The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK TM

SOB SISTERS, by Kris Nelscott

                Technically, I wasn’t supposed to be at the crime scene. I wasn’t supposed to be at any crime scene. I’m not a cop; I’m not even a private detective. I’m just a woman who runs a rape hot line in a town that doesn’t think it needs one, even though it is 1972.

                Still, what woman says no when she gets a phone call from the Madison Police Department, asking for her presence at the site of a murder?

                A sensible one, that’s what my volunteers would have said. But I have never been sensible.

                Besides, the call came from Detective Hank Kaplan who, a few months ago, had learned the hard way to take me seriously. Unlike a lot of cops who would’ve gotten angry when a woman out-thought him, Kaplan responded with respect. He’s one of the new breed of men who doesn’t mind strong women, even if he still has a derogatory tone when he uses the phrase “women’s libbers.”

                The house was an old Victorian on a large parcel of land overlooking Lake Mendota. Someone had neatly shoved the walk down to the bare concrete, and had closed the shutters on the sides of the wrap-around porch, leaving only the area up front to take the brunt of the winter storms.

                And of the police.

                Squads and a panel van with the official MPD logo on the side parked along the curb. I counted at least four officers milling about the open door while I could see a couple more moving near the large picture window.

                I parked my ten-year-old Ford Falcon on the opposite side of the street and steeled myself. I was an anomaly no matter how you looked at it: I was tiny, female and black in lily-white Madison, Wisconsin. Most locals would’ve thought I was trying to rob the place rather than show up at the invitation of the lead detective.



                             I grabbed the hot line’s new Polaroid camera. Then I got out of the car, locked it, and walked as calmly as I could across the street. I wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves, so I stuck my hands in the pocket of my new winter coat. At least the coat looked respectable. My torn jeans, sneakers, and short-cropped afro was too hippy for authorities in this town.

                As I approached, a young officer on the porch turned toward me, then leaned toward an older officer, said something, and rolled his eyes. At that moment, Kaplan rounded the side of the house and caught my gaze.

                He hurried down the sidewalk toward me. He was wearing a blue police coat over his black trousers and galoshes over his dress shoes. Unlike the street cops on the porch, he didn’t wear a cap, leaving his black hair to the vicissitudes of the wind. He was an uncommonly handsome man, with more than a passing resemblance to the Marlboro Man from the cigarette ads. I found his good looks annoying.

                “Miss Wilson,” he said loud enough for the others to hear, “come with me.”

                He sounded official. The cops outside started in surprise, then gave me a once-over.

                A shiver ran down my back. I hated the scrutiny, even though I knew he had done it on purpose, so no one would second-guess my presence here.

                “This way,” he said, and put a hand on my back to help me up the curb.

                I couldn’t help it; I stiffened. He let his hand drop.

                “Sorry,” he said. He knew I had been brutalized by a cop in Chicago. While that experience had made me stronger, I still had a rape survivor’s aversion to touch.

                “What’s going on here?” I asked.

                “I’ll show you,” Kaplan said. “But we’re going in the back. Did you bring your camera?”