Her name was Florence Francis Onions and she was 33 years old. She was fond of the water, which became her downfall, since she chose to take the route through Brentleigh Park that night – presumably to take in the last of the lake views before the sun disappeared altogether. She wore contacts, mildly tinted to enhance the blue of her eyes. She was allergic to cats – or, more accurately, cat hair, it seemed – and she shaved, not waxed. She had her hair coloured regularly – the most recent looking just days from fresh, and she kept her nails short and tidy. She flossed regularly and preferred plain, sensible cotton underwear. The content of her handbag added more detail to her story – evidently she was a woman who liked to be prepared, her purse carrying bandaids, a pen – Cartier – a travel pack of tissues and a tube of sanitized handwash – pump variety. She suffered indigestion, or so the packet of Tums suggested.
No, there was no doubt that Florence Francis Onions was a lady who took care of herself. He gazed at her a minute longer, her eyes closed and face at peace, and gently he reached toward her. Carefully, tenderly, he slipped the slender band of gold from third finger, left hand, and held it just a second longer than he needed to, then added it to the tagged bag.
Exhaling, Detective Sergeant Oldfield mopped at his face with the back of his hand. This bloody job never gets any easier. Time to head back to his wife, his kids, his home in the ‘burbs both a lifetime yet just a few streets away from Brentleigh Park. Turning his back on Florence Francis Onions, he whispered a silent prayer and pushed open the double steel doors that led toward his other life. He heard the morgue doors clang closed behind him as he headed toward the carpark.