Sleeping Beauties Ch. 01

Chapter One - The Bride Wore White

Author's Note: Penelope Bishop first appeared in my story 'Cop Town Girl'. This saga stands on its own but if you want to read about Penelope's past, the story is available for your perusal. I hope you enjoy this thriller.

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Penelope Bishop woke up to the ringing of her cell phone, her head groggy; to her it sounded like Quasimodo was ringing the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral inside her head.

"Fuck!" she reached out to her bedside table and on the third attempt snatched up her phone and silenced it by answering it.

"Yeah," her mouth tasted like someone had taken a dump in it.

"Is that the way to greet your partner and currently your best, no scrub that, only friend on the Balwyn PD?" Silvia Bickle replied.

"Fuck you Silvia. It's Monday, our day off," Penelope yawned into the phone.

"You gotta give up or at least cut down on the booze princess, it's fuckin' Tuesday and we caught a case," Silvia answered in a voice that sounded bright and cheery.

"Get up. Get dressed and I'll meet you out front in twenty minutes."

"Fuck!" Penelope's head was throbbing and her whole body ached.

"Nice. See you in twenty sister," Silvia cut the connection.

Penelope knew that being cheerful early in the morning was Silvia's way of torturing her.

Penelope forced herself to get up. She sat on the side of the bed dressed only in her panties and put her head between her legs until the dizziness and nausea went away sufficiently for her to stand. She made her way haltingly to the bathroom and opened the lid of the toilet. She reached inside the leg opening of her panties and extracted her penis; she had a morning glory which began to deflate immediately she got a steady stream going.

"Fuck being ladylike," she wheezed as she guided the stream into the bowl.

Normally she would have lowered her panties and sat down to pee like a woman but this morning she just couldn't be bothered.

She came back out of the ensuite bathroom and examined the damage. The work suit she had taken off two days ago still hung over the back of the chair in front of her vanity. The leather miniskirt and leopard-skin skank outfit she had worn last night was balled up in the corner along with her bra. Her high heels tossed on top of them. Her nylons hung over the bedhead.

Penelope saw two empty spirit glasses on her bedside table and two bottles of beer, one of which appeared to be half full.

She picked it up and took a slug and immediately spat back into the bottle. Someone had put a cigarette out in it.

Penelope made it back to the toilet bowl just in time to upchuck last night's dinner: a hotdog and a few peanuts from the communal bowl at the bar. She rinsed her mouth and drank greedily directly from the tap. She went back into the bedroom and heard a snore come from the mound of bedclothes on the other side of the bed from which she'd slept.

She picked up a high heel and threw it at the mound and congratulated herself for hitting the mound about where the head should be.

"Hey!" a slumberous male voice called from the mound.

"Hey! Whoever the fuck you are," Penelope yelled at the mound.

"I'm taking a shit and a shower and if you're not out of my apartment when I come out of the bathroom I'm going to open my gun safe and show you my weapon."

"I don't know if I told you last night that I am a cop but just take it as wrote. If you take anything with you that isn't yours, I'll find you and beat you to a pulp before I bring you in and then call your wife and tell her that her husband spent last night with a tranny and would she like to pick him up from jail," Penelope burped up a vile gobbet of mucus and then swallowed, wincing.

Penelope punished herself not only by drinking herself to oblivion, she brought home faceless men, some of whom had watched internet tranny porn and wanted to try the real thing until they did and then they felt remorse and disgust with themselves. She was surprised this one had stayed the night.

She went back into her bathroom and closed the door. She looked at herself in the mirror.

She was still wearing last night's makeup, no surprise there. Her lipstick, eyeshadow and mascara were streaked across her face and her hair was a tangled mess; clumps of it were stuck together by substances that she'd rather not guess. She took her toothbrush and toothpaste into the shower and ran it at full force as hot as she could stand it. She brushed her teeth three times, rinsing with mouthwash each time, and then she washed her hair and scrubbed her face. She lathered her body, rinsed off and felt a little better.

That was until she looked at herself in the full length mirror in the bedroom. The good thing about having breast implants was that her tits were always going to look good but the rest of her body was a testament to hard living. Her skin was pallid, she had the beginnings of a potbelly, her legs were still good but they needed shaving and she had bruises and contusions in several places and she didn't know how she had got them.

Her face, once pretty, had hardened, she was still beautiful but her beauty had an edge to it, she had bags under her eyes and wrinkles in what she called her laugh-lines; not that she laughed much anymore.

"Thank fuck for makeup," she whispered to herself.

She dried her hair as best she could with the hairdryer but it was still damp when she brushed it out. She put on her makeup and went searching for clothes to wear.

Penelope opened her lingerie drawer and saw that she had only one pair of clean panties, big white nylon granny-panties but they would have to do. She snagged the pantyhose off the headboard and the bra from the pile of clothing in the corner. It was then that she noticed that her 'gentleman friend' had left and she breathed a sigh of relief. She sat on the bed to pull on her pantyhose, tucking herself between her legs; she wasn't up to gaffing today. She pulled the granny-panties over the hose and was happy with the result. She put on her bra and took her suit into the lounge and threw it on sofa.

She looked at the clock and realised that there was no time to make coffee, no matter how desperately she needed it. She opened her refrigerator and saw that the shelves were bare except for a single bottle of beer, a half carton of orange juice with a use-by date of five days ago and two Tupperware containers of something mouldy.

She eyed the bottle of Lone Star and imagined drinking down the cold refreshing liquid but knew the beer would stay on her breath. She opened the freezer section and took out a half-bottle of vodka and put a slug in her cleanest dirty glass and topped it off with orange juice.

Penelope drank it in one long swallow and resisted the urge to make a second drink. Instead she went into the laundry and rummaged around until she found her cleanest dirty blouse. It was one of those days when cleanest dirty would have to do.

"Christ I gotta do some laundry," she whispered to herself.

"I gotta get my life in order," she whispered again, pulling on the blouse and using a wet washcloth on a stubborn stain on the front of it.

Her work suit was a little better. It was rumpled but at least it wasn't stained.

Penelope unlocked the gun safe and took out her Glock, her gold shield and her ID. She pinned the shield to the waistband of her skirt, put the Glock in its pancake holster and threw her ID into her purse. She sat down and squeezed her feet into her black low-heels and rubbed them with the same washcloth which she had used on her blouse.

"Fuck!" she sighed again as another wave of nausea washed over her.

She stood up, found her keys and tossed them into her purse and made her way to the front door. She ran back to the kitchen and took another slug of vodka straight from the bottle and then she took a deep breath and opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

"Not too bad," she lied to herself as she checked herself out in the mirror in the elevator.

Penelope put on her sunglasses and walked to the kerb checking her watch. Silvia Bickle was sitting in the driver's seat of a city owned Crown Vic and she looked pissed.

Penelope slid into the front passenger seat and closed the door with a hefty thunk, pretending to be bright eyed and bushy tailed but the slamming door triggered another headache.

"You look like shit girl," Silvia stated the obvious.

Silvia was thirty-five, slim but powerful, and was wearing a pristine dark-grey pantsuit, dazzling white blouse, and polished black low heels. Her makeup was perfect and complimented her complexion, her loose black curls cascaded to her shoulders. A native Texan, she was African American, incredibly beautiful and a lesbian. She had been Penelope's partner for just over a year.

"What have we got?" Penelope yawned.

"What time did you get to bed or more importantly what time did you get to sleep girl?" Silvia asked.

"None of your beeswax honey; what we got?" Penelope reiterated.

"SWF aged thirty-eight, cocktail waitress, found dead in her apartment, almost certainly a homicide and sexual assault," Silvia replied.

"Another woman who brought home the wrong guy, jealous partner, robbery gone wrong?" Penelope speculated.

"Well you'd know all about bringing home the wrong guy," Penelope said sarcastically.

"Fuck you. Let's get to the scene," Penelope mooched in her handbag for cigarettes and pulled one out.

"You light that and I'm going to throw it out the window and you will follow," Silvia said through gritted teeth.

Penelope tossed the cigarette back in her bag and leaned back in the seat. Five minutes later she was propped against the window, fast asleep. Her legs were wide open, her skirt hiked up and she was snoring. Silvia noted that Penelope had a runner in her stocking on the inside of her right leg running from ankle to thigh.

"You're all class girl," Silvia said to herself.

She reached over and pulled down the hem of Penelope's skirt.

"Don't touch what you can't afford," Penelope said; her eyelids slitted.

"You got nothing under that skirt that I'm interested in girl," Silvia replied.

Penelope slept until they were a half block from the crime scene when Silvia shook her awake.

"Rise and shine sugar; get your game face on," Silvia said.

Outside a three-story redbrick apartment block, cordoned off with police tape, were the corner's van, a CSI van, and three cruisers with their top lights spinning lazily. Uniformed cops stood around keeping a small crowd outside the barrier but mainly shooting the shit and trying to look like they were actually working.

"Let's get those assholes busy going door to door," Penelope yawned and shook her head to wake herself up.

Silvia tossed Penelope a bottle of spring water which she opened and gulped down and then she gave her a stick of gum.

"I love you partner," Penelope smirked.

"I fuckin' hate you partner, you're hard work," Silvia got out of the car.

Penelope got out and did her best to straighten her skirt and jacket.

"Here comes the alphabet twins," one of the cops joked.

He was referring to the joke about the LGBTI community highjacking twenty percent of the alphabet.

Silvia walked up to a Sargent who was leaning on a cruiser.

"You guys got an identity on the vic? This her place?"

He opened his notebook.

"Rhonda Stevens. The building manger confirmed that a woman fitting the description of the deceased is the registered tenant. Lived here for two years plus, good tenant, pays her rent on time, no noise complaints yadda yadda yadda," the cop flicked through the pages of his notebook.

"Did you just yadda a potential murder victim Sargent?" Silvia gave him a grave look.

"Sorry Lieutenant," the Sargent replied with no remorse whatsoever.

"The vic's friend was worried because she didn't make her shift at the Starlight Lounge and wasn't answering her calls. The friend had a key to the apartment and let herself in. Found Ms Stevens dead and dialled 911," the Sargent continued.

"Leave one officer to secure the scene and get those other guys and gals canvassing the neighbourhood," Silvia was no nonsense.

"Yes ma'am," the Sargent replied.

"Ok assholes. Hoofs and elbows; get canvassing," the Sargent yelled out and Silvia cringed.

Penelope had taken the time to smoke half a cigarette which she crushed out on the pavement when Silvia approached her outside the entrance to the apartment.

"You did the class on crime scene integrity right?" Silvia was getting pissed.

Penelope bent down gingerly and picked up the butt. She followed Silvia inside the building.

Unlike the characters in CSI television shows, the crime scene techs didn't wear Armani, Gucci, or look like fashion models or rock stars or have large calibre pistols on their hips. They were mostly pale dweebs who wore disposable, papery-plastic protective material called Tyvek on top of their own clothes, and latex gloves, and hair coverings to prevent them from contaminating the scene. They wore disposable Tyvek booties over their shoes and were meticulous about where they trod.

As the detectives assigned to the case, Penelope and Silvia were allowed access to the crime scene but had to wear booties, gloves and hair coverings. The CSI team had laid plastic mat strips over the carpet in Rhonda Stevens' bedroom where they were allowed to walk.

"Welcome Lieutenants Bishop and Bickle. You know the drill and if you see anything we need to process, please advise me accordingly," Bob Tanner was leader of the CSI team.

He was a hair and fibre specialist and was accompanied by a fingerprint expert, currently using a brush and black powder on the hard surfaces, and a crime scene photographer who was taking snaps with a high resolution camera. Yellow and black numbered tags were placed next to items considered significant to the crime.

Silvia had taken the PD issued iPad from their vehicle and was entering in data in a newly created case file. Penelope surveyed the crime scene and a shiver ran down her spine. This was no ordinary murder scene.

Rhonda Stevens lay on her back on her bed. She almost looked serene, like she was sleeping. Her hands were opened, arms by her side, her legs spread. She was wearing a white see-through bra and translucent white hipster panties, white sheer stockings clipped to a white satin and lace garter belt, and white high heels. She was also wearing a white satin and lace wedding veil, pulled back to reveal her face.

Her makeup was perfect and her brunette hair, worn short with bangs was coiffed. She looked like a bride on her wedding night.

"Maybe she got fed up of being a spinster and took a permanent vacation?" the officer standing at the doorway controlling access to the crime scene added helpfully.

"Why don't you shut the fuck up and face front officer," Penelope said brusquely to the rookie who was obviously trying to ingratiate himself with the detectives, ridiculously offering suicide as a cause of death.

The officer turned away and faced front but turned around to watch again after he was no longer the focus of attention.

Brendan Scott, the medical examiner, was packing his valise and when he was finished he walked over to where Penelope and Silvia were standing, surveying the crime scene.

"Cause of death?" Silvia asked.

"There are no obvious signs of a gunshot wound, stabbing, or strangulation but there are puncture wounds in the crook of her left elbow; looks like she was recently injected with something but there is no evidence of her being a drug user," Brendon shook his head.

"There are also no defensive wounds I can see but she has obviously had sexual relations recently. I'll have a better idea once we get her to morgue. There is something strange about the whole thing," Brendon Scott said, scratched his balding pate.

"I'll have my guys collect her when you release the body from the scene," he walked away gripping his medical bag.

"It's staged," Penelope said, regarding Rhonda Stevens' body.

Both women moved in to examine the body being careful where they stood and not to touch anything. Penelope's hangover diminished as she focussed her mind on the crime scene.

"Definitely staged, look at how her arms and legs have been arranged; her legs lewdly spread. You can see the semen glistening in her vulva though those transparent panties. I'm guessing was raped, probably before she was killed, and was possibly unconscious when intercourse took place," Penelope studied the corpse.

"Look; it's not only how she's dressed, the fetishism of it, she was obviously dressed by someone else while she was either dead or unconscious. Nothing really fits right. Look at those heels; they have to be two sizes too big for her feet. I bet you that the murderer brought those clothes to the scene," Penelope shined her small torch over Rhonda Stevens' body.

"The makeup too; I bet that was put while she was unconscious or dead. Whoever did it did a great job, a bit heavy for my taste though," Penelope directed the beam of her torch onto Rhonda Stevens' face.

Silvia Bickle harrumphed when Penelope made her comment about the woman's makeup being heavy; Penelope was known to 'slap on the paint' herself.

"What's that smell; perfume? It's really strong," Penelope sniffed the body.

"I think I know that smell; Poison, it was a really popular perfume in the eighties," Penelope sniffed Rhonda Stevens' neck.

"Hey. Look at this," Penelope leaned in, and used a magnifying glass she had borrowed from the forensic team.

"Her lipstick has been reapplied. It's been smeared and then a second coat has been put over. I think the murderer was kissing her and smeared her makeup and then reapplied the lipstick," Penelope leaned away from the body.

"You ready for my take?" Penelope asked Silvia.

"Sure professor; tell me what you think," Silvia replied.

"The murderer drugged her, that's the needle mark in her arm. He knocked her out and dressed her like this including putting on her makeup and brushing her hair. He had sex with her, hence the semen inside her panties, during which he kissed her, rather passionately to smudge that expensive two-coat lipstick," Penelope began.

"When he finished with her, and we don't know how long he was here, he fixed her makeup, rearranged her lingerie and posed her like that, legs spread."

"I bet we find that none of her own lingerie comes close to the sort of stuff she's wearing; I bet you he brought the clothing to the scene, probably the makeup too."

"When he was done he jabbed her again to kill her, if she wasn't dead before," Penelope hypothesised.

"Thank you Sherlock. Shall we work the scene?" Silvia was being flippant but she agreed with Penelope's theory.

They let the CSI guys go to work on the body and they worked the crime scene, Silvia entered data into the tablet, which had an encrypted link to Police Plaza, a grandiose name for the building annexed to the Balwyn municipal building.

"Ok, let's tag her and bag her," Bob Tanner was ripping off his gloves.

"Don't talk like that Bob. I know this job hardens us, but have a little respect please," Penelope said.

Bob nodded apologetically.

Penelope and Silvia sat down to compare notes on the couch in Rhonda Stevens' small combined living room, kitchen.

"You first," Penelope was thirsty and jonesing for a cigarette.

"No sign of forced entry, my guess is the guy came home with her or was invited inside," Silvia began.

"The little cocktail waitress dress and the underwear that she wore for work at the Starlight Lounge were folded up on a chair in her bedroom. Her heels are under the chair. I took photos and bagged it for forensics to look at."

"I checked her wardrobe, clothes drawers and all the cupboards. Her underwear is as about what you'd expect for a working cocktail waitress; lots of nude pantyhose, plenty of satin panties and half cup bras. That cocktail waitress dress is low-cut and short-skirted but there is nothing like the fetish lingerie she was wearing."