Iggy shrugged. “Too soon to know,” he said.
“How far did you go into the shop?” Wukowski asked. “So the techs will know for elimination purposes. There’s no need to fingerprint you three. You’re all on file already.”
Yes, we were. The Johnson and Wagner cases saw to that.
“We entered through the dock,” Bobbie said. “Everything was dark. Bram flipped a light switch and we cleared the office area and bathroom. When we found the owner inside the front of the shop, Bram checked for a pulse. No luck, so Angie called 911. We were careful not to step in the blood on the floor or touch anything.”
It didn’t escape me that no one mentioned Bram’s retrieving his weapon before we entered. Least said, soonest mended. Aunt Terry was a fount of aphorisms, but I doubted she’d be happy about applying one to this situation.
“Detective,” Bram said, “I’d like to move my truck away from the loading dock area. It’ll give you some room and I’ll feel better about it not blocking the alley when your people get here.”
“Sorry, York,” Wukowski said. “The crime-scene team will have to release it. Give me the keys. They’ll park it in the quadrangle out front when they’re done going over it. Unless they impound it, that is.”
With a resigned shrug, Bram handed over the keys. “There’s a lockbox with my weapon in it. I’m licensed to carry.”
“Has it been discharged?” Iggy asked.
“Nope,” Bram drawled, his Southern roots coming through. “But a bullet did penetrate the vic’s heart and head, far as I can tell. I figure that’s what y’all call the proximate cause of death.” He paused. “You in the service, Detective?”
Wukowski nodded. “Right out of high school.”
“Then you’re familiar with the term ‘double tap.’” He noticed the blank look on my face and elucidated. “A bullet to the heart and another to the head. For insurance.”
“A pro move,” Wukowski added. “Military, assassin, organized crime.”
“Exactly,” Bram agreed.
Professionals? Dear God, please don’t let it involve the Family. Not again. I couldn’t stand another separation, not when we were so close to ending this one.
Chapter 5
Crime is common. Logic is rare.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Homicide bullpen was indeed sparsely populated when we arrived. One lone uniform occupied a desk in the back. The captain’s office was dark.
“Detective Wukowski asked that the three of you wait in separate rooms,” the uniform told us. “But we only have two here.” She looked around. “Mr. York, you can take the captain’s office until she arrives.”
She. Interesting. So Captain Charles-don’t-call-me-Chuck Horton no longer ran Homicide. Guess his remark about Wukowski “boning a Mafia princess” during the fiasco that led to our separation didn’t go down so well with Internal Affairs.
Bobbie wrinkled his nose and made for the interrogation room and its persistent odor of anxiety-induced flop sweat, while Bram turned for the office. I headed into the slightly more comfortable conference room. As I waited, I texted Attorney Bartholomew Matthews with the news that I was entangled in yet another murder, this time as a witness. It was slightly after seven o’clock, so I expected Bart wouldn’t see the message for a couple of hours, but his response popped right up.
Need legal help?
Not now, I responded. Just informing you. In case.
I then switched to my phone’s photo app.
Mick’s image was as grisly as I remembered. I forced my brain into analysis mode. The knife was made of a dark matte material and about a foot long, based on comparison with his forearm. Something was stamped into the blade, but even the zoom feature didn’t resolve it. Spider Mulcahey, another former special-ops guy and Bram’s boss in the private security business, might manage it using his ultra-high-tech equipment.
As I swiped the enlarged image to reposition it, I saw the small tattoo on Mick’s wrist. A five-pointed star with a blurry circular center. I would need Spider’s help with this too.
With a deep breath and a reminder to myself to put up an emotional barrier, I took another look at the pictures of Mick’s chest and head. My expertise did not extend to bullet wounds, so I could make no determination from them, except that they were sickening. Next, I viewed the blood trail on the floor, about fifteen feet long. Mick’s body was dragged from one place to another. The puddle of blood where he lay in death was bigger than the one where he started. I couldn’t come up with a rationale for that. Nor could I imagine the quiet artist being equipped with a combat knife sheathed to his leg.
I put the phone into sleep mode and sat back, trying to form a picture of what might have happened in that room. An assailant entered from the unlighted back of the shop. Mick was in front, presumably working on something near where he was killed. Mick had a knife. The assailant had a gun. No contest.
But why? Why kill Mick Swanson, a low-key metal artist? In our dealings about the panels, he’d struck me as the loner type but able to deal with the public without causing problems. He cracked a joke once about the panels being taller than me. I liked him, I suddenly realized.
Before I could descend into maudlin remembrance, my phone pinged with an image and a message from Bobbie: Mick’s desk calendar
Uh-oh. Bobbie told Wukowski that we hadn’t entered the office. I hope he didn’t leave any traces, I thought. Then my mind registered the contents of the text. I wasn’t the only one who took a photo at the shop.
The entry read: 6:30—Bonaparte panels.
I texted the images of Mick’s body and the close-up of the knife to Spider, including Bram and Bobbie on the message. Found a dead man this morning. Mick Swanson, owner of Metal Works. See what you can find out about him, the tattoo, and the knife.
How are you involved? came Spider’s reply.
Just a witness. I hoped it would stay that way.
The clock read seven fifty-eight. This could
