know,” I said.
“You know?”
“Yeah, I saw your reflection in the driver’s window. Try not to smile when you’re feeding me b.s.”
“Oh, you’re a jerk,” she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We made a brief stop at the police station, met with a pair of officers that had worked the crime scene, and headed out. Beth and I followed Officers Murray and Nelson in their marked patrol cruiser to where Angela Wormack’s body had been found. The patrol car pulled to the side of the street in front of a two-story dark-brown home and turned in to a fenced-in parking lot on our right, which separated the home and a tavern. We pulled in behind the officers’ car and found a spot. I checked the time—we were right at 7:30 p.m.
Beth shut off the car, and we stepped out. I surveyed our surroundings. The tavern’s front entrance was directly before us. Next to the tavern was an insurance office, its entrance also facing the parking lot. I glanced to my right. The brown home we’d passed turning in sat horizontally to the parking lot while the garage off the back faced the lot. Farther down were another business and a duplex, both facing the parking lot.
“Kind of a weird arrangement,” I said.
“Yeah, with houses and businesses sharing a common center parking lot,” she said.
The two patrol officers stepped out of their cruiser. The driver, Nelson, was early thirties and looked as though he’d spent years in the gym. He wore a police-issue mustache and a dark-brown buzz cut. The passenger, Murray, looked to be late twenties and almost as fit as his partner. He was clean shaven, a set of dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. Both men wore Chicago PD uniforms consisting of a dark-blue tactical vest over a light-blue button-up shirt. Each man wore a Chicago PD baseball hat with a badge and checkered stripe embroidered on the front.
“Dumpster back by the Winnebago,” Nelson said. He jerked his chin toward an RV parked next to the duplex near the back of the parking lot.
The two patrol officers walked toward the Dumpster, and Beth and I followed.
The nineteen-seventies RV was a cream color with a tan bottom. An orange-and-yellow stripe ran down the side, forming a W at the front. On the far side of the RV sat a single green Dumpster. We approached.
“We were first on the scene,” Murray said. He pulled his sunglasses from his eyes and slipped them into the breast pocket of his tactical vest. “Right before our shift ended. Maybe fifteen minutes or so.”
“What time is that?” Beth asked.
“Shift ends at seven a.m., so six forty-five,” Nelson answered. “We got the call that someone found a body in the Dumpster. Arrived to the scene and met with the caller. Lives in the right side of the blue duplex there.” He pointed over to the home. “The guy says he was taking out the trash before work and saw the woman inside. He walks us over, and we confirm, in fact, that there is a deceased woman inside.”
“We called in our forensics team. They dusted the Dumpster and dug through what little contents were inside. Got nothing though,” Murray said.
“And none of the residents that live in the houses here”—I pointed—“or the business owners saw anything?”
“This is kind of its own contained area here. We spoke with each resident and business owner. Nobody saw anything,” Murray said.
“We even stopped in here around bar close the following night and asked the patrons and staff if they’d seen anything going on over here the night prior,” Nelson said. “Nothing.”
“No video in this lot anywhere?” Beth asked.
Neither replied but both shook their heads.
“We got into contact with the company that services the Dumpster. Their guy was here around ten a.m. the day prior to the resident finding the body. So we have about a twenty-hour window of when she could have been put in there. We thought we’d be able to trim that time frame down a bit when our guys dug through the couple bags of trash
“You know?”
“Yeah, I saw your reflection in the driver’s window. Try not to smile when you’re feeding me b.s.”
“Oh, you’re a jerk,” she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We made a brief stop at the police station, met with a pair of officers that had worked the crime scene, and headed out. Beth and I followed Officers Murray and Nelson in their marked patrol cruiser to where Angela Wormack’s body had been found. The patrol car pulled to the side of the street in front of a two-story dark-brown home and turned in to a fenced-in parking lot on our right, which separated the home and a tavern. We pulled in behind the officers’ car and found a spot. I checked the time—we were right at 7:30 p.m.
Beth shut off the car, and we stepped out. I surveyed our surroundings. The tavern’s front entrance was directly before us. Next to the tavern was an insurance office, its entrance also facing the parking lot. I glanced to my right. The brown home we’d passed turning in sat horizontally to the parking lot while the garage off the back faced the lot. Farther down were another business and a duplex, both facing the parking lot.
“Kind of a weird arrangement,” I said.
“Yeah, with houses and businesses sharing a common center parking lot,” she said.
The two patrol officers stepped out of their cruiser. The driver, Nelson, was early thirties and looked as though he’d spent years in the gym. He wore a police-issue mustache and a dark-brown buzz cut. The passenger, Murray, looked to be late twenties and almost as fit as his partner. He was clean shaven, a set of dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. Both men wore Chicago PD uniforms consisting of a dark-blue tactical vest over a light-blue button-up shirt. Each man wore a Chicago PD baseball hat with a badge and checkered stripe embroidered on the front.
“Dumpster back by the Winnebago,” Nelson said. He jerked his chin toward an RV parked next to the duplex near the back of the parking lot.
The two patrol officers walked toward the Dumpster, and Beth and I followed.
The nineteen-seventies RV was a cream color with a tan bottom. An orange-and-yellow stripe ran down the side, forming a W at the front. On the far side of the RV sat a single green Dumpster. We approached.
“We were first on the scene,” Murray said. He pulled his sunglasses from his eyes and slipped them into the breast pocket of his tactical vest. “Right before our shift ended. Maybe fifteen minutes or so.”
“What time is that?” Beth asked.
“Shift ends at seven a.m., so six forty-five,” Nelson answered. “We got the call that someone found a body in the Dumpster. Arrived to the scene and met with the caller. Lives in the right side of the blue duplex there.” He pointed over to the home. “The guy says he was taking out the trash before work and saw the woman inside. He walks us over, and we confirm, in fact, that there is a deceased woman inside.”
“We called in our forensics team. They dusted the Dumpster and dug through what little contents were inside. Got nothing though,” Murray said.
“And none of the residents that live in the houses here”—I pointed—“or the business owners saw anything?”
“This is kind of its own contained area here. We spoke with each resident and business owner. Nobody saw anything,” Murray said.
“We even stopped in here around bar close the following night and asked the patrons and staff if they’d seen anything going on over here the night prior,” Nelson said. “Nothing.”
“No video in this lot anywhere?” Beth asked.
Neither replied but both shook their heads.
“We got into contact with the company that services the Dumpster. Their guy was here around ten a.m. the day prior to the resident finding the body. So we have about a twenty-hour window of when she could have been put in there. We thought we’d be able to trim that time frame down a bit when our guys dug through the couple bags of trash
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