Free The Lost Witness by Robert Ellis Page B

“There was this case in Atlantic City,” he said. “Four prostitutes were raped and strangled to death a couple years ago.
They were found in a drainage ditch. I remember it because the details were so bizarre. The bodies were laid out in a row fully clothed. But their heads were facing east and their shoes had been
removed. I remember it because another murder case was making headlines. Not here in the States, but from a small town outside London. This time it was five prostitutes. Their bodies were found
over a period of ten days.”
    Lena knew where Rhodes was going. She actually remembered reading about both cases after an article popped up during a Google search. The story appeared in The New York Times, which had
recently opened their archives and made them free of charge. After her last investigation ended so violently, Lena began researching past cases in an attempt to better understand the man she had
chased down and killed. It had been part of her recovery. Dealing with the aftermath of taking a human life. The article in The New York Times was a side-by-side comparison of the two cases
Rhodes was talking about.
    “In the UK,” she said, “the detectives asked for help and the community came together.”
    “That’s right. They put up billboards at the soccer stadiums. They blanketed the streets with flyers. Even the prime minister offered his sympathy to the victims’ families.
What these women did for a living was irrelevant. The community came together because the victims were from their neighborhood and needed help. That’s all that mattered to them.”
    “I read about it,” she said. “They closed the case. They caught the guy.”
    “He’s going on trial next month. In New Jersey, they don’t even have a suspect yet because no one at the top gives a shit. They didn’t process Missing Persons Reports.
They wouldn’t even let vice detectives knock on doors. They wouldn’t let them do their jobs. The victims were whores, right? Streetwalkers who used drugs. Did you know that all four
victims were mothers and left behind young children?”
    Lena nodded.
    “Well, no one else did,” Rhodes said. “No one else knew because no one put it out there. The detectives’ hands were tied. Bad things happen to bad people—the
victims probably deserved it, right? And even if they didn’t—even though the guy’s still out there—our neighborhoods are better off without them. Our lawns are greener.
There’s more room on our streets for more luxury cars. If we keep quiet, the casinos won’t lose any money and people will still come to play the slots.”
    Rhodes became silent, but Lena knew why he seemed so bitter. Jane Doe No. 99 counted because she was an innocent victim, but Jennifer McBride wouldn’t because she was a whore. If they
worked the neighborhood, no one would care because no one would think that it had anything to do with them. The victim would be seen as irrelevant. The investigation, a needless interruption in
their busy and important lives. Even worse, when the chief reviewed his list of unsolved cases and cut it against the murder rate climbing to five hundred, there was a good chance that he might
reevaluate his resources and spend them somewhere else. The case might be shot down the divisional highway, then dropped altogether and put on ice.
    She could feel her heart beating in her chest. The anger that came with the possibility that Jennifer McBride might not count at Parker Center if your office was on the top floor.
    The phone began ringing again—another two rings before the machine picked up. Thirty seconds later, another shadowy voice filtered out of the bedroom. Another potential customer who had
read McBride’s ad and anxiously awaited her spell. Another willing subject who didn’t realize that his fantasy—the hot young blonde with magic hands and a knockout body—had
been dead for two days and was lying in a plastic bag at the morgue.
    When the call