Emerson Ward Mysteries

It was a particularly grisly murder, made more gruesome by the fact that nothing like it had ever happened in this sleepy northern Wisconsin town of fifteen hundred people. Someone had done a handy bit of knifework. The woman's body was ripped open from vagina to sternum, her nipples sliced off, her throat cut from ear to ear, and like an exclamation point there was a single, deep stab wound to the heart.
A sour taste of bile and the McDonald's cheeseburger I'd gotten two hours earlier outside of Green Bay rose in my throat. The glossy black and white photos in front of me would have been unappetizing any time of the day, with or without food in my stomach. The thought that someone could inflict such savagery on another human being made me queasy. The woman's face was attractive above the gaping second smile across her throat, but worn with age. It had probably been beautiful once, but it was obvious that she'd relied on make-up to evoke her former youthfulness. She wore a long robe of shiny silk or satin that lay open, exposing the massive wounds on her naked body. The carefully coiffed hair was matted with blood, and the sheets and robe she lay on appeared black with the stuff in the photos.
"Who took the pictures?" I asked the question as an excuse to look away from their graphic ghastliness.
"Tully Smith. Owns the pharmacy down the street. Photography's his sideline. He does weddings, that sort of thing, and he's got a little portrait studio with a darkroom in the back of the store. I hire him occasionally to take pictures for the paper."
Anne Rundles perched on the edge of the desk. The cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth waggled and danced as she spoke in her deep, raspy voice, sending wisps and curls of smoke toward the ceiling like signals. She was casually dressed in baggy navy sweat pants and turtleneck, an oversized red plaid flannel shirt, and athletic shoes. Her long, gray hair was pulled back into a bun. I watched as ash fell on her pants leg; she flicked it away absent-mindedly.
"The coroner wanted photos of the crime scene," she went on after taking a drag, "and Tully was close by. He made me an extra set of prints."
"Who's in charge of the investigation?"
"County Sheriff."
"Any leads?"
She shrugged. "Dick Trumbull's a nice guy. I like him. But I don't like the way he's thinking about this."
"Why not?"
"Well, he suspects me, for one. And that's plain crazy." She peered at me angrily through large-framed glasses.
"Okay, okay. We'll talk about that in a minute. Tell me everything you know about the murder first."
She stubbed out the cigarette and spoke in short sentences, giving me unembellished facts. Victim: Helen Torstensen, who owned a diner in town. Approximate time of death was between midnight and two in the morning on Tuesday the week before. She'd probably been killed with a large hunting knife. From the amount of blood, the coroner had surmised that her throat had been cut first. The thrust to the heart had likely come second, and the other wounds had been afterthoughts, or some kind of message. The single word "Harlot" had been scrawled on the bathroom mirror with the victim's lipstick. No signs of forced entry, robbery, rape, or much of a struggle for that matter, suggesting she may have known her assailant. And no prints or murder weapon.