Unlike Shreya’s little studio in Kensington, the Marigold Thatcher Dance Studio was definitely one built to a clientele that could afford making their living as a dancer, or get enough scholarships to participate. “Damn, purdy place t’ twirl aroun’ fer a few hours,” El pointed out with a whistle while Nick blinked. “It’s more than just twirling, Hayseed. They practically break their feet just to have that perfect pose and step. Not to mention they have to consume 20% more energy intake all the while keeping their shape as close to Russian svelte,” the older detective pointed out, remembering all those times he had seen dancers ask his mother to give them a break to recover, “Professional dancers, particularly ballet, are just as competitive as big-league sports, and twice as catty. To get to this level, it’s not always about talent and I can assure you, McKannan, people will do anything to reach the top.”

Inside the spacious contrasting walls, they could see lines of legs outstretched and bodies straight for every step, the all-too-familiar hard tap-tap-TAP echoing along with the select piece of music their routines were constructing upon. Ellis wanted to say he was staring at the eye-candy before him, women in form-fitting leotards and tights but he was far too respectful of these ladies, whose sweat only seemed to accentuate each plie, en passe, and most impressing, the en pointe. He understood what Nick meant with feet breaking beyond repair, cringing when one of the dancers tripped. Her ankle had gone on an angle that he was damn sure would’ve made Keith shriek in pain, she simply rubbed it a bit and kept going.

Madame Marigold Thatcher wasn’t quite as defined as her students, her rather plump figure still had some routines left in her yet. It was a testament for her to not even recognize the son of one of her competing studios, though she had to admire the sight before her; wasn’t every day that two handsome men came in through her doors. “Yes how may I help you?” she asked in a curt, controlled voice, placing the paperwork on her desk. “NYPD, 103rd Precinct, my name is Det. Nicholas Luce and and this is my partner, Ellis McKannan. We’re asking about a case that may involve one of your dancers,” Nick started off, ever the professional though it was hard for El not to smile: after so many months working together, the senior detective finally recognized him as his partner. It had been a rocky road to this point and any delight had to be privately enjoyed.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Thatcher was intrigued or at least acted like it, lips scrunched to the side, just as Nick remembered her the only time he came with his mother to the International. A creature of habit, definitely looks the type to keep records, the gambling cop figured out, spotting with his eyes a particular folder: Attendance and Maintenance. Either one could hold a person of interest within the sheets. The studio office smelled of a light lavender smell; if the murder had taken place here, the evidence had been destroyed by a janitor’s mop. “We believe one o’ yer girls went missin’ last night, one Valerie Summers?” Ellis continued the interview, presenting Marigold Valerie’s mug shot from the file. He lacked street experience but he knew he could read people’s emotions. Body language was everything at this stage though there was a risk of heresay.

Thatcher slumped a little in her chair as she examined the photo, “Yes, Valerie; had a future in this industry, she had a good memory for her routines, her poses were on par with some of the best I’ve sent. Though it pains me to see her in the system. Why are you asking me this?” McKannnan was silent when he switched the pictures to the one in autopsy. The head of studio gasped at the image, closed eyes that would never see the stage. In her mind, she could see Valerie perform a quick runabout that terminated in a repose. “Sh-she’s…” “Yes, an’ right now, we really need yer help findin’ who did this t’ her,” Ellis concluded with a nod. “We need to know who were closest to her and who last saw her before she died. Any ideas?” Nick picked up where his partner left off. “Well, you can ask those two over there: they’re Valerie’s corps-mates: Alisha Morrow and Mirelle Guevermont,” Marigold answered in that quiet sort of despair an again queen would show to the public at the loss of one of her own. “Valerie had promise. She wasn’t quite a prodigy but she worked hard. She wanted to go to the International, and get the nutcracker.” “Nutcracker? Wha’s tha’ mean?” Ellis asked, a bit perplexed at the term. “The Nutcracker is an exclusive invitation to the Tchaikovsky Dance Company. They host their annual gala and select five new dancers from the International. Those five dancers are set, generating a steady income of $90,000 a year,” Thatcher explained, handing them a flier to each of the detectives, “If I were to guess, this is probably why Valerie was murdered.” Another possible lead? Perhaps but Nick stood up and handed the director his card, “Should you have any more information, don’t hesitate to contact us.”

While Nick was on the field, searching his leads, Ellis was more at home with the lab, supervising each step of the evidence as it came out of the clothes, bagged, tagged and ready for both the prosecution and any defense lawyer that would inevitably arise. If he learned anything was that independence in court was essential, and that meant that he couldn’t touch the evidence until CSU got a whack at it. But that didn’t exclude him from making conversation with his friend, “Heard ya got a boyfriend now, huh?” “That I do, Bambi; you’re a credit to the police force,” Freeman smirked, his sarcasm significantly toned down as he kept his eyes on the microscope.

“Does yer sister know about it? She’s got an iron grip on this place an-” “You assume I actually get along with Dossy, enough for her to care about me,” the older man clarified, “Not true. She only gives the minimum amount of shit. But I’m guessing you brought this up for some reason.” El was smiling right back, “Maybe. I guess I’ve been wantin’ ask fer yer help.” “Oh you poor thing: asking a medical examiner for love advice is like asking a theoretical physicist on how to bake a cake: it is not going to be good,” Gordon chuckled and tagged the last of the extraneous particles around the victim’s head, “But I can give it a shot.”

El shifted in his chair for a moment before asking, “Y’know me an’ Zoey…” “Zoey? Overbeck-Case Zoey? You went out with her?” “...Am goin’ out.” Freeman reacted accordingly and smacked the back of El’s head with his clipboard, “What the hell did I tell you about dating on the job?! Much less a freaking victim!” “OW! She called me fer coffee an’ we’ve hit it off!” the rookie detective exclaimed, nursing his bruise, “Sides! Yew an’ Nick date aroun’ too!” “That’s because we don’t have any respect towards Human Resources. You! You on the other hand, you’re barely a few months into the rank, don’t go doing that!” the doctor groaned at that but resigned himself, “So what’s your question before I go to the communal fridge and get the Bailey’s?” This was exactly why McKannan trusted Freeman so much: he was brutally honest to the living and while  there was a  professional  separation, it was Gordon who took him under his wing and taught him all he could  about  living in New York that Dave hadn’t covered when he moved up North. "Th' question was if I coul' move in with her," Ellis asked as  he played with his pen, waiting for the DNA samples to get a read, even if it was preliminary. "Negative. As your pseudo-pimp, I disallow it. Jesus kid! You and Nick closed that case four months ago and you want to move in?!” Youth is wasted on the young, Gordon thought as he rolled his eyes.

“Oh come on! I am grown-ass adult!” “If you need to tell me you’re an adult, you probably aren’t.” “But y’moved in with yer las’ boyfrien’ an-” El stopped himself before he went any further into the tirade, “Sorry…” One of his recognized  faults was his brashness and his bluntness: he could see the fleeting terror in Gordon’s eyes as the memory disappeared. “It’s okay, I learned from that mistake,” the doctor’s voice was tense but it was enough to bridge the gap, “Just making sure you don’t make it too.” El sighed and nodded, “I know when t’ fold ‘em. Wha’ should I do, Dr. Pimp Master?” The chuckle was enough to lessen the oppressive memory and Gordon answered, “Tell her the truth: you work horrible hours, your pay is shit, you handle difficult cases and the fanciest dinner you can come up with is grits and ramen over candlelight.”  

Before Ellis could retort that he indeed knew how to cook more than just college cramming food, two alarms went off almost simultaneously to each other: the NYPD Sex Crimes Database and their cell phones. Both men immediately checked their screens with a message that read:

> To: All Involved in Central Park Doe case

Report to main conf. room as soon as possible. NO EXCEPTIONS or risk sanctions.

"So, what can you tell us, Dr. Freedork," Nick sauntered along the autopsy room, just as the doctor removed the red-stained scrubs and signed off the release. Mermaid Doe laid before them in a juxtaposition of peace and gore: she looked as if she was napping while her skull cap sat in a small tray, bruised under the blonde strands. “Aquata here had one hell of a day. Occipital lobe had 4 fractures, Parietal lobe is collapsed, you saw it in the field. Vaginal tearing, pre to perimortem, on the 11, 12 and 1 o’clock suggest rape, added with the fact that evidence of urine and semen were found in the clothing and hair  that wasn’t soaked with the water,” Gordon relayed with a sort of respect for the dead, “Her body was kicked around hard, she was humiliated up until she was tossed.” “Rough journey,” Nick said nonchalant, he had seen so many girls like this, but none of them had the publicity of a white, blonde lady like this. Ellis paid no attention to the comment, he still had the notion that all victims were the same in the eyes of the justice system. Then again he was so very methodical underneath his demeanor, that if the job was done right everyone had a fair chance.

“So som’one bashed her head after assaultin’ her?” El summarized rather generalizing, “Is there anythin’ y’can tell us about her tha’ can git her ID’d?” Freeman shook his head, “Nothing other than a generic tramp stamp from possible college days, but I do have something interesting to show you.” With his usual discreet manners, he carefully lifted the sheet to reveal her feet, “Toenails are abnormally shaped, there are callouses along the tips, possible bursitis and-” “Sickled ankles, and Dancer’s heel,” Nick finished the ME’s sentence and immediately, his mind started to come alive. “I was going to say plantar fasciitis, but yeah, dancer’s heel.” With that, the older cop slicked back his hair, straightened his clothes and grinned slightly, “I’m headed to Kensington; Fireball, you stay here with the doc.” Ellis objected to this, “Hey! Why can’t Ah come with! I’m yer partner!” “Yeah, and? Want anything, Freedork?” The doctor shrugged with a grin, “Some mango chutney and a couple of luchis. Boyfriend ate the last of the fuckers and I have no real need to go to Queens right now. Send my regards.” McKannan was understandably lost...what was Nick up to? Before he could ask, Freeman pulled the young man into the lab, “Come on Bambi, you and I have a lot of labwork to do.”

Kensington was near and dear to the detective as he paid his cab driver and stepped out. The smells, the bustle of the people haggling and chatting about in the market brought him back to those times when he was a child, bright and eager, running around while others watched. He waved at some of the merchants, they still remembered the help he gave them. Ma’am Opa’s bread smelled just as fresh as he did when he was 8 years old as he greeted her with the customary phrase, “Assalamualaikum, Ma’am Opa. Is she here?” “Assalamualaikum, Nika!” the tottering old woman wrapped her arms around the detective, “She’s upstairs, you know how she is! Though I think she’s with a class now!” Nick smirked at that, “My God, the woman doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘retire’. Mind sparing some of the chutney and those luchis?” As he went up the stairs, he mused that he should at least take off his sports jacket and be mindful of the commotion he might stir up. As he opened the door, he could see the svelte figure of a woman, whose long braid had a few distinct streaks of gray interwoven. Her sari draped over her sleek leotard, moving like water for every bang of her stick, “Five, Six, Seven, Eight! Sissonne avant! Move it! I am not seeing en pointe here!” Nick chuckled at this sight; even at 57 years old his mother was as strict as ever with her dance class. The sound startled Shreya Luce (nee Aravind) out of the incoming barrage of commands, just enough to make her say, “Class dismissed. Nika! What brings you here!” She hugged her child, providing him some much needed comfort, “You should’ve called! I could’ve made some tea and-”  “Like I was going to interrupt you and your work. It’s good to see you, Mom,” Nick hugged his mother nice and tight, “Though I am not saying no to you cooking something up for the occasion. I’ll bill them as investigation hours.” Not quite a lie so to speak. “You arrogant prick. Any excuse to mooch off my kitchen you will take it, hm?” Shreya commented with a smile as she opened the studio’s back door to reveal her home. It was small but comfy enough for a family of three, though the garish yellow wallpaper still hurt Nick’s eyes, “You ever gonna take that down? It hurts my soul.” “As if. I like it and it was a gift from your grandparents all the way from-” “Yeah, yeah...how’s dad?” “Still in prison though he’s got a nice cushy cell now for his federal offenses. Then again, I am really glad that the Feds did not take my studio away or else I would’ve killed him,” the woman spoke from the stove, already warming the oil for the tikiyan desserts and the water for coffee. She knew her son was recovering from a massive hangover, might as well make him a dessert for breakfast.

"Hey, c'mon, it wasn't that bad!" the hopeless man tried to reason with the fuming lady. "Six inches he says, six fucking inches! You're a goddamn liar, Vinny; I'm lucky you got 3 with the foreskin!" the woman was not shy about venting her frustrations to the entirity of Central Park, making some parents cover their children's ears. She just wanted an afternoon delight and all she got was a deceptively short feature length. "Jasmine please!" "You're a prick! I want the whole damn city to know..." Jasmine's tirade slowed down as she spotted something strange floating in the lake, just under the bridge even, "What the hell?" This pause allowed Vinny to catch up, "Would ya shut UP about my dick!" When he didn't hear a retort, the man could see Jasmine scrambling to get her phone, "What's going on?" he asked as he looked out to the same spot as his girl. He instantly gasped and jumped back from the fright, "Holy shit!" She may have been facing down but it didn't hide the blood stains.

Stretching his back in the slightly foggy city morning, Ellis McKannan began his morning routine of warming up his milk for grits and eggs and making his way in a rather messy and cramped apartment to the handlebars he performed his pull-ups. He'd seen enough cops in his hometown get round, he wasn't going to fall for that honey trap. His electronic coffee maker brewed a new scent into the abode with every flex and relax, signalling his time to shower and ignore the buzzing phone right beside the picture of his parents. They looked so proud of him in his then brand-new officer uniform, before his transfer to the Big Apple itself. There was also a picture of his new office coworkers, all smiling as best as they could given their workload. By the time he was dressed for work ("Ties show professionalism, son," he heard his granddad's voice in his mind) and coat for the incoming cold front, he chucked his badge and his gun in his bag, and hailed a cab. He hadn't yet fixed his old trusty truck, landlord said he was too loud. "Man ain't hearin' his street..." El sighed, "103rd Precinct." As he read his messages, he stumbled upon one:

Get over to Central Pk, DB in water, need backup. U owe me $30, I got u that dvd u wanted - Piers N.

“Well hot damn, tha’ was fast…t’ th’ park,” the young detective sighed, and paid the cabbie extra while showing his tin, “An’ make it fast, I got me a dead body t’ put a name on it.” “Right away, officer!” the man’s thick Colombian accent made McKannan smile; it was comforting to know this city was just full of different voices and more. The noises were once aggravating, now serves a way to make sure the city is running, the city is alive, congested as it may be. The vendors hawking their products, the occasional street performer, every time he could send Keith and his parents a picture of the vast infrastructure, he could.

“Well, well, ain’t it great to see you, Sunshine,” Dr. Freeman called out from the extraction point, making a two-finger salute. “D’ya got nicknames fer ev’ryone in th’ force?” El smirked, grabbing a pair of blue latex-free gloves and mask to get close. Standing a good 6 feet, 3 inches, and wearing an equally impressive longcoat, Dr. Gordon Freeman made an impression amongst the crowd, towering above the average cop, topped with a short mess of auburn hair and a goatee that was due for a trim. Hidden behind the glasses, two green eyes scanned the area along with blues that still held the countryside sun in them, both looking for any clues or evidence of what brought this victim. “Oh yeah, every last one of you desk jockeys, you all have a name in my book,” the slight gruff of a man out in the fall chill was enough to make El concentrate on his job and adjust his jacket. “Say the magic words, Gordon; I have a killer headache and I will not destroy the break room,” so spoke the voice of a man who had just recovered from one hell of a hangover. Det. Nicolas Luce was a force to be reckoned with, a presence that never failed to get noticed when he arrived at the scene. Always dressed in a sharp suit, Nick was good at his job and he was not shy to show it off. “Showing up barely sober and wearing sunglasses doesn’t make for good police work, Luce, especially considering you’re the third cop to get here,” the medical examiner quipped just as the body was placed in the soft mat on higher ground. Battered and starting to swell, Jane Doe appeared to be in bad shape even before she hit the water, lips and nails blue from decomposition and the frigid temperature. Both Nick and Ellis stepped aside as the ME initiated his work, his kit flying open and his hands traced the head carefully. “What’s the prelim?” Nick inquired after a few minutes’ of labor. “Massive fracture of the Parietal bone, exposure of the posterior cranium fossa, cold has retained some of the evidence. I’ll send the report to you and Rochelle’s desk, she’s gotta be on top of this one from all this public exposure,” Gordon dictated without missing a beat, prompting El to ask, “In layman’s?” “I am currently touching the back of her brain.”