“Yup. Not as clean as this one. Some hesitation stabs, then the fatal blow.”
Brad nodded. “Send me the case file.”
Chapter Three
The next morning Brad parked his black Firebird in the association parking lot, grabbed his coffee, let Lobo out, then crossed the street and headed down the alley to police headquarters. He nodded to the desk sergeant on their way to the stairs. On the second floor, they passed the tribute to fallen members. Brad stopped, as he did every time he passed here, and remembered two close friends who had died in the line of duty—his partner Curtis Young, and his friend, Tina Davidson. Young, killed by bank robbers on a highway outside the city. Davidson, kidnapped, tortured and murdered by Jeter Wolfe, the same monster who had taken his fiancée from him. Lobo barked from the door to the detective bullpen. Brad nodded to the memorials for his friends, then headed to his German shepherd’s side.
They wandered through the maze of metal WWII-surplus office furniture to his back-corner desk.
Brad tossed his black gloves on his desk, removed his parka and hung it in a coat tree. He dropped into his chair, put his feet on his desk, leaned back and sipped his coffee. Lobo crawled under the desk and was soon snoring.
He picked up the file of reports from Saturday’s stabbing homicide. It wasn’t his case, but his interest was piqued by Sturgeon’s comments. Besides, he didn’t have a case that required his attention, and it was unlikely Archer would assign one to him. Detective Don Griffin, Brad’s current partner in Homicide, would be in court for the week. Maybe when Griffin was back and could take the lead on a homicide, Archer would let Brad work murders. Brad was on his own unless the shit hit the fan which, given his history, was likely.
The report from the first cops on the scene was brief and lacking detail. They arrived, they saw a body, they called EMS and their sergeant. No weapon was found, but there were no details of any search. The case was referred to detectives. Typical of a street cop’s report, and even more typical of an event that happened in Vic Park.
The Patient Care Report from the paramedics had been detailed, but most of it concerned their treatment. The victim was found pulseless and breathless, leaning against a streetlight. Blood covered his chest and pooled on the sidewalk.
Paramedics transported the patient to the Holy Cross Hospital minutes away. A trauma team had been waiting in the emergency department, but it was quickly determined the patient was dead with no hope of resuscitation.
The detectives who responded were from the General Investigative Services. They handled a variety of cases, but not homicides. Brad figured that night no Homicide detectives were available, and since Archer had put Brad on the sidelines, GIS got the call. Their report was thorough, but with no leads. As Brad expected, no one from the area reported anything. Certainly, nothing they were going to tell the police. The victim had one hundred and seventy dollars on his person, mostly in fives. He had a pass for the shelter and a package of gum. The case was listed as open.
The autopsy was brief and to the point. The victim had one stab wound, and, as Sturgeon said, the blade entered beneath the xiphoid process in an upward stroke to the left shoulder. The knife pierced the left ventricle through to the right atrium. The inside of the heart was a mess of lacerations. The medical examiner speculated that once the knife was inserted, the attacker twisted the blade, ensuring the destruction of the heart and a quick death. The toxicology report noted marijuana and heroin.
Brad flipped to the dispatch report. The call came in to 911 at 11:10 p.m. The first cruiser was there at 11:12, and EMS thirty seconds later. The response time was excellent. The question was how long the victim had leaned against the pole before anyone checked him. It was strange he still had drugs and cash in his pockets. If he’d been found by crackheads, both money and drugs would be gone, and it’s unlikely they’d call 911.
Brad flipped a few pages further in the dispatch report. The 911 call was made from a payphone on Sixth Avenue SW. Nothing to follow up there beyond the question of why someone would walk over eight blocks to call 911. There were plenty of payphones between the murder scene and where the call came from.
The dealer had a long record—over twenty charges for drug possession, dealing, and a couple of related assaults. Nothing deemed serious enough to warrant actual prison time, according to the records. All before he was twenty-one years of age. No doubt his juvenile records would be as impressive. Still, no one deserved to die like this.
Brad opened the envelope containing the crime scene photos. After a glance, he realized they were useless—dark photos of a pole, blood on the sidewalk, and nothing else. Several footprints in the snow of different-sized footwear were identified, most with a Vibram sole, like the boots police and paramedics wore. Maybe Sturgeon and his classes were onto something. This crime scene had been contaminated.
He checked the evidence list. Most notable was the lack of a murder weapon at the scene. The killer either kept the knife or tossed it. There was nothing in the notes about finding the knife, but blood smears were noted on the dealer’s parka. The investigating officer suspected the knife was wiped clean on the dealer’s coat.
The evidence list contained dozens of needles and syringes, small plastic baggies, and
