Sacred Sins

sleazy, it didn't have the energy of a New York or Chicago. Drug deals around Fourteenth and U were a life-style away. Even the hookers would have called it a night.
    Now and then the leaves that had fallen rushed along the sidewalk then stopped, victims of the sporadic wind. They drove past blank storefronts and boutiques with neon sweaters in the windows. Ben lit a cigarette and let the familiar taste of Virginia tobacco ease some of the tension.
    He didn't want her there. Doctor or no doctor, he didn't want her to be a part of the hopeless ugliness of this part of his job. She could share in the paperwork, the fitting together of the puzzle, the step-by-step logic of an investigation, but she shouldn't be here.
    She had to be here, Tess thought. It was time to face the results, and maybe, just maybe, get a better understanding of the motivation. She was a doctor. It was irrelevant that she wasn't the kind of doctor who prodded fingers in the human body. She was trained, she was capable, and she understood death.
    Tess saw the blue and red lights of the first police car and began to school her breathing to long inhales, slow exhales.

    The alley and several feet on all sides were roped off, though there was no one on the predawn streets. Cruisers sat with their lights blinking and their radios on. A community of workers was already inside the official area.
    Ben pulled up to the curb. “You stay with me,” he told Tess, but still didn't look at her. “We have a policy against civilians wandering around homicide scenes.”
    “I don't intend to get in your way. I intend to do my job. You'll find I'm as good at it as you are at yours.” She pushed open her door and nearly collided with Ed.
    “Sorry, Dr. Court.” Her hands were icy. He patted them without thinking. “You're going to want your gloves.” He stuck his own in his pockets as he looked at Ben.
    “What have we got?”
    “Lab boys are in there now. Sly's getting pictures. Coroner's en route.” His breath came out in a white puffy steam. The tips of his ears were already red from the cold, but he'd forgotten to button his coat. “Some kid stumbled across her about four-thirty. Uniforms haven't got much out of him yet. He's been pretty busy whooshing up about a half case of beer.” He glanced at Tess again. “Sorry.”
    “Don't apologize,” Ben said briefly. “She'll remind you she's a doctor.”
    “Captain's coming in on this.”
    “Terrific.” Ben shot the butt of his cigarette into the street. “Let's get to work.”
    They started toward the alley, passed a cruiser where someone sat in the backseat sobbing. Tess glanced over, pulled toward the sound of despair. Then her arm brushed Ben's and she continued toward the alley. A small man with horn-rimmed glasses and a camera stepped out. He took out a blue bandanna and rubbed it over his nose.

    “It's all yours. Get him, for Christ's sake. I don't want to photograph any more dead blondes. A man's got to have a little variety in his work.”
    “You're a riot, Sly.” Ben brushed by him, leaving the photographer sneezing into the bandanna.
    They'd taken only a few steps into the alley when the scent of death rose up. They all recognized it, that bitter, fetid stench which was both offensive and eerily compelling to the living.
    Her body had emptied itself. Her blood had settled. Her arms had been folded neatly across her body, but she didn't look at peace. Sightless, her eyes were locked open. There was a smear of dried blood on her chin. Her own, Tess thought. Sometime during the struggle to live, she had sawed her teeth through her bottom lip.
    She'd worn a long, serviceable wool coat in olive drab. The white silk amice stood out starkly against it. It had been taken from around her neck, where bruises had already formed, and smoothed over her breasts.
    The note was pinned there, the message the same.
    Her sins are forgiven her.
    But this time the letters weren't printed neatly. They were wavery, and the paper was crumpled a bit, as though his hands had mashed it. The word sins was printed larger than the rest, the markings darker, almost going through the paper. Tess crouched down beside the body for a closer look.
    A cry for help? she wondered. Was it a plea for someone to stop him from sinning again? The shaky handwriting was a deviation, however slight, from his routine. It meant, to Tess, that he was losing his hold, perhaps doubting himself even as he fulfilled his mission.

    He