07.1 Whiting of Indiana

Meanwhile, the Ford Bronco accelerated up the Indianapolis Boulevard. Her mind occupied over a reason why she wished not to see Cyril Corporation offices. Too many to chase. One important office located in Bedford Park between Midway and Belt Railway. She missed it too. She’d not be able to return to Chicago anytime soon but there was no point she could think of going there.

She wore the same outfit but no longer wearing the black fishnet tights. On the road, she wore thin.

She didn’t have the addresses of the two women who died in Robertsdale in Whiting but she was heading there; the scene of murders – three women from Whiting. Particularly to Reese Avenue where Sidney Martin lived. She grew overconfident as an expert to find houses. She drove fast and turned into what she assumed would be Reese Avenue. She didn’t check the map. And shockingly, she read the green signboard; Myrtle Avenue. She quickly grabbed the map and checked to find her on a road right behind Reese Avenue.

Finally, she stopped outside Sidney Martin’s, 96 Reese Avenue, that stood hidden under a tree. A narrow brick house with stairs to reach the floor level and a wire mesh fence around the perimeter, single hung windows and looking ordinary. An affordable house with mud-like walls and green roof. This house was occupied by a new bunch of tenants. She took few photographs while seated in the car.

Natalia climbed down and strolled towards the corner. Camera and handbag on her shoulder. She asked an elderly woman whether she knew Cindy Lockwood or Laura Hudson. By chance, that lady pointed to a house on Myrtle Avenue which was Laura Hudson’s home; the lady found dead in Forsythe Park, 56 years old.

Natalia continued to walk up the lane to Myrtle Avenue, took photographs as she passed the blue house. Strolled around the block back to her car. She didn’t want to bother these families because sadly they think two of the women died of natural deaths.

She drove to St Catherine and enquired a senior nurse if she knew Cindy Lockwood; 39-year-old who died in sleep.

“I do,” replied Nurse Gladys.

“Do you have her address?”

She noted down an address on Parkview Avenue.

“By any chance, do you have a photo of her?” she asked the nurse.

“Yes,” said the nurse, “in a past brochure, I will show you.” She produced a 1982 trifold colour brochure. “Here, this is Cindy Lockwood. A beautiful soul.”

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” exclaimed Natalia.

Her face was very clear, standing in a row among four nurses behind a specialist with stethoscope around his neck, posing above shoulders and all smiles.

Natalia asked, “Do you have a picture of Sidney Martin?”

In another brochure covering top half of a page, in an operation theatre, she stood among others beside a patient, in scrubs and unfortunately her face half covered in a mask.

“Is it helping you?” asked the nurse.

“Hugely!” Natalia cried, “Thanks, Nurse Gladys. You know them, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“How would you describe Sidney Martin?”

“She’s a hardworking girl. Very patient.”

“And Cindy Lockwood? Does she have a family?”

“Her son stays there. His name is Mark.”

“Thank you,” Natalia passed her business card, “I’m a Forensic Pathologist. Ignore that Mister Sarin. I am Natalia for you. I might have to call you again.”

“Gladly,” uttered the nurse.

“May I keep these!”

“Yes, you may.”

“Thank you,” she clutched her coat and left with the brochures.

She felt all the hairless spores in her body raised as she scuttled down the steps to her car. She drove back to Robertsdale at reckless speed. Kicked in the back to go even faster, the rate she moved was slow. She wanted to bother them now and find this Mark. Out of the blue, she got images of both their faces; Cindy and Laura.