From my bag, I pulled out a couple of pairs of black slacks along with three polo shirts of various colors and hung them in the closet. I made a note to myself of the iron in the closet.
In the top drawer of the dresser that was part of the television cabinet, I stacked my socks and underwear. I grabbed my toiletry bag and walked back into the bathroom where I laid everything out on the sink. Toothpaste and toothbrush. Hair gel and brush. Shaving cream and razor. Cologne and skin conditioner. Everything paired with its mate for faster preparation in the morning.
From the bag on the bed, I pulled the four final items out. Two Glock 27s in Kydex holsters, a box of 40 caliber rounds and a roll of duct tape. Using the duct tape, I strapped both guns and the box of ammunition to the back of the television cabinet. I tossed the tape back in to my bag and pushed it underneath the bed.
I took stock of the room one last time before lying down on the bed and closing my eyes. I tried to rest, but I was still wound up and needed to find a way to relax.
Monday, April 12th 0214 hrs 300 North Erie Street
DETECTIVE JOHN TOWER
The rain was merciless. Huge drops pelted the windshield and hood of the police car next to me with a metallic ping. Every five seconds, a wiper blade swept across the windshield in a futile effort to keep it clear. A patrolman sat inside the car, writing his report.
I felt like a complete sissy standing there holding an umbrella. I held a luke-warm cup of coffee in my right hand. I’d picked it up at the Circle K at Market and Euclid on my way to the scene. The stale brew sat roiling in my stomach. Bile crept back up my throat. I’d forgotten how terrible graveyard coffee was.
The rain showed no sign of letting up. According to the patrolman in the car, it had only been a drizzle when they came across her, but by the time they taped off the scene and called me, the downpour began. I hate rain. As far as destroying a crime scene goes, it runs a close second to other cops.
I sipped the bitter coffee again and forced it down past the bile. The Crime Scene Forensics Unit had hastily constructed four posts and a tarp over the top of the body in an effort to preserve some of the evidence. A good idea, I suppose, but anything more than three feet away from the body was being washed away in the deluge of water.
I surveyed the scene, ticking off facts in my mind. My head hurt with the beginnings of a hangover, but focusing on the work helped some. The field where the body lay took up most of the block to the south and east of the roadway. The road was made up of dirty gravel and ran in a northeasterly direction up to Trent Avenue. The Looking Glass River to the northwest. Railroad tracks to the south. Most of the area consisted of deserted industrial businesses.
Smart, I decided. If he did it on purpose, anyway. Come in from the north or the south. Low traffic road. Quick dump, quick exit.
I swung my gaze back to the body. Whoever had murdered her obviously did not care if she was found. She lay on her back in the weeds, which were thick and green. The patrol car’s spotlight lit up her face and made her features seem severe, even from ten feet away. If her eyes weren’t closed, it would almost appear that she was staring up at the tarp above her. I prayed for a footprint in the mud, but knew it was unlikely. The weeds were too thick.
All my potential evidence was just washing away.
“Tower!”
I turned as Detective Bill Lindsay trotted up to the car. He wore a light windbreaker and a Colorado Avalanche ball cap. I moved the umbrella over for him to share. Once underneath, he shook off water and glanced over at the body, ten feet away.
“Dump job?”
I shrugged. “What was your first clue?”
Lindsay took my sourness as camaraderie. “Hey, I’m just a poor second grade detective,” he said with a grin. “I work burglaries and vandalisms, not homicides like you Major Crimes studs. I’m here to help, but this technical stuff is way beyond me.”
“You’re in a good mood for two in the morning.”
Lindsay grinned even wider. “Call-out pay, baby. When the phone rings this time of night, it means someone died. If it ain’t family, then it’s payday.”
I took another sip of coffee. I was half-hung over as it was, with the worst of it still waiting on deck. I wasn’t in the mood for his chirpy bullshit.
“What do you know?” Lindsay asked.
I looked away from him and back at the body. The tarp collected water and sagged under the weight. Occasionally, one of the crime scene techs would gently push up under the middle of the tarp and force the water off the sides.
“Female. Hispanic. Torn clothing. And a whole lot of rain.”
Lindsay chuckled. “Yeah. I thought I saw the animals marching two by two on my way down here.”
That wouldn’t have been funny in the daytime, I thought to myself. It sure as hell wasn’t funny at two in the morning, ten feet from a dead girl.
“So…” Lindsay gave me an expectant look.
“So what?”
“We gonna work the scene?”
I shook my head. “Forensics isn’t finished taking photos. Cameron showed up with the van and only had one roll of film with the camera.”
Lindsay snorted. “Goofball.”
I shook my head again. “Not his fault. Whoever stocked it last should’ve reloaded the case. Anyway, he’ll be back in a few minutes. He’ll finish his photos. Then we watch Forensics collect evidence. Most of what we do is watch. Ask questions. Make a few decisions.”
“You don’t work the evidence?”
“The actual, physical evidence? No. Do you dust for prints on your burglary scenes?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“Forensics.”
“They photograph the point of entry, tool marks, whatever?”
“Yeah.”
“And you base your investigation off what they find?”
“Yeah.”
“Same concept here.”
He didn’t answer. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was concentrating on the body. I sipped the coffee again.
A pair of headlights cut through the downpour and headed toward us. Cameron Whitaker pulled up in the gray Forensics van.
“Thank God,” I muttered.
“Hey, hey, CSI!” Lindsay boomed.
Great.
It was going to be a long night.
Monday, April 12th
Davenport Hotel, Around 2 in the Morning
VIRGIL
The water scalded my hands as the sink turned red. My wet fingers fumbled with the small bar of soap as I tried to unwrap it. I tossed the paper to the ground after it finally opened.
I rubbed my hands together, feeling the soreness in my knuckles and wrists. It was stupid and sloppy to lose control.
After the long bus ride into River City, I was dying to be back outside. I fought the urge as long as I could, but by eleven thirty I was going stir crazy. I wasn’t sure what I wanted but I knew I wasn’t going to find it in the hotel. Before leaving, I grabbed my coat and knife, but left the guns strapped to the back of the television cabinet.
I hit the street and a block away I wandered in to the Bayou Bluez, a dance club with thumping bass and flashing lights. I paid the cover charge and found a seat near the bar.
A DJ spun some terrible music while a crowd of spoiled rich kids and wannabe gangsters gyrated on the dance floor. Two scantily clad blondes, both with huge breasts, shook their wares up on a raised platform. Both wore white and black leopard print mini-skirts, thigh high boots and outrageously large fur-covered top hats. Three large plasma screen monitors on the wall behind the platform highlighted the jiggling blondes.
“Wanna drink?” a feminine voice said into my ear.
I glanced over my shoulder at a brunette in her early twenties. She had a cute face, but was twenty pounds overweight. Her tight t-shirt read, “The party starts here.”