Twenty Dollar Post-Mortem

Crime Fiction by R.J. Butler

My first day in Homicide, and it rained.

Always a bad start.

Whitehaven looks like a city trying to kill itself but missing every time. The buildings lean away from each other, as if ashamed to be seen standing beside each other, as the brick rots and the windows sweat, the odor of shit rising, while the river downtown remains a putrid cesspool, drowning all the fish.

I’m Detective Elias Moon. Thirty-seven.

New badge. Same old tired eyes.

The desk of the guy before me stinks of cheap cologne. He transferred to Narcotics after a nervous breakdown following a case involving a pregnant woman. The killer had shot her; it was simple, but after her death, he had used a staple gun inside her womb.

On the autopsy table, the baby came out full of metal.

The call came in at 6:12 a.m.

Female. Alley behind a pawn shop on Finch’s Street. Possible DOA.

I drove alone, the same way I work. Other people just complicate the rational mind. Murder might be an irrational act, but it is considered rational by those who believe it to be. Partners are liabilities anyway. They end up getting scared.

Or dead.

Finch’s Street pretended nothing had happened. Delivery trucks coughed exhaust whilst a guy hosed vomit off the sidewalk near a bar called The Easy Option as two dogs humped. Neon signs flickered like a dying pulse.

The alley was enough to make you feel claustrophobic in your own fucking shadow. Two uniform officers stood at the entrance, trying to look professional. One chewed gum. I would write him up for that.

“She’s back there, Detective,” the gum chewer snapped.

No name. I hadn’t earned that right yet.

Past overturned trash and the mattress where hobos had screwed, leaving the remains of their lonely seed-like whispers in a confessional, the body lay half-curled near a dumpster. It was as if she had tried to fold herself into something smaller.

Near the end.

Her name, I’d learn later, was Jackie Parker.

In that moment, however, she was just a woman in a short blue dress and leather jacket, stiff with drying blood. Her throat had been cut. It was not clean. A frenzied line. Below that, a part of her was missing.

Her vagina had been removed.

It wasn’t a robbery. Her purse was still there. Twenty dollars, a lipstick, condoms, a photo of a dog, and a pack of smokes. There were no defensive wounds on her hands. Her nails were chipped through life, not struggle.

She had known her killer.

The uniforms shifted behind me.

“So, was she a whore?” the one who had been chewing gum asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

He shrugged as if that explained it all away.

The coroner arrived twenty minutes after me. Dr Percy Wiltshire adjusted his gloves with theatrical irritation. He was the kind of man who would correct grammar while you bled out from a fucking gunshot wound. A real prick.

He glanced at me and then at the body.

“You the new guy?” he barked.

“Moon.”

“Yes, I heard,” he said. “Not contaminating the scene with your brooding, I hope?”

I did not reply; I just watched as he knelt beside her body with all the warmth of an IRS audit.

“A single frenzied incision to the neck,” he muttered. “The post-mortem incision and removal of her vagina seems deliberate.”

“You sound impressed,” I retorted.

He met my eyes and smiled.

“I am not impressed, but sentimentality clouds judgment.”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing about sociopaths.”

He did not say a word.

“I’ll know after the autopsy,” he declared as he stood up. “Oh, and Detective? Try not to make this your crusade. These girls tend to generate unwanted paperwork.”

Translation: No one of importance.

Fuck that.

Back at the station, I was called to see Commissioner Arthur Craddock.

His office sat on the top floor. All polished wood and framed commendations. Craddock was in his late fifties. Balding. Smile calibrated for press conferences. A typical yes-man police officer, if I ever saw one.

“Detective Moon,” he said rather warmly. “Settling in?”

“Like a wart on the arse of God.”

He chuckled.

“I understand you caught a case on Finch’s Street.”

“Caught makes it sound like I’m in luck.”

“A prostitute, I understand,” he said before tutting. “Quite tragic, but, realistically, our resources are allocated elsewhere.”

There it was.

“She was cut up in an alley,” I said. “If that’s the routine, someone should call Scotland Yard. Tell them we have Jack the Ripper in Whitehaven.”

He didn’t like that.

“Detective Moon,” he said, trying to control his anger. “Nothing in this city is routine, but we cannot chase every goddamn tragedy that happens on the street.”

“Maybe we should.”

His eyes cooled a fraction.

“Detective, Whitehaven requires calibration. We prioritise cases.”

“And let me guess, you prioritise them?”

Silence stretched. It felt too awkward.

“I’ll solve it,” I told him. “Won’t cost you a damn thing.”

“That is only half of the problem.”

“And the other half?”

“Obsession in a young detective is something of a mistake in itself. Don’t embarrass the department over one dead, disease-riddled whore.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I told him.

When I left his office, I felt as if I needed a shower.

Back at my desk, I pulled the file on Jackie. Three prior arrests for solicitation. No outstanding warrants. Worked a regular stretch between Finch and the Eighth District.

I visited the Eighth District that night.

The girls watched me with suspicion. One of them, a tall platinum blonde, stepped forward with all the bravado.

“You here to scare us or save us, pig?” she challenged.

“Neither. I want to listen.”

She laughed bitterly at that.

“No one ever listens to us.”

“I do.”

She studied me for a moment. They all did. I could imagine them, placing limp cocks in their mouths filled with STDs, all for the sake of twenty bucks. I could imagine some perverted bastard dressed like King Kong performing a bukkake on film with his closest friends for a measly hundred. They were the lost and the damned.

They were like me.

Trying to get by in a job that piled shit on top of other shit.

Finally, she nodded her head in recognition.

“Jackie thought she was getting out,” she confided. “Some guy. He promised he would take care of her.”

“Name?”

“No names. He had a nice suit, though. Nice car too. Came by regularly. Didn’t look like he belonged here.”

“None of us belongs anywhere,” I told her.

“You really are new,” she smirked.

“Meaning?”

“In this city, we know our place. No one cares about whores.”

“Did Jackie have any enemies?”

“She had hope. That is way worse.”

“Anyone else seeing this guy?”

“Ask Marisol,” she told me. “She’ll know.”

“And who would that be?”

She looked past me, into the dark mouth of the city, refusing to give me an answer, her trust only lasting a little while.

I drove home with my windows down. Whitehaven’s rot crawled over me. My mother used to believe that America was a fresh start. She had come here in the Eighties, fleeing the grey skies of London and politics that longed for innocent men to be placed in concentration camps because of the disease that was killing them and for an entire industry to be destroyed in one fell swoop. The American Dream seemed a little more appealing. What she didn’t expect was McDonald’s and Mickey Mouse. Still, she believed it was better than a prime minister grown in a vat and carried to full term for nine months by one of Hitler’s sex midgets.

I lay awake that night, replaying the cuts across Jackie’s throat. The removal of her vagina. Jealousy sprang to mind. It was the only thing that stuck. Not lust or money.

Just jealousy. Pure and simple.

Jackie hadn’t fought back. There was no skin under her nails. No bruising on her wrists. She’d known the face that chose to lean in and take out a blade. Maybe she even smiled.

By sunrise, I was back at the station. I couldn’t sleep, and Whitehaven wouldn’t let me. After parking my car, I noticed the graffiti on the wall outside.

FUCK ICEHOLES

My sentiments exactly, but in all the time I had been in Whitehaven, I had failed to see one Muslim face. One legal immigrant.

The Iceholes were winning in Whitehaven.

Dr Wiltshire called me at 8:03 a.m.

“The autopsy confirms your alleyway assessment. Cause of death: exsanguination due to an incised wound to the throat. Secondary mutilation occurred post-mortem.”

“Clean?” I asked.

“A little more than my initial impression. Frenzied doesn’t mean incompetent. The killer corrected the angle midway. Adjusted pressure. It is as if emotion interfered.”

“Male?”

“No definitive sign of sexual assault beyond her profession,” he replied dryly.

“And her vagina?”

“Removed specifically not theatrically.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Faint contusions on her hips. Fingers. Someone held her still. Not violently. Firmly.”

“Understood.”

He hung up without saying goodbye. I didn’t mind.

I pulled everything we had on Jackie Parker. Her three arrests. Two fines. And I noticed it. The link between all three arrests, and I knew what I had to do.

I needed to return to the Eighth District.

I rolled through there again that afternoon. Daylight made the entire trade look more bureaucratic than cinematic, as if thrusting down on an arsehole was designed to be captured on 3-D. The blonde spotted me first.

“Jesus, you again, what do you want now?”

“I need Marisol.”

“Why?”

“Because Jackie is dead.”

“She knows that.”

“And I need to hear it from her before anyone else finds out. Now, where is she?”

“Marisol doesn’t like cops.”

“Neither do I,” I told her. “She will be in good company.”

The blonde smirked.

“Down on the corner by the liquor store with the busted Cola sign. Short hair. Thinks she’s a smart arse,” she instructed.

I nodded before I headed in that direction.

I found Marisol exactly where described. She was in her mid-twenties. Sharp eyes. Cigarette burning between her fingers.

“You are the new guy,” she said before I even spoke. “Moon.”

“Word travels.”

“Yeah. Apparently, you actually give a shit.”

“I do,” I told her.

“She was in love. The guy smelled like money. Met him twice a week. Sometimes three.”

“I know,” I told her. “I even know his name. He was fucking you too, wasn’t he?”

She looked at me, eyes wide. Her jaw tightened. She nodded.

“Same promises?” I asked.

She nodded again.

“And I’m guessing he told you that he had a big job, needed the right kind of girl?”

She nodded.

“Was Jackie that girl?”

Her eyes flickered.

Hurt.

Anger.

“She thought she was special.”

“He lied to both of you, and now both your lives are over.”

Marisol began to cry then.

“He told me he would…he told me he would take me somewhere warm. Somewhere with beaches away from this fucking hellhole!”

“Hope is a dangerous thing in this city,” I told her. “And jealousy fuelled by lost hope is a dangerous thing.”

Marisol continued crying as I brought out the cuffs. She saw them, a glint appearing in the corner of her eye.

“I usually charge extra for that kinda thing,” she teased.

“The charge this time is 25 to life,” I told her.

“How did you know?”

“I told you, I know his name, and he will suffer too, but when I realised it couldn’t be this person. This man, whom you were both smitten with, I realised that there was only one other option left,” I told her. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t want to do this.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Where’s the knife?”

“In my locker in the pool hall the girls use as a base,” she told me.

“And her vagina?”

“I fed it to a client’s poodle,” she replied. “I can give you his name if you need to explore poodle poop for evidence.”

“The knife and the confession will be enough.”

I took her back to the precinct. She signed a full confession. The knife was in the locker. Only her fingerprints on it. She hadn’t even bothered to wipe Jackie’s blood off. It was tragic. Really tragic, but there was some semblance of light.

If not for them, then for Whitehaven.

Marisol sat in holding. Her mascara bled down her cheeks. Her hands were cuffed in front of her. She admitted waiting for Jackie in the alley. Admitted to holding her still when the argument turned feral. Admitted, sawing through her skin like she was cutting a fucking steak.

Case closed.

On paper, at least.

I stood outside Commissioner Craddock’s office for a full minute before knocking. Through frosted glass, I could see his silhouette. He shouted ‘enter’, and I stepped into polished wood and framed heroism. The air smelled of cologne.

“You look pleased,” Craddock said. “Finished your crusade/”

I nodded.

He leaned back in his chair.

“Marisol confessed,” I said.

A flicker. Barely recognising them.

“The other girl? Tragic,” he said with a tut.

“You knew them.”

“Excuse me?” he said, smile thinning.

“You knew Jackie Parker. She was arrested six months ago. Solicitaston. You were riding along that night. You spoke to her alone. The arrest report notes you recommended a fine instead of a custodial sentence.”

He steepled his fingers.

“Discretion is a part of leadership.”

“I called your wife.”

That landed.

“You did what?”

“I introduced myself,” I told him. “Said I was new to the department. Made small talk. She mentioned you’d been home the night Jackie died. All evening. In bed by ten. She seemed very certain.”

“I was home,” Craddock said evenly. “If you are implying…”

“I am not implying you killed her. I know you didn’t. You were just sleeping with them both.”

I could feel the temperature in the room drop.

“Serious accusation?”

“Nice suits. Nice cars. Money that doesn’t worry. They both thought you were their way out. They thought wrong.”

His hand twitched.

“You have no proof…”

“Marisol confirmed it,” I cut in. “So did Jackie, before she died. To the other girls.”

He stood up sharply.

“Be very careful, Detective.”

“I always am.”

We stared at each other across his immaculate desk, all the time I knew he was wondering if I was bluffing.

“You preyed on them. Used your badge like a coupon. What did you get? A cheap thrill for promises of a good life? You made them feel chosen.”

His face hardened.

“They are nothing more than whores,” he snapped. “No one gives a fuck about women who sell their worthless cunts!”

“I do.”

“Oh, spare the moral outrage!”

“I don’t give a shit about morality, only consequences.”

He laughed.

“You think I forced that girl to murder her rival? You are fucking delusional?”

“No,” I said calmly. “You just set her off with your identical fantasies. When Jackie saw you with Marisol, the fantasy shattered. The same thing happened when Jackie finally snapped out of your bullshit.”

“Degenerates on the emotional spectrum do not require encouragement to self-destruct.”

“Very true,” I said. “However, I looked into Jackie and Marisol’s bank accounts. They received cash transfers, not from you but from your wife’s bank, every month. Two hundred dollars. Where did you get that money from? I assume your wife knows nothing about it?”

He said nothing.

“I thought not,” I continued. “So, I looked into some old case files. Evidence. A number of cases involving drug dealers have the seized money missing. Last signed out by you.”

It was then that he reached for the top drawer of his desk.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Resign.”

“What?”

“Resign, or I will testify in court for Marisol and reveal it all.”

He began to laugh then.

He reached into the drawer and pulled the gun.

“You fucking wiseass cunt!” he screamed. “You think you are going to get out of here alive? Yes, I fucking stole the money from drug dealers, who cares? No one. Not one person. I am this city’s police force, and you cannot bring me down. Not for some worthless whores.”

I smiled then.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked. “Ending your shitty life.”

“No,” I told him as I pulled open my jacket just enough for him see the small transmitter clipped to my shirt. “For the confession.”

It was then that the doors opened. I did not know the names of the Internal Affairs officers who barged in, guns in hand. They thanked me for getting them the confession. Craddock called me a sanctimonious bastard as he was dragged away in cuffs. I didn’t care.

The case was closed. Jackie would stay dead. Marisol would go to prison. Craddock would try to take a plea.

Whitehaven would remain the same.

But maybe I could provide a little hope now and then.

It was worth a shot.

---

Bio: R.J. Butler is a UK-based writer of horror and dark speculative fiction. His work explores grief, obsession, monstrosity, and the fragile boundary between the psychological and the supernatural. Drawing inspiration from folklore, classic cinema, and existential literature, his stories blend visceral imagery with emotional depth. His fiction has appeared in independent magazines and anthologies. He is currently completing a PhD in Creative Writing, where his research focuses on folklore and contemporary horror. When not writing, he can usually be found watching old monster movies, reading Borges, or walking beneath an obliging full moon.

Photo by:Pexels/Cottonbro Studio

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