Seth Winters
I was still looking at the eight cases spread out across my desk. My gut insisted that they were all connected, I was just missing something. I was combing through the medical examiner’s reports again, for what seemed like the hundredth time. I held my head in my hand as I scanned them yet again. All of the girls had been sexually active, but none of them showed any evidence of r**e. I flipped through the documents and pulled out the file for Wendy Whickets, the girl that had died of asphyxiation.
“Two small sores on the vulva area, indictive of syphilis.” Yes, I had read that before, but hadn’t thought it noteworthy that the girl had an STD. Given that statistically 1 out of every 5 people has some kind of sexually transmitted disease, it wasn’t exactly shocking.
