There was nothing about the dark that scared Detective Wakefield. The fact that she couldn't see her hand didn't make her heart leap in fear, nor the fact that shadows shifted around her. Fear was an emotion she did not commonly experience after so many years in the presence of death, especially when you knew that fear did not help you survive any more than a piece of string. Fear clogged up the mind, made you panic; made your heart beat until your whole body felt out of control and it shook. Fear did not help you when Death stared at you with bleak, black eyes.

And the Detective often found herself looking into the eyes of death. They weren't always black…sometimes they were blue or green, but they all had the common feature of being set in a cold, pale face. Over a hundred faces could cross Wakefield's mind when she thought of death. Not the peaceful, gentle kind but the deaths with blood and weapons. Not that the Detective would ever look up to the heavens and pray that such death would end. Oh no…far from it. This was the kind of death that made the Detective's life.

The Homicide Detective stepped out of her car to be faced with the New York Crime Scene Unit. Lights flashed blue and white from the squad cars that blocked off access to the alley. The sound of the city blared in the background but at the alley, the air was filled of noises from the uniformed and plainclothed cops and the civilians, who had huddled at the scenes periphery. An eddy of wind blew a strand of the Detectives black hair across her face and with a deft action she drew it back to place. Her long strides bore her over to the centre of attention over by a large dumpster as her mind set itself to work. Moving her way through two blue uniforms, she got her first glimpse of the body.

The body was propped up in the corner like a rag doll. The skin sickly pale. There was only the shadow of death in those once baby blue eyes. Lank dirty black hair hung on either side of the victims face and fell to the shoulders. The neck was savagely cut. A four inch tearing of the flesh encrusted with drying dark blood. And as the Detective had seen far too many times before, there was little blood that trickled down the body. Less than an inch of dry blood bled from the wound, except for either side of the cut in which a trail of blood lead down the body to soak into the thin white dress. The Detectives eyes scanned the dress; dirt marred its white perfection, stains of dirty brown, but not any marks you wouldn't usually expect to find if you'd been laying next to a damp, dark alley wall on a November night. There were no rips, no bruises…no sign of a struggle at all.

Another one of the classic signs.

And then there was that expression. That peaceful, relaxed face molded by death as you looked upon it. So unsettling…that such a death should come with serenity.

All of these signs would have told Detective Wakefield who had done this even if it hadn't been called out over her police radio.

Since the first death in May, the Detective had been on the case of the Silent Killer murders. The bodies were always drained of blood, taken from a slit across the smooth vulnerable throat, but with no fight and no fear. The unit knew that the blood was probably being contained and taken away. But they didn't know how the killer successfully collected so much, so neatly, from one wound on the body. They didn't know how the murders were always so public but so unnoticed. No screams. No struggles. None of the victims showed any sign that they had fought for survival. No witnesses. No D.N.A or fingerprints. No footprints. Not unless they belonged to the dead.

The police department was at a dead end. There was no connection between the victims; males and females; all body types from all lifestyles; ages ranging from seventeen to fifty two. There were no clues, no common features of a serial killer. There had already been eight bodies found, tonight the ninth. All the same. And the New York City Police were no way near preventing the next. But the precinct knew that the lead Detective would find the killer.

Cold, ball busting Detective Wakefield with her shrewd mind, was dominated by her need to find the killer rather than save the lives of the innocent. She viewed all crime scenes with a frosty, detached look. A blank expression with only her calculating, roving eyes to suggest she even thought anything about what she saw. Only a slight frown ever marred her pleasant features, when she was thinking and her eyes were least withdrawn. But not today. As she analysed the features of death in this dark alley, her body froze and her breathing came in short shallow bursts.

The two uniformed officers glanced at her with concern, but after a few seconds their attention was caught by a ripple of motion on the other side of the semi circle surrounding the body. Detective Burke was a slight man, with little presence compared to the other Detective. He didn't lack compassion and a slight sadness always gleamed in his eyes when he saw the dead left behind to tell the story. And right now, a wary and sad look could be read in his eyes. He glanced at Detective Wakefield, and a slight flinch of distaste crossed his features before he looked at the body.

"The victim has been identified" His voice was softer than usual, but he pitched it to carry. If you were close enough, you could distinguish his reluctant tone "The victim has been identified…as…a one…Christine Wakefield"

Detective Wakefield's impassive face blanched visibly with shock.