by Colin Conway
So far, he’d seen no obvious evidence that pointed to a suspect, but that didn’t surprise him. The tech would collect fibers, scrape under Meyer’s nails, and search extensively for other forms of physical evidence. Clint had made it clear to her that this case required that she go the extra mile. The tech looked down at the deceased young woman and shook her head sadly.
“I have a daughter her age,” she said in a quiet voice.
Clint was struck by how far removed from motherhood she’d looked in her dark blue coveralls, white hair net, goggles, and latex gloves. He didn’t care, though. Whatever motivation she needed was fine with him.
Watching her work wasn’t enough to bleed off his nervous energy, so he started to look through the house for any other evidence. He poked through belongings and paperwork, glancing at each, making a note if it seemed like it might somehow be relevant. Then he returned to check on the crime scene tech. She was still photographing and measuring near the victim’s body.
“You get that small bit of spatter on the wall behind her?” he asked.
“Not my first rodeo, Wardell,” she said, not stopping her work or looking at him.
Clint grunted. He glanced through the small open window out to the perimeter. The news cameras were pointed toward the house, but they’d already shot their stock footage, and now would only roll if there was a statement from the police or if the reporter went live. He glanced at his watch. They were in between the noon shows and the evening news, so he doubted that would happen. If nothing changed, he expected they’d pack up and leave soon, having collected enough to say whatever speculation they wanted on the news.
He saw someone in plain clothes talking to Officer Norton at the yellow crime scene tape.
More yellow. Curtains, crime scene tape, Stone’s tie…
Clint blinked, recognized the man next to Norton. It was Garrett.
“What the fuck?” he muttered.
The crime scene tech paused. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he told her. “Proceed.”
She shook her head slightly and continued with her work.
Clint went to the front door and exited the house. By the time he stepped under the inner perimeter tape past Officer Yang, Garrett had done the same at the outer perimeter, smiling and bumping fists with Officer Norton as he did so.
“Hey!” Clint yelled. “Stop right there!”
Garrett turned toward him, still smiling easily, and kept walking up the concrete path toward the house.
The detective took long, purposeful strides, dropping his hand to his gun. “I said, stop!”
Garrett stopped, holding his hands up at shoulder level. “Whoa, easy there, big fella. We’re on the same team.”
Clint stopped a foot from him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are. Checking on a dead girl.” Garrett lowered his hands.
He forced himself to unclench his jaw. “You’ve got no standing here.”
“I’m police, just like you.”
Clint stared at him, trying to push aside his anger to think rationally. Why was he here? Was he fishing to find out if they’d discovered any evidence? Or taking some perverse pleasure in showing up on a murder scene he’d committed, just to rub Clint’s nose in it?
“You’re a patrol cop,” Clint said. “Not a homicide detective.”
“I’m a whole lot of things.”
You got that one right, you dirty piece of shit.
Then something clicked for him—Locard’s law. The rule of transference at a crime scene. A suspect always brought evidence, even if it was microscopic, to the crime scene. He left evidence at the crime scene. And he took evidence with him from the crime scene when he left. Garrett was trying to defeat that law by coming to the scene in this context, so that if they found other evidence of his presence at the house, there’d be a plausible explanation for it.
Well, of course, you found one of my head hairs near the victim’s body. I stood over the poor girl with Detective Clint when I came to help solve this tragic murder.
“You trying to O.J. my crime scene?” he growled.
“What?” Garrett asked.
“You heard me. You here to pull some kind of reverse Fuhrman?”
Garrett shook his head, looking confused. “Look, man, I’m here at the request of Councilman Hahn. They had a relationship.”
“I know all about it.”
A micro-flash of concern registered on Garrett’s features, but it was gone immediately. “When I heard she was dead, I came running.”
“How’d you hear?” Clint snapped. “You got an MDC in your personal car now?”
Garrett glanced over his shoulder and motioned at the assembled media. At least one of them was rolling film on their exchange, but Clint didn’t care.
“It’s all over the news,” Garrett said, his tone making it clear that the answer was obvious.
“Not her name.”
Clint stared at him, waiting.
Garrett hesitated a second before answering. “I recognized the house when I saw it on the TV. It’s distinct, you know? Spooky-looking.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“Nope, but I looked it up on Google Maps when the councilman told me about her.”
“He told you about his extramarital affairs? Why would he do that?”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “I probably shouldn’t say any more.”
“Why? Because you killed this girl?”
The officer shook his head in disgust. “You just can’t let it go, brother.”
“And I never will, brother.” Clint spat the last word. “Don’t play that shit with me. Now answer my question.”
“I shouldn’t say any more.”
“That’s bullshit. Tell me what you know.”
“If I do, it’ll jam up the chief, the department, and the councilman.”
Clint thought about that. It fit with what he already knew about the scheming that was going on between city hall and the police department. He wondered again if Baumgartner was in league with Garrett. That would explain a lot. He couldn’t imagine the chief trusting Officer Gary Stone to do any work on the dirty side.
Clint jabbed his finger emphatically toward Garrett. “You are not coming into this crime scene.”
“That’s not for you to say.”
“The fuck it’s not. This is my scene.” Clint whipped his finger toward the street. “You, get out.”
“This is above your pay grade, Detective.”
“Pay grade don’t mean shit. I’m the lead. It’s my scene.”
Garrett shrugged.
A sudden commotion drew Clint’s attention. Several of the officers who had been securing the crime scene bolted for their patrol vehicles. One was already speeding away, lights and siren blaring. The news cameraman scrambled to get a shot of it.
“Stay right here!” Clint ordered Garrett. “We aren’t done.”
Garrett raised his hands, placating him. “You got it, man. I ain’t moving.”
Clint spun and hurried toward Norton, who was slamming his trunk lid shut and preparing to leave as well.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Clint asked. “This is an active homicide scene.”
“Shots fired on a cop up northeast,” Norton snapped. “We’re leaving. Guard your own damn crime scene.” He flung open the car door and jumped in.
“Leave Yang,” Clint ordered. “I have to keep the scene secure.”
“Fine!” He waved at Officer Yang, who was at the passenger door, reaching for the handle. “Stay here!”
Yang dropped her hand away from the door.
“You’re on guard duty,” Norton said, as he pulled his door shut. The car lurched forward. A moment later, his lights flashed and his siren screamed. Yang watched him go, her expression half confused, half angry.
“Don’t worry about it,” Clint told her.
“He’s an asshole.”
Yang gave him a strange look. “I know he’s an asshole, but he’s my FTO.”
“More asshole than FTO.” Clint pointed to the crime scene tape. “Hold the perimeter. Keep the log.”
Yang held up the clipboard with the crime scene log and nodded.
“No one in unless—”
“—they get your permission first,” she finished. “I got it.”
“Good. That means sergeants, brass, anyone.”
“I understand.”
Clint turned and headed back toward the house.
One of the news reporters hurried to intercept him. Her microphone dangled from her hand, so he knew she wasn’t broadcasting live. “Detective, what was that about?”
It was about go screw yourself, Clint thought, and kept walking.
Then a thought struck him. They’d find out about the shooting soon enough. Someone would call from the TV station or they’d hear it themselves on a scanner in their van. Once that happened, the whole lot of them would flee his scene to get to something juicer. It was inevitable.
Would telling her now be that wrong?
Clint turned back to the reporter, who was still watching him.
“It’s a shooting,” he said. “Up north.”
“A police shooting?” Her interest was piqued.
“Officers are involved,” Clint said. “But I can’t say any more than that.”
“Where is it?”
Clint stared back at her and said nothing. He rarely told the media anything, leaving the brass to do it. Usually, releases were made over his objections, unless the reason was a request for information from the public. Clint had a reputation for being tight-lipped with the media, and he needed to maintain it. Besides, he’d already given her enough to get the response he wanted.
The reporter waited a moment, but when it became clear he wasn’t going to say any more, she turned and hurried back toward her van. “Pack up!” she yelled to the camera man.
Clint turned on his radio and switched to the north channel while he watched the other reporters notice what she was doing and run over to her. He wondered if she’d share the information and was surprised that she did.
Since they probably all had police scanners in the van anyway, she was smart to tell them and bank a little favor for it. She played it the same way he had, albeit for different reasons.
Clint listened intently to the radio traffic, wondering for a moment who was involved in the shooting. When it was clear that sufficient units were responding to the scene, he clicked off his radio and continued to watch as the collected media scrambled to get all their gear into their respective vehicles. Tires chirped as they pulled away, and the sound gave Clint a small sense of satisfaction. He’d just manipulated the media. How was that for a turn of events?
Then he noticed that the front yard and the porch area were empty.
Garrett was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 54
Lindsay Wagner stared right at Ray Zielinski. His expression was one of overwhelming fear, coupled with an odd vacancy. He held onto his leg where he’d been shot. Blood seeped through his fingers and pooled onto the concrete.
Another bullet pinged off the car, causing Zielinski to duck instinctively. This one struck something in the engine block before ricocheting.
Zielinski cursed. Pinned down by a guy in a wheelchair with a .22 while a social worker bled to death a few feet away. This was not how he saw this call going.
He cursed again, holstering his gun. Keeping low, he shifted toward Wagner. “Put more pressure on it,” he said. “Push hard.”
Wagner blinked at him, his expression unchanged. The strong smell of the man’s musky cologne and his blood filled Zielinski’s nostrils. He reached for Wagner’s belt, unbuckling it and jerking it free through the loops. Wagner let out a surprised cry as he did so. He examined the belt. It wasn’t leather, as he expected, but made of interwoven cloth.
It didn’t matter. He wrapped it around Wagner’s leg about six inches above the wound, cinching it down into a makeshift tourniquet.
Wagner screamed in pain.
Another shot rang out, zipping overhead.
Zielinski’s radio crackled. “Several calls report that shots are continuing to be fired,” the dispatcher said, her voice only slightly elevated. “All units proceed with caution. Baker one twenty-three, an update?”
He ignored it all, slipping the buckle pin into the cloth to help hold it in place. Then he grabbed Wagner’s free hand and slapped the end of the belt into it. “Pull on this,” he instructed him. “Keep it tight. Got it?”
Wagner didn’t respond.
“Hey!” Zielinski barked and yanked on Wagner’s beard. The social worker yelped. “You hear me? Keep this tight and you stay alive!”
Wagner nodded shakily. He closed his hand around the belt, keeping it taut.
Zielinski pulled out his radio and put it to his lips. “Baker one twenty-three, have medics standing ready to treat a gunshot wound to the leg. I’ve applied a tourniquet. Mark the time.”
“Copy, twenty-three.”
Another shot shattered the driver’s side window of Wagner’s car. Then Zielinski heard an outraged cry come from the house. “Shit!” yelled Bunney. “Shit, shit, bags of fucking shit!”
His mind raced. He tried to count the number of shots Bunney had fired but couldn’t. It had to have been at least ten, maybe more than twelve. If so, he was out of bullets. He’d have to reload, which would take him a while, unless he wanted to drop one right into the open chamber for each shot. Even that would be slower, though.
Training and common sense dictated that he stay behind cover with the injured Wagner. Keep the wounded man alive and hold down the fort until the cavalry arrived. Patrol cops first, and eventually SWAT. They’d surround the house and then figure out the best way to end the confrontation, whether it was an armed assault, or to gas him out, or get a negotiator to come in and try to talk him into surrendering.
But what if he could end it now, before Bunney could reload?
Zielinski glanced at Wagner. The man kept the tension on the makeshift tourniquet. Wagner would be fine without him.
In a moment, he made his decision. Keeping low, he bolted for a tree on the edge of Bunney’s yard. Once he made it there, he drew his gun again. He took a second to recall the layout of the house. A quick look at the damage to the front windows told him Bunney was probably firing from the living room.
Now or never.
He crouched and ran up to the corner of the house. He ducked further as he slid along the front of the house toward the porch, staying below the shattered front window. Inside, behind the slightly parted curtains, Bunney rambled in frustration.
When he reached the porch, Zielinski hopped onto it. Without hesitating, he reared back and delivered a powerful kick to the front door. He planted his foot right beside the doorknob and followed through with all his weight. The doorjamb shattered. The door sprang backward into the house.
Zielinski followed, holding his gun at the ready.
He saw Bunney almost immediately, his wheelchair right where Zielinski had expected. Bunney was pushing rounds into a small magazine. When he saw Zielinski, he flung the rifle and magazine away before the officer could get a word out of his mouth.
“Drop it!” Zielinski shouted anyway.
“I did, I did, I did!”
“Don’t move!” the officer bellowed.
Bunney lifted his hands in the air. “Don’t murder me! I dropped the gun. I surrender!”
Zielinski stared at him. The crazy son of a bitch had just shot at him. Tried to kill him. He deserved a bullet in the chest.
No.
He kept his gun trained on Bunney. “Don’t move,” he repeated. “And shut the fuck up.”
Lyle Bunney didn’t move, and for once, he had nothing to say, either. He sat in his wheelchair, hands up and trem
bling, while Zielinski reached for his radio with his left hand.
“Baker one twenty-three,” he said. “Code four. Slow ’em down.”
“Copy, code four,” the dispatcher repeated. “Baker one twenty-three is code four. Units can lower their response.”
Zielinski put his radio back on his belt and listened to the approaching sirens.
CHAPTER 55
“Stay right here! We aren’t done.”
Clint was pissed, and Tyler Garrett knew it. He had pushed his luck by walking into Clint’s crime scene without the detective’s authorization. Then he pushed it further by calling the man “brother.” He knew the crazy bastard wouldn’t buy it. Clint wasn’t the type to nod to another man simply because they were the same race, let alone call him brother. But Garrett tossed the word out anyway, just to piss him off.
Clint had been following him since the shooting nearly two years ago. Due to that, Garrett was forced to live his life in a perpetual game of cat and mouse. Always looking over his shoulder, around corners, and under his bed for Detective Clint. It was a grind to live that way. He would do what he had to do to survive and thrive, but the opportunity to mess with Clint was too good to pass up.
Garrett raised his hands in mock surrender. “You got it, man. I ain’t moving.”
Something big was happening elsewhere. Garrett immediately knew it. Several officers ran to their patrol cars and raced away with lights and sirens activated.
The camera crews turned to film the action.
Clint trotted toward Officer Ken Norton, who looked like he was preparing to leave as well.
Garrett scanned the scene and realized everyone’s attention was elsewhere. He turned and casually walked up the stairs toward Sonya Meyer’s house.
An evidence technician stepped out. She wore blue booties over her shoes and a head cover hid her hair. Her eyes locked onto Garrett’s as they passed each other.
“All done?” Garrett asked.
“Yes,” she said, still waiting for him to say something additional to put her at ease.
