in the vase on her dressing table nearby.The polish matching the lipstick on her full lips. She wore no rings of any sort. There was a thin, gold braid necklace and ruby pendant lying on the floor by her left hand. It appeared to be broken. The dark purple, satin evening gown fit her hourglass figure perfectly. It was slightly low-cut at the neckline, revealing ample breasts. She appeared to be about 25 years old, Caucasian, long, wavy black hair...and those ice blue eyes.

I stood over her for a minute or two, stepping aside from time to time while the police photographer continued his chores. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was a pretty girl, not gorgeous, but very appealing in a Betty Paige pinup girl sort of way.

“What are you doing in here, Diddley?, the gruff male voice from behind me chided, “Take a hike!”

I turned around to see police Sergeant Elmore Wagner leaning against the door frame to the bathroom, arms crossed, that perpetual constipated look on his ruddy, unshaven face. He wore his usual cheap, corduroy Sears sport coat, unbuttoned, revealing a wrinkled white shirt and tie, covering a bulbous, keg-like belly that concealed his belt buckle. The tie only reached about halfway down his torso. The shirt collar was open revealing a fat, sweaty neck...he never could get that collar buttoned. His mismatched trousers appeared too long over the well-worn wing tips. Elmore was a 50-ish, unkempt fat cop with a full head of wavy, black hair always in need of a trim. The fingernails on his chubby little hands chewed down to the nubs. It seemed he was constantly biting his nails then spitting them out in your direction.

Uncrossing his arms, he pointed a plump index finger in my direction, “You...out!”

“C’mon, Elmo”, I responded, “Gimme a break. I’m just doing my job”.

“Your job? Your job?”, he questioned, “What job? You write shitty pulp fiction crime novels and articles for those Hollywood gossip rags”. His fat face instantly turning a deeper shade of red, thick-lidded eyes opening wider. If he wasn’t so fat, you would have been able to see veins popping out in his neck. “And stop calling me Elmo”, he scolded, “to you...I’m Sergeant Wagner!”

“All right, all right”, I said feigning concern, “how about Sergeant Elmo?”

“There’s the door, Diddley”, he ordered, “don’t touch anything on your way out!” He moved that plump index finger to his mouth and chewed off another piece of what was left of the nail. Then, turning his head to the side, spit it out. At least this time he didn’t aim it my direction I thought. Disgusting habit.

I slowly made my way past my favorite fat police sergeant, throwing him a little smirk and wink on the way by. He shook his shaggy haired head slightly then turned and walked into the bathroom. I stopped for a moment and looked back at the girl lying on the tile floor. I could still see those eyes staring up at the ceiling. The image reminded me of that night in Singapore twenty years earlier. She looked so much like the bar girl who met the same fate. Same dress. Same hair color. Same eyes, save for the fact that the Singapore girl’s eyes were almond-shaped....Asian. Ice blue, Asian eyes. I’ll never forget that.

(To be continued...)