“I don’t care. What it looks like and what it turns out to be may be two different things. I’m not taking any chances.”
With the assistance of several other officers who had just arrived on scene, they quickly canvassed the surrounding blocks to ascertain if anyone had seen or heard anything relative to the murders.
Thirty minutes had passed when a car drove up to the yellow crime scene tape half a block away. Out stepped a man in his mid-forties, his hair an uncombed mess, his suit coat creased and covering a severely wrinkled shirt.
Stuart Saperstein exchanged pleasantries with Jennings and received a cold reception from Moreno, who was apparently silently protesting his need to be there. No doubt sensing the tension, the criminalist excused himself and began the task of documenting the scene by arranging a handful of halogen floodlights a short distance from the bodies.
He opened his field kit and within a couple of minutes was on his hands and knees, examining each of the bodies. He measured distances and calculated angles, dictating his findings into a digital recorder. Steam was rising off the hot floodlights against the cold, damp December air.
Squinting at the ruler through his reading glasses, he motioned for the identification technician who had just arrived to photograph and document the scene. “As soon as I mark this, let’s get a series of shots. When you take the midrange shot, I want to be in it.”
“You’re so vain,” Jennings said, leaning over his shoulder.
“It helps for the jury to see me at the crime scene examining the physical evidence. It gives me an advantage over the defense’s expert-”
“I know. Just giving you shit.”
Moreno shook her head and walked off down the block in the direction of an officer who was approaching with a man at his side.
Saperstein stood up and faced Jennings. He tilted his head back and looked at the detective through his glasses, which were resting on the tip of his bulbous nose. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
Saperstein smiled. “Yeah, but I always do.” He motioned to Moreno, who was nearing the officer down the block. “She doesn’t like me.”
“Nothing personal. She just didn’t think a criminalist was needed here.”
“New to Homicide?”
“Transferred in from Vice three months ago.”
“Guess I’ll have to prove her wrong. Teach her a lesson.” Saperstein bent down to measure again. He was a perfectionist, and with good cause: when there were no obvious suspects, homicide detectives often relied heavily on the criminalist’s interpretation of the scene. If he could accurately ascertain what had happened, he could then surmise why it happened-which could help determine the sequence and mode of death, the victim’s position at the time of the deadly blow, or how many shots were fired in a gun-related homicide. Often, the physical evidence the criminalist gathered at the crime scene was enough to narrow the field of suspects, help locate the perpetrator, or obtain a confession from him.
Jennings looked up and saw that Moreno was talking to the man the officer had brought over: a witness. As he made his way toward his partner, he rubbed his gloved hands together to bring blood and warmth to his numb fingertips.
“What’s the deal?” he asked as she flipped her notepad closed.
Moreno nodded at the man to her left. “This is Clarence Hollowes. Says he heard a big bang around eleven- thirty, ran out into the street, and saw a car leaving the scene.”
“I don’t want to get involved with no po-leece,” Hollowes said, jawing on a piece of gum. He was dressed in clothing that was even more wrinkled than Saperstein’s. He was unshaven and his hair was peppered with gray.
“Why not?” Jennings asked. “Got something to hide?”
“Po-leece mean trouble. That’s just the way it is. You get involved, you get in trouble.”
“We’re not going to cause you any trouble, are we, detective?” Jennings glanced at Moreno, who frowned at him. More fallout from having called Saperstein. He turned back to his witness. “What can you tell me about the car?”
“Well, as I was telling this lady here, it was dark colored. A fancy one, real shiny, kind of like a Mercedes.”
“Was it like a Mercedes, or was it a Mercedes?”
“I’m not an expert or nothing on fancy cars, but it was a Mercedes. I’m pretty sure.”
“He got a partial plate,” Moreno said.
“Oh. You saw the license plate, sir?”
“Yeah, like I told her, I saw two numbers. A two and a C.”
“Did you get a look at the driver?”
“Looked like a white guy. Wearing a baseball hat.”
“Did you see a logo or anything on the hat?” Jennings asked.
He hesitated a moment. “Maybe there was something on it, I don’t remember.”
“What’d the driver look like?”
“You know, a white guy.”
“Old or young?”
“Neither.”
“Beard?”
“Uh, no beard, I don’t think.”
“Any distinguishing marks? Scars, moles-”
“Just a white guy, ya know? Didn’t see no face. Drove by me real fast.”
“Did you see what color hair he had?”
Hollowes shrugged. “Nah, too dark. Too fast.”
“What about the car? Any dents, broken lights or windows?”
“Man, I don’t know. It happened fast, you see? Bang, boom, I ran over and saw the car leaving. Then I saw them bodies in the street.”
“I’m gonna give you my card,” Jennings said as he pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket. “Call me if the car comes by here again, or if any of your friends say they saw something, okay?” He looked at Moreno. “You got his address?”
“Ain’t got no address,” Hollowes said.
Jennings had already guessed the man was homeless-which made the detective grateful for the information Hollowes had provided. In his experience, the homeless tried not to get involved, preferring to function outside of society,
“In that case,” Jennings said, “call us collect.”
Hollowes took the card and studied it.
“Oh,” Jennings said. “One last thing. Did you touch the bodies?”
“Touch them?” Hollowes asked, looking down at the ground. “Now why would I do something like that?”
“You know, to get some change, a buck or two for food.”
“I just took the cash, that’s all. Gotta eat, you know?”
“Did you take anything else?” Jennings asked. “It’s important that we know.”
“You see? Talk to the po-leece, get in trouble.”
“No trouble, Mr. Hollowes. We’re not gonna arrest you. It’s just that we have to know if you took a wallet, or anything like that. We’d need the identification to tell us who these people are.”
“No. Just the money. There was eight bucks in his wallet, twelve in hers. They were dead. They ain’t gonna miss it.”
“Did you move the bodies in any way?”
“No. I didn’t touch no dead bodies. Just took their money.”
Jennings nodded. “Thanks again for your help. We’ll be in touch.”
“They good people,” Hollowes said.
