Before Deputy Chief Archer could terminate Brad for falsifying a return-to-work letter, Mayor Roger Kearse recognized Brad and his team as heroes. Mayor Kearse had been adamant Brad remain a cop and keep his position in Homicide. First, Archer and Coulter agreed on a one-month unpaid leave where Brad would assist Crown Prosecutor Jenni Blighe with the case against the surviving killer, Logan Hirsch. It kept Brad out of the public eye, away from cops who felt Coulter had crossed a line, and it allowed him to use his law degree after passing the bar exams earlier this year. Brad also used the time to take his dog, Lobo, for daily runs, keeping in great shape.
The second part of Archer’s plan was to keep Brad busy taking courses and, therefore, unavailable to respond to homicides and not on the roster. Last week, he’d attended classes on Multi-Culturalism and Media Relations.
This week it was Crime Scene Management, the new course name the identification bureau geeks adopted to make themselves feel important. At least after today, he’d get a three-day break. The instructor was his good friend and academy classmate, Sergeant Bill Sturgeon. He’d heard Sturgeon’s rant many times over beer. He even looked the part of a professor. Stocky build, thick salt-and-pepper—more salt—hair combed back, a bushy mustache and a herringbone blazer. Gray eyes roamed the classroom. The only things missing were leather patches on his elbows and a pipe. Although, having his friend as an instructor wasn’t enough to keep Brad awake.
“Crime Scene Management is changing. We cannot have the first officers on scene and detectives wandering around contaminating the area. The Crime Scene Unit needs to be the first at the scene to video, take photos and identify evidence before your size-twelve boots grind everything into the carpet or ground. Before your donut-sticky fingers touch everything.”
“That’s hurtful,” a detective said.
“Truth hurts,” another replied.
Sturgeon waited for the laughter to subside.
Brad’s head bobbled, then his chin returned to his chest.
He woke out of his snooze when he heard his name.
“Those are the essential points of Crime Scene Management. Coulter?”
Brad’s head popped up, his brown eyes frantically trying to focus. He sat upright and rubbed a hand through his shaggy brown hair.
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you remind the class what any three of the essential points we just discussed were?”
Brad shook his head, hoping to clear his brain and dig up three points. He couldn’t. “You’ve covered them so well, it would be pointless for me to take up your valuable time repeating them.”
Sturgeon headed toward the back row, narrowed eyes on Brad. He repeated the steps as he counted them off on his hand. “First, preserve the crime scene. Second, keep pertinent evidence uncontaminated. And third, scene and evidence protection at a crime scene begins with the first arriving officer.” Sturgeon surveyed the class. “It’s apparent we need to take a break.”
Chairs scuffed the floor as cops headed out of the classroom to smoke, grab a coffee, or both.
Sturgeon strode over to Brad. “Thanks a lot, buddy. I appreciate the support.”
Brad poured two coffees and handed one to Sturgeon. “I’ve heard this before.”
“I know, but backing me up wouldn’t hurt, would it?” Sturgeon took the coffee. “This would be better with Scotch.”
They wandered back to Brad’s table and sat. “I’ll buy you a beer when we’re done today.”
Sturgeon snorted. “How about I just take the cash?”
“Beer, or nothing.” Brad popped a Jolly Rancher into his mouth.
“Beer it is.” Sturgeon eyed Brad down and back up. “I miss a memo about appropriate detective clothing?”
Brad glanced down. “What?”
“Black button-down shirt, jeans, and what are those? Cowboy boots?”
“I’ll have you know the shirt and jeans are Harry Rosen.”
“Does he know you have them?”
Brad ignored the comment. “They’re Italian and the boots are Roper lace-ups. Cowboy boots are stupid to wear if you get in a foot chase.”
“Yeah, I don’t worry about foot chases.” Sturgeon sipped his coffee. “I’m a bit worried about your masculinity, though.”
“Asshat,” Brad mumbled.
Sturgeon leaned close, his voice a whisper. “I had an interesting call Saturday night.”
“Do tell.” Brad’s eyebrows arched.
“A drug dealer stabbed in Vic Park.”
Brad’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. “That doesn’t sound exciting. In Homicide, we call that a regular Saturday night.”
“Sometimes a Sunday, occasionally a Wednesday, and often a Thursday,” Sturgeon added.
“What’s special about a dealer getting stabbed for his drugs?” The Jolly Rancher clicked on Brad’s teeth.
“That’s the interesting part—he wasn’t robbed. He still had his cash and drugs.”
Brad shrugged. “The killer got spooked. Any cruisers in the area?”
“A few minutes before, the downtown guys responded with EMS for an overdose. They hauled three crackheads away.”
“You’re losing me.” Brad grabbed another Jolly Rancher and popped it in his mouth.
“The dealer was stabbed once.”
“Lucky for the killer, unlucky for the dealer.” Brad worked the Jolly Rancher free from his straight, white teeth with a finger and leaned back in his chair.
“Not lucky.” Sturgeon pointed to his lower chest, then left shoulder. “The knife entered under the sternum up toward the left shoulder.”
Brad’s chair rocked back to the floor. “Right through the heart.”
Sturgeon rolled his gray eyes. “Finally, I got your attention.”
“That’s not a common street method of murder. Too clean, too precise.”
“Exactly. Special training.”
Brad swallowed the Jolly Rancher. “Armed forces?”
Sturgeon sat back and sipped his coffee. “That’d be my first guess.”
“But why?”
“Not my job.” Sturgeon smirked. “I collect evidence. You do the detectiving.”
“There was a similar murder earlier this year.” When Brad returned to
