That was the plan I guess-whoever killed her had also weighed down her hands with telephone books. The young woman in the bath is unrecognizable-the three days she has spent in the acid have destroyed all her features. Even if a victim doesn’t know anyone in the world, it seems like there’s always someone sobbing at a scene like this. The place is in chaos, the noise deafening-police radios blaring, coroner’s assistants yelling for support, a Hispanic woman sobbing. I’ve always said it’s hard not to admire good planning. They’ve all got their price tags still attached and I see that, in order to avoid suspicion, whoever killed her bought them at twenty different stores. She is naked in the bathroom-her throat cut, floating facedown in a bathtub full of sulfuric acid, the active ingredient in a drain cleaner available at any supermarket.ĭozens of empty bottles of the cleaner-Drain Bomb, it’s called-lie scattered on the floor. Like their owner, they don’t belong here. Lying next to the bed are a handbag, black panties the size of dental floss, and a pair of six-inch Jimmy Choos. There are places I’ll remember all my life-Red Square with a hot wind howling across it, my mother’s bedroom on the wrong side of Eight Mile, the endless gardens of a fancy foster home, a man waiting to kill me in a group of ruins known as the Theater of Death.īut nothing is burned deeper in my memory than a walk-up in New York-threadbare curtains, cheap furniture, a table loaded with tina and other party drugs.
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