Reaper

“Step back now please,” said the police officer. He shuffled forward with his palms raised, pushing the curious crowd back across the white painted line of the parking space. “There’s really nothing to see here.”

“But sir,” said one of the onlookers. “I know that girl.”

“Which one,” the cop asked quietly.

“The one on top.”

“How can you tell? She’s face-down?”

“I recognize her tattoo. I inked her myself.”

“Step under the tape please,” offered the cop, lifting the yellow plastic crime scene ribbon. “MacPherson!” called the cop over his shoulder. “Talk to this man.”

“I know her,” the bystander repeated to MacPherson across the bodies of two naked women – a blonde on top and a brunette on her back underneath.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Reaper,” said the man. “First name Grim.”

MacPherson widened his stance. “And what’s your real name?”

“That is my real name,” said Reaper.

MacPherson shook his head. “Okay fine. So how do you know her?”

“I tattooed the knife in her back.”

MacPherson looked down at the body. The hilt of a knife was, indeed, tattooed on the woman’s lower left shoulder, the point appearing to have been plunged into her body.

The coroner stepped up to give his orders.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s lift her.”

Four investigators, two at the blonde’s shoulders and two at her hips, attempted to lift her.

“She’s stuck,” said one of the investigators.

The coroner crouched and lifted the woman’s left shoulder a few inches. “What the…” whispered the coroner.

MacPherson turned back to see Reaper grinning. “It’s a damned good tattoo even if I do say so myself.”

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