Cadaver in Crinoline

The dead girl was beautiful, a sensual young body, naked and exposed, still pink and perfect....

Atlanta, 1970

The call came in at 8 AM: a maid in the Montecela Hotel had come across a dead girl. Alice grabbed her partner Henry on the way out of the precinct.

Alice Congreve had lived in Atlanta her whole life, started in the police department as an operator when she was foolish beauty of 18, turned to vice work when she was 22, and made detective at 29. She had seen a lot of ugly things in her young life—the seedy shadow of the city. It made her exhausted, and then it gave her insomnia. Junkies, bums, hippies, wife-beaters, johns, and drag queens: they wore her down, but they also kept her on edge. The worst were the dead girls.

Alice couldn't remember when she had first seen a murder victim. Probably a dead hooker when she worked vice. She remembered one dead working girl in particular: strangled in an alley, snatch cut open with a straight razor. She'd known that girl—not well, but well enough. The thought of being grabbed up, raped, and murdered haunted the young woman inside the tough lady cop. She sometimes dreamed about it and woke up in a blind panic.

Henry Webb had been a uniformed cop for almost two decades before he'd made detective. He'd been a detective for a decade when he met Alice. He was a crass, balding, sexist pig, with a barely-concealed prejudice against blacks that made him better than most of the other men on the force because at least it was concealed. He had a fat wife and a couple of kids. Alice didn't like him, but then he wasn't a likable guy. He was her partner, tho, and a good detective. Maybe he knew creeps because he was one.

The hotel manager walked them up a flight of stairs to 209. A uniform had secured the scene and stood guard at the door, an Irish stud named Mike. He looked sideways at Alice every time he saw her, like she was more woman than cop. It made her uneasy. It made her lick her lips and then hate herself for doing it.

The room was elegant, but a struggle was obvious. Some of the gauzy curtains had been pulled down and lay both on and under the victim, a blond in her late teens, maybe 20.

Alice took off her cap and brushed back her hair. The dead girl was beautiful, a sensual young body, naked and exposed, still pink and perfect—except for the trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. From behind her came Henry's voice. "Looks like an overdose."

"I don't think so," said Alice, walking around the crime scene perimeter. "I don't know many brides-to-be who OD at their bachelorette parties." Alice pointed to the dress-like garment on the floor. "That's a crinoline. You wear it under your gown to fluff up the dress."

"No shit?" Henry crouched over the crumpled, white crinoline.

Alice moved closer. The girl really was a knockout—slender and pale, not a mark on her. The brunette detective wondered if she had been raped. Without moving the body, Alice tried to get a good look at her vagina; the folds of bedclothes partially covered it, but Alice could see the pink slit all right. The pubic hair was shaved into a narrow stripe—no sign of "forced entry."

"You want pictures?" It was the photographer.

"Yeah. I want the pictures. Soon as you can get them," Alice said. He was a creep—probably jacked off to his crime scene photos.

But that night, it was the beautiful brunette detective who lay naked on her bed, bedclothes in a bunch, pussy shaved into a narrow stripe, fingering her slit feverishly, begging her fantasy rapist for mercy. "Please, no. Oh! Oh, please! Unh! Unhhhh!" She came hard, torturing her clit to orgasm, and then broke down and cried herself to sleep.

The name in the register hadn't panned out; Joe-something scrawled quickly and illegibly, paid cash. The crinoline yielded the crucial link. A fancy military ball had been held the night before for the new class of Air Force academy cadets. Sleeping Beauty fit the description of a girl who came in with a cadet late in the evening. The manager remembered others who had come from the ball, but not this girl. The desk clerk on duty had remembered her.

"Sweet girl, like a high-society type, but I think she was just pretending."

"What makes you think so?" Alice asked. She made notes of everything he said; she was better at than Henry or most other detectives. She'd had training in shorthand.

The chubby Mexican man shrugged. "She just seemed to be trying too hard. We get society girls in here sometimes. They don't care that you know what they're up to."

"What about this girl stuck out?"

"The man she was with—older man with a buzz cut—he kind of snuck her thru the lobby. She was laughing tho, and trying to be, you know, lady-like, but she was a little loud."

"Maybe had a couple of drinks?" Alice guessed.

"Could be."

"And the fellow she was with? What do you remember about him?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't pay much attention to him. He was in a uniform from the academy, and he had short hair. That's all I remember."

"You were looking at the girl." The man didn't reply.

That's it. No screams, no loud noises, no killer observed walking out with a bloody ball gown. Time to call for a muster.

Commandant Seth Jackson wasn't pleased to see two homicide detectives on a Sunday afternoon. Fresh from church services in his dress uniform, he assured the detectives that his boys weren't killers.

"They are trained to kill," Henry observed.

The commandant grimaced. "In combat. They aren't trained to murder their dance partners. Maybe this girl was a 'lady of the evening.' Maybe some traveling salesman got a little rough for her."

"She was seen entering the hotel that night with a man in uniform, an older man."

The commandant straightened and assumed the full authority of his rank and experience. "We have a lot of men in uniform in the academy, ma'am. Do you want to interrogate all of them?"

Henry leaned in on him. "Yeah, we do."

The military men closed ranks and hardly gave more than name, rank, and serial number. They all turned out to have bad memories, try as they might to recall which older man might have attended the ball with a pretty young thing. Old Major Galbricker attended with his niece, a few seemed to recall. Captain Maddox had a particularly young wife. But no one recalled a sweet young toy that looked out of place and a bit tipsy.

There was one discrepancy. A couple of officers recalled Major Fallows dancing with his niece, who had attended with a cadet, but Major Fallows didn't mention it. The cadet was Burt Fridley, an unassuming kid with a plain, blank face. "She seemed nice. Her name was Tammy. Major Fallows introduced us."

"And at the end of the night?" Henry asked.

The kid hesitated. "Major Fallows took her home. She— She brought her own flask and spiked her drinks, you know? That’s not allowed."

"I'm sure it's not, Burt," Alice said. "So she got a little happy with her own little happy hour. You say Major Fallows took her home?"

"Right. Is something wrong? I didn't have anything to drink. It was all her."

Alice pulled a photograph out of her purse. "Is this Tammy, Burt?"

Burt screwed his blank face up into a ball looking at the pale, glassy-eyed girl in the picture. "Is she... dead?"

"Yeah, kid," Henry said. "Is that her?"

"I guess it is."

When Henry and Alice got back to the precinct, there was a message from Doctor Charles, the medical examiner. Alice volunteered to return the call. The doctor had a husky, manly voice that made her weak just to hear it. "They just delivered your body, detective," he said slowly. "Interesting case."

"It's not my body, doc," she replied. "Mine's a bit warmer."

Thoughtful pause. "I'll bet."

For the moment, Henry would follow up on the mysterious Major Fallows and his disappearing "niece." The lady detective could pay a visit to the ME.

On the way over, Alice's mind kept returning to images of the dead girl, the perfect body and youthful skin, this girl who probably spent her last hours in pleasure and her last minutes in terror. Doctor Charles was a square-jawed man with distinguished graying temples. He unlocked the door to his chilly domain to let her in... and then locked it again behind her. The girl's body lay naked and pale on the cold steel slab; a small white cloth covered her pelvis. The medical examiner stood over the corpse and flashed a soft smile at the lovely detective.

She smiled back grimly. "Cause of death?"

"The victim was stabbed, just once, here in the back," the older man said and threw aside the little towel covering her nudity. "I'm about to do the autopsy," he said, "but it looks pretty cut and dried. Straight thru from the back and into the heart. Mostly bled internally. Pretty expert job."

Alice frowned. "Our boy's a military man. No sign of other trauma?" She looked over the pale, nude body, so vulnerable, and felt a pang of empathy that the girl must be cold, lying naked on a cold steel examination table as she was.

"Not really, just these little bruises." He pointed out small bruises on the girl's bare hips. "These must have occurred immediately before death, less than an hour before, I'd say."

"So the killer... held her down?" Alice asked. She touched the dead girl's shoulder. Her finger left a white impression for a moment. She couldn't help but stare at the lovely girl, still and lax, with bloodless lips and small, dark nipples.

"Not exactly," he said. Doctor Charles came around behind Alice and stood very close. "He held her here," he said, "and here." He put his hands on her hips. "No sign of fabric imprint, so...."

"She was already naked." The lady cop stayed very still, feeling his hands on her body, clinical, yet so intimate. She let her hand slide down behind her and touch his hip.

"Right." The man took her signal and slid his hands up under Alice's blouse and cupped her breasts thru her brassiere. "And here. A little bruising on the breasts, too," he breathed in her ear.

"Oh." Her heart raced.

"I think he held her this way," he said. "The killer, uh, had his way with her, from behind." He didn't move his hands.

"From behind?" His prick was a thick lump in his pants, pressing against the crack of her ass.

"He balled her like this," he breathed. "And she didn't struggle."

"So... she wasn't raped." The emotions mixed and jumbled together in her head, making her slightly lightheaded.

"Yes," he said softly. "She wanted it."

The steamy brunette twisted her head to look him in the eye. "And she was... completely naked?"

"Completely." Off came her blouse, up over her head, baring her arms and belly, revealing her breasts in a white underwire brassiere. His hands roamed her chest, pulling her bra down and exposing her soft, pointed tits to the cool examination room air. Her own hands went to her skirt, undoing the snap and letting hit fall away. He leaned back to find the catch on her bra and unsnap it. Her tits pointed straight out, large and warm in the man's cool hands.

He held her form a moment this way, half-naked and exposed in the cool air, kissing her neck and making her sigh. Then he undid his trousers and pushed down his trousers and shorts, exposing his thick hardon, which he pressed against her, warm even thru her panties.

He began rubbing against her, stroking his dick in the crack of her ass, making her hum softly, sigh, and groan with desire. "Alright," she breathed. They both pushed down her panties, slipping them down and letting them fall around her ankles.

Alice spread her legs, leaning over the table, and let him slide his prick inside her moist twat. They both gave a heavy groan as he slid it home. They huffed and moaned against the table, making their own heat in the cold room. Alice bent over further, stretching out, touching the dead girl's clammy shoulder while the doctor pumped her with live flesh. She oozed lust, warm and womanly, her breasts shaking rhythmically with the fast, hard fucking.

"Mmmm," she moaned. "Yes. Yes. Yes. Oh, yes." He groaned with her. "It's hot," she breathed. "It's so hot. Yes!" She rand her hands over the dead girl's chest, feeling the soft, cold breasts and rubbery nubs. It excited her.

As the doctor pounded his final strokes, Alice threw her leg up over the edge of the steel table and pressed her clit to the cold metal, sending a stinging shock thru her and making her come hard, trembling, lost in her own pleasure finished inside her.

Gasping and groping, Alice reached up behind her and pulled Charles to her to kiss. They met warmly and wet, sexily mimicking the wetness between Alice's legs. They didn't say anything more.

"Detective Webb. This is my partner, Detective Congreve."

"Nice to meet you both. What can I do for you, sir?" Major Fallows was in his 50s, graying, years etched into his face.

"You introduced a cadet to your niece, Tammy. Is that right?" Henry asked. "They attended the ball together?"

The military many was suddenly guarded. He sat down behind his desk. "That's right. Cadet Fridley."

"Have you spoken to your niece since then, Major?" Alice asked.

"What's this about, detectives? If this is about a little rum punch...."

Henry leaned toward him. "It's about murder, Major."

The graying old soldier leaned away, trying to stay casual, but twisting away slightly like a weathervane when the wind shifts. "I just saw Burt Fridley today, sir."

Alice sat up straight to catch his eye. "And when did you see your niece last, sir?"

"When I dropped her off at her hotel. She was driving home the next day. I spoke to her today." This put a twist on it.

"You spoke to her?" The rumpled cop asked. His partner showed him the picture, and Henry pointed to it. "Is this your niece Tammy, major?'

"No," the man replied. He hardly looked at it. Alice left it on the desk in front of him.

"You don't know that girl?" the lady cop asked. "Take a good look."

"Sorry, folks," Fallows said. "I don't know who this is."

"He's lying," Alice said as they left the building. The glass double doors snapped opened with a shove.

Henry slicked back his hair and slid his slouch hat on. "He's shaking in his shiny, shiny shoes."

"But who's the girl?"

"She's a pro," Henry said. "Two to one."

The thought was shocking to Alice. She'd seen working girls before, but they were hard-looking, weathered. "She's no pro," the brunette said. "No way. I've never seen a sweeter face on a girl."

"I have," Henry said without slowing down. "Know where?"

Alice stopped at the car. "Where?"

Henry jammed the key in the car door lock. "On a pro." The prick.

"Your DB's got priors," called Annie Katzheimer, the records girl.

Alice threw down her notebook. "Shit." Henry laughed, probably for the first time in a week.

"Her prints were on file. She got picked up for soliciting a few months ago. A call girl operation."

Alice looked at Henry. "You win a kewpie doll."

That night, Alice let her fingers drag languidly over her body, teasing the sensations out of her skin. She was a young girl, called in by a military officer, introduced to a young cadet, but always knowing who she'd go home with. She imagined him escorting her back to the room, putting on the radio for one last dance, undressing her. She imagined slipping out of that beautiful dress, standing in her crinoline and slip for a moment until he stripped her of that too. Where did she get that dress? Does a call girl have a ball gown?

He wanted her from behind. She didn't mind. She wouldn't have to face him that way. She felt Doctor Charles' hands on her again, fondling her roughly this time. Had he taken on his uniform by this time? Yes. He wouldn't want to risk soiling it with girl juice.

Alice found her clit, strong and ready. God, she was wet. She felt the major fingering it from behind, his muscled body embracing her firmly. Perhaps he held her—gently—by the throat with one hand while he fingered her pussy. What a sweet, tight young pussy that would be. His cock would be thick and stick in her back. She'd find it, between her legs, guide it into her, wanting to get it over with. What a brutal fuck he'd give her. This little call girl, not very experienced, probably letting him do anything he wanted, fucking her hard and fast—just like Alice liked.

Her fingers plunged into her pussy like her fantasy lover's cock. She pumped herself hard, torturing her pussy in and out, around in circles, making herself wetter and hotter, making herself groan lustily in the lonely darkness.

At last he would come inside her, giving her a few final thrusts. Alice frigged her clit to put herself over the top. She thrashed wildly for a moment as the juice practically gushed around her fingers. She imagined the girl, naked and bruised, trying to get dressed, reaching for her panties, her stockings, her slip. But she never got dressed.

His final thrust was with a knife, piercing her back, right thru to the heart. Alice's second orgasm made her shudder and gasp like the dying girl. She collapsed in exhaustion, staring up into darkness. Then it struck her.

The girl never got dressed. She couldn't. They weren't her clothes.

The major must have given her a fancy gown to wear. Was it his real niece's dress? Probably gave her the whole outfit... except for the underthings: the panties, the stockings, the slip. He had given her the dress and the crinoline, and maybe the shoes and long gloves. Maybe that was the problem. She wanted to keep the fancy dress. But the major wasn't the kind of man to give a ball gown to a hooker.

Tammy Fallows identified the crinoline. She hadn't worn it in months, certainly not to her uncle's military ball. The major's house of cards was crumbling. The dress, hanging in a hall storage room, was freshly laundered. It didn't take long to find the cleaners that had handled it. It was brought in by an older man with a buzz cut.

"He hires a call girl to play his niece," Henry said on the way over to the academy. "Then passes her off to some cadet?"

"He didn't want it to be too suspicious. Just a couple of dances then he'd take her 'home'. The kid gets a date. The major gets laid. The girl gets paid. Everybody's happy."

Henry stared off into the distance as the military academy appeared over the hill. "So what went wrong that the major had to get rid of her permanently?"

"She wanted to keep the dress, didn't she?" Alice asked Fallows when they got him in handcuffs. The major wouldn't answer. "She didn't even bring any other clothes to change into." Henry read him his Miranda rights. He'd wait for a military lawyer before he'd say a word.

"What did you use?" The brunette tried again. "What did you stab her with?" Nothing. "A dinner knife? Some kind of army knife?"

Henry marched him toward the door. "The lady's asking you a question, major. Say, maybe it was that big, shiny sword they carry," he said.

"Hotel dinner knife," Alice said. "Two to one."

Henry stuffed the major into the back seat of the car and looked across the roof at her. "I'll take that bet."

All models are 18 years or older, regardless of the text.