SCAR WARSQueen Amidala lay on the dry grass, her pale mouth open in midscream. Her enormous headdress was askew, the humongous sleeves of her red gown partially ripped from the collar to the bodice. Police Inspector SJ Tuason’s eyes swept the crime scene. Then she knelt beside the corpse with its perfect bent-twig eyebrows and impossibly high cheekbones.
“It’s not even Halloween,” she muttered, hiding a surge of pity.
A Scene Of the Crime Operative, in the familiar black T-shirt with yellow markings was taking pictures.
SJ, who preferred to be called by her surname, Tuason, peered at the victim’s bruised throat, the pinprick dots on her skin, and the bloodshot eyes, which were bulged in fear. She imagined Zaldy Bernal saying, “Note the petechial hemorrhaging, and the contusions on the t
