Her Fault

Blood dribbled into the slits of the pallet as the investigator lifted the body’s arm.

“Female, aged 20-25, lacerations across her throat and upper torso,” he thought aloud.

“That’s a shame,” one of the detectives said, still spooling out the Caution Tape.

“Oh?” the investigator asked, stepping away.

“You know, for her to die so young.”

“I suppose, I suppose,” the investigator yanked off his gloves and stared down at the body, “but she was asking for it.”

“What?”

“Look at her. Barely dressed, shoes missing, no cell phone. Clearly, she was walking down this back street at night, all alone, never stopping to think how easily she could be murdered. It’s her own damn fault.”

“But that’s…” the young detective turned his head, trying to imagine the girl sashaying through the discarded trash on the street as if she owned it. “Yeah…”

“And how do we even know she was murdered,” the investigator continued.

“I…what?”

“Women are always lying about shit for attention. I bet she faked her murder and wasn’t stabbed to death at all. They love getting that victim card. It’s all a false flag.” The investigator held a hand up to his mouth and shouted at the bruised face, “You’re not really dead! We know you’re faking it!”

“Yeah,” the detective agreed, nodding his head, “And…” A rush of temerity rose from his shins at the investigator’s attention and he drove onward, “And how come we never talk about all the men getting murdered? Way more men are killed every year than women, but you don’t see people taking statements or following clues about all of them at this crime scene! It’s a travesty!”

The investigator wrapped his arms around the detective’s shoulders, “Come on. Let’s get out of here. We’ve got better shit to do.”

Disregarded blood dried to the pavement.