“Help me get Miss Johnson turned over.”
Rocco walked around the table, and both detectives took a step back, giving them the room they needed. They watched as both men turned the body so that she was positioned on her back.
“Thank you,” Decker said. Rocco nodded and left the room the same way he entered.
Decker positioned the woman’s arms down at her sides. The left arm still jutted out to the side, but then he pulled the cloth up to her shoulders and, lifting her head, placed a low block under her neck before gently, lowering her head back down.
Rebecca walked over to the table and looked at the young woman lying there.
“Tell me something, Charlize.” She lifted the girl’s cold right hand up and examined her fingernails, noting her nail polish was pristine. Her fingernails—filed squarely—were neat and clean. “Either didn’t see it coming or knew who did this.”
“Yeah, that would be my guess.” Decker said.
“Let’s go, Bec. We can come back later. Don’t want to be here when mommy and daddy see their little girl on the slab.”
“You can go outside if you want, Randy, but I’m going to wait.”
“I think she likes watching other people’s misery,” Randy said to Decker.
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” Rebecca answered indignantly. “I want to see if they have any idea who may have wanted their daughter dead.”
“Ah, fine—fuck it. I’m waiting over here.”
He walked over towards the window and stood leaning against the metal desk in the shadows, his arms crossed over his chest.
They didn’t have long to wait before a woman, a very elegant and extraordinarily beautiful woman, pushed her way in, followed by a tall man with a stiff, emotionless face. The woman hesitated for a moment before fixing her gaze on the young woman lying on the stainless table. She stared for a good, long minute, without shifting or moving before looking up. Her mouth turned down, her face entirely vacant.
Decker Finley standing to the left of her nodded his head in greeting, “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I am very sorry for your loss.”
Rebecca noticed her fists clench before she walked determinably up to the metal table where the dead body of her daughter lay. She looked down, her eyes slowly sweeping the length of the young woman’s covered body. Then she spun around, taking a step closer to her husband, who kept his distance from the table, and looked him squarely in the eyes. She said in a low voice, vibrating with anger, “You get that son of a bitch, Craig, or I will.”