At her side, Rodney asked, “Were you standing there?”
“I think so.”
He immediately shifted to look up in the hills behind him. “He could have been anywhere. Probably took multiple attempts.”
“And a lot of people were here,” she said, “so it could have been from a vehicle across the street too.”
“Agreed. Wouldn’t find much at this point.” Rodney added, “It’d be pretty murky at this point in time.”
But she walked over to the bridge railing, took a closer look, and said, “If he picked her up and tossed her over, he’d have to be sure that nobody was here, and this bridge is superbusy. Has anybody checked the cameras?”
“We need to double-check whether they have or not.” Rodney nodded. “I can do that.”
She said, “Let’s go on to the second site.” It took longer to cross town than she expected.
They went to the second jumper scene, and, although she only had a vague idea of where the jumper dove off the bridge, based on the shoes she had seen in the photo, she could walk to within ten feet of the spot. She looked over the railing, saw the flowing water below, and winced. It bothered her to imagine such an end. “The water’s not as high today, but, if caught in that heavy current down there, it would be pretty rough. They wouldn’t survive for long.”
“Hard to imagine jumping, isn’t it?”
“Most bridge jumpers don’t make it at all,” she said. “And, in this case, it was a healthy thirtysomething male. And that I don’t get,” she said, turning to look at Rodney. “I mean, if we were talking murder, and somebody tossed the body over, there should be something else to show as a sign of death. Surely a struggle? Defensive wounds? The victim wouldn’t be an easy target, right?”
“Being a jumper,” he said quietly, “no tox screens are even done, and visible signs of trauma, outside of… what?” he asked, raising both hands. “I mean, what damage would there normally be with a jumper? Wouldn’t there be bruising from hitting the water? I mean, hitting water at a distance like this is like slamming into concrete.”
She nodded. “I don’t think it breaks major bones, ribs yes,” she said hesitantly, “but I’m not sure about the rest. We’d have to talk to the ME. Not only that, you know that there are rocks, trees, other debris in the water. He could easily have tumbled around in there and picked up all kinds of bruising. But they would be post-mortem.”
“Not necessarily. Death isn’t always instantaneous.”
She turned to look at the traffic, heavy in both directions. Then it always was, unless in the wee hours of the morning. “And again,” she said, “if somebody else is murdering these people, he—or she—must pick up and toss the victim, while ensuring nobody saw. And that would be difficult. This is a very heavily trafficked area. So we need to check the overnight cameras.”
Frowning and still unsettled, they headed to the third jumper’s scene. This was the same bridge but farther down, on the opposite side. “Another female, I presume?” she said, turning to look at Rodney. “We need to confirm that.”
“Regardless, we’ve got both sexes so far.”
She nodded. “Which doesn’t help at all.”
“The truckers are through here at those hours all the time. And, of course, nobody reported any such scene.”
“No. We should also check the weather,” she murmured, as she searched the area, her gaze automatically going to the sky, even though it wouldn’t give her past weather.
“Are you really taking this seriously?”
“I’m not sure how not to,” she said. “Somebody is sending me those damn pictures for a reason, and, as much as I wish they’d stop, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s sending me a message of some kind.”
“No,” Rodney said, frowning, “you’re right. Not to mention the fact that notes have been on every one of those pictures he attaches.”
She said, “Exactly. Frustrating as hell but definitely not something to ignore.”
By the time they were done, she walked back to the car, tired and stressed. Somebody had once told her that stress was basically just a cover-up for fear. At this point in time, the fear was that they could have a serial killer and not know it because the victims were already counted as suicides, under an almost expected headcount. And didn’t that sound terrible? There was an expectation that a certain number of suicides would occur annually, regardless of which month of the year.
Based on past years’ data, the statistics showed those suicides would fit into the norm of reasonable error of data. And even if somebody were tossing people off these bridges, even impacting the normal data, it still wouldn’t be enough to rouse eyebrows enough to start an investigation.
As she made her way back to her desk, she retraced her steps down the hallways of her mind, replaying what she had just observed at the three scenes, wondering just what she had learned, if anything, when her phone rang in a frantic manner.Frantic?Yes. She stared down at it, wondering how she always knew when it was Simon and when it was urgent. His issues always impacted her cases. She answered the phone, her voice terse. “What’s up?”
“So… I don’t know,” he said, “but I’ve just found a few photos.” His voice suggested he was rattled.
“Photos of what?” she asked, curious as to what had upset him.
“Look. A friend of mine, he… her husband committed suicide a few days ago.”