DEXTER WANNBE: THE OPERETTA

The Gay Detective: Death and the Merry Widows

Who says Death doesn’t have a sense of humor?

Some crime scenes get to you more than others. And standing in the rain at three a.m. in a dingy, dumpster-filled alley in Midtown wasn’t helping.

Grungy cement walls smothered in tired graffiti — gang tags and faded ad slogans. Blind-eyed, blacked out windows. The ’80s tunes blasting from the hole-in-the-wall club across the alley would’ve drowned out any screams.

I turned my collar against the icy downpour and sighed. Gazed at the tent Harry’s team had erected over the young woman’s body. Reminded myself the scene wouldn’t improve with waiting. I took a deep breath and stepped back into the dubious shelter of the incident tent.

My work partner of twenty years cocked a bushy brow. “Boss?”

Back to work. I nodded. “What do we know?”

The M.E. looked up. “Blitz attack. One quick blow to incapacitate, then she was redressed, suffocated, and posed.”

“Same as the others?”

“Looks to be so far.” She beckoned to the waiting attendants. “I’ll know more in a bit.”