“You guys call in about a possible 187?” Reed opened, closing the gap between them, letting a hint of annoyance show in his voice.
“Called in a definite 187,” the man on the right said, taking a half step forward and meeting Reed just past the front bumper of their patrol car. He thrust out a hand and said, “I’m Officer McMichaels, my partner Jacobs.”
Neither man appeared to be older than their mid-twenties, most likely paired together once their training years with a senior officer were complete. McMichaels was tall and lean, his face clean shaven. Behind him his partner was shorter and a bit fleshier, a thin goatee encasing his mouth.
Reed accepted the shake, noticing it cold and wet from the weather, and nodded to Jacobs. “Detective Mattox.”
“No partner?” Jacobs asked.
It wasn’t the first time Reed had been asked the question, each time drawing the same clench in his stomach, though he had learned to mask any outward display. “In the car.”
A moment later came the second part that always grated him, the two exchanging a glance.
“K-9,” Reed said, answering before they had a chance to ask. “So what makes you say this is a definite 187?”
The two officers exchanged another glance, both of them drawing their mouths into tight lines. They stood that way a long moment, Reed looking from one to the other, before both turned back to face him.
“Just walk a little ways up the drive,” McMichaels said. “You’ll see.”
Agitation continued to grow within Reed as he looked at them. He opened his mouth, prepared to offer a lecture on proper police procedure, but decided against it.
Almost certain was the fact that there was a body lying nearby, quite possibly their first. Not that long ago he was in their position, unsure how to handle it, staring at death for the first time. The last thing he would have wanted then was a senior officer acting like a prick about it, and he’d be damned if he did the same to them.
Not that he gave a shit what anybody on the force thought of him anymore.
“Scene secure?”
“Yes, sir,” McMichaels said. “Nobody is around.”
Rotating on the ball of his foot, Reed unsnapped the flashlight from his waist and drew it up to shoulder height. He clicked the rubber stopper on the end and a cone of white light shot forth, spraying the driveway in a bright hue. Halfway down he paused a moment, listening for the sound of footsteps.
None came with him, both men content to let him proceed alone.
Whatever was lying in wait for him clearly had them both spooked.
Slowing his pace to a half step at a time, Reed came up alongside the Cadillac and aimed his flashlight inside. The interior of the car was in even worse shape than the outside, the seats cracked and peeling, the floorboards covered in garbage. An ashtray sat in the middle of the dash, cigarette butts overflowing.
No body.
Shifting the light back to face forward, Reed walked to the front of the car and stopped, his breath catching in his chest. After twelve years working for the Columbus Police Department, he had seen just about all there was to see. Every possible form that evil could take he had encountered at one time or another, ranging the full spectrum of deeds and far exceeding anything he thought human beings capable of.
Even at that, this was a first.
Rooted in place, Reed raised the light, letting it splash over the remainder of the driveway, six feet of cement in either direction rimmed by more muddy yard. In the center of the space, lying flat on his back, was a single male victim. He wore pants and a white ribbed tank top, his head shaved bare.
That was about the sum total that Reed could confidently ascertain, unable to move any further, the combination of blood and rainwater having painted the entire slab of asphalt red.
A bit of warmth rose along Reed’s back as he moved the flashlight over everything once more before retreating a step. After another he clicked off the light and turned back towards the curb, both officers waiting with arms folded across their stomachs, looking at him expectantly.
“How’d you guys find him?” Reed asked, his voice carrying through the silent night.
The two exchanged a quick glance.
“Anonymous call came in,” McMichaels said. “We were on patrol in the area and fielded it.”
“Said it was a DD,” Jacobs added. “We got here and found this.”
DD. Domestic disturbance.
More than once Reed had seen the excuse come in. Somebody out for a run or taking their dog for a walk stumbled across something and made an anonymous call, not wanting to be near the crime scene any longer than necessary, thinking they didn’t know anything that would be of use anyway.
“Any ID yet?”
McMichaels looked down at his feet as Jacobs shifted his weight from side to side. “Not yet. We’d only been here about a minute when we called for you. Didn’t want to disturb the scene.”
It was obvious from his tone that the last sentence was added as an explanation and an apology of sorts. Reed let it go with a nod, conceding that in instances such as these it was better they did less than more.
If the victim did have an ID on him, the techs could pull it in half an hour. If the patrol guys had gone on ahead to check for themselves, they could have destroyed evidence beyond repair.
“What do you need us to do?” McMichaels asked, looking up from his shoes, a bit of color having returned to his cheeks.
Reed turned and glanced over his shoulder, again picturing the scene behind him in his mind. “Cordon off the whole place, yard and all. I’ll call in the crime scene crew. Sit on it until they get here and at first light start canvassing the neighborhood. I want to know everything we can about this guy and if anybody saw anything here last night.”
Both men nodded at the directive, each appearing thankful to have some heading, even more glad it wouldn’t put them anywhere near the body.
“187?” Jacobs asked.
Turning towards his car, Reed was already moving to call in support. “Definitely.”
Chapter Four
The rear door wrenched open with an ugly screech of metal scraping against metal. Reed was careful to stand back as he held it wide, positioning his body to avoid the solid black bolt that shot out. Once she was gone, he shoved the door closed, turning to watch his partner sprint across the park, covering enormous swaths of ground in long strides.
After two months together, both knew the routine. Reed turned and rested his back against the side of the car, waiting as she pounded out a few revolutions of the park. At ten minutes after six it was still too early for anybody to be using it, nothing to stand in her way as she sprinted in an oblong loop, a solitary black streak tearing across the field.
Most nights the weather was nice enough that Reed had her out a fair bit, working patrols, checking in wherever was necessary. On evenings like the one before, the city blanketed in mist, him caught up in a crime scene, she was forced into the back seat for almost ten solid hours.
Shaking his head at her insatiable energy, Reed brought his palms to his eyes and pressed down hard. He held the pose long enough for stars to begin dancing behind his eyelids, the odors of the crime scene lingering on his clothes. The familiar scents of blood and garbage flitted across his nostrils as the sound of a car approaching crept into his consciousness, the slight squeal of wet brakes being applied.
Dropping his hands away from his eyes a shudder passed through Reed, the wet fabric of his hooded sweatshirt clinging to his body, his skin clammy to the touch. For a moment he considered stripping the garment away before thinking better of it, opting to wrap his arms across his chest, drawing himself in as tight as possible to maintain a bit of warmth.
He did not bother to look over as the driver of the car exited the vehicle, her presence announced by the sound of square heels clicking against the pavement.
One of the more ironclad rules in the Columbus Police Department was mandatory psychiatric meetings
following the loss of a partner. It was something Reed had fought and begged and pleaded to be set free from, requests that had all been summarily dismissed. The best he had been able to finagle was an agreement with his attending doctor to meet him at the park a couple of mornings each week, blaming his schedule for not wanting to go to her office.
“Good morning,” Pia Mehdi said as she approached, her hands thrust into the calf length brown coat swirling around her.
“Morning,” Reed said, not making any movement away from the side of his car. “How are you, doc?”
“I am well,” Mehdi replied. “And yourself?”
Reed turned away from the question, watching as his partner went about her business, paying them no mind.
After two months, she had learned not to take the doctor for a threat.
“Last night was a big one for us,” Reed said, motioning towards the field. “First homicide together.”
He could sense a shift in the woman by his side, her body moving but coming no closer to him.
“Yeah? And how was it?” she asked.
On the whole, Reed had no problems with Mehdi. In her early forties, she was a stylish woman with light brown skin and glossy black hair, the kind of look that could have made her a lot of money in Bollywood. She had a direct manner that he appreciated and had been accommodating in meeting him so early in the morning.
Still, it was the requirement that they meet that he resented so much, the insinuation that he needed some sort of evaluation to ensure he was still a capable lawman.
“Fine,” Reed said, shrugging his shoulders.
It was the first body he’d come across in nearly four months. The sight of it had done nothing to his system, his heart rate remaining even, his breath never once picking up as he’d helped to process it.
As he did so though, he couldn’t help but feel a small twinge in the pit of his stomach, the slightest hint of something he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was clear there was something missing, his former partner Riley’s absence an enormous void that made the entire thing feel incomplete.
Just as apparent though was a tiny jolt deep within him. Whether or not that was a good thing he had not yet decided.
“Same old thing,” he said, looking over at Mehdi.
She met the gaze a long moment before giving him a look that relayed she didn’t believe him, though she wasn’t about to press it.
“And how did your new partner react?”
A bit of a smile pulled at Reed’s lips as he turned back towards the field, his new partner still sprinting circles around it. Her name was Billie, a four year old Belgian Malinois that was solid black, her dark brown eyes the only exceptions. In a previous life she had been a military dog, a bomb sniffing machine employed by the Marines on two tours in Afghanistan.
Six months prior her handler had been killed trying to diffuse a roadside IAD. After his passing the Corps had tried to keep her on, working with different disposal experts, but the situation never stuck. She was cycled back stateside and soon thereafter turned over to law enforcement, finding her way to Columbus through a combination of dumb luck and timing.
“Unfortunately the scene was pretty messy,” Reed said, “so she had to be kept back. That’s why she looks like Steve Prefontaine out here this morning.”
The comment drew a bit of a smile from Mehdi, though the mirth was located in her mouth only.
“Are you sure that was it?” she asked, a cautious tone in her voice. “Or did you just prefer to go it alone again?”
When Reed first moved over to the K-9 Unit he himself had gone through a couple of new partners, never once finding the right fit. For his first month on the job he went solo, a dog patrol detective without a dog, waffling between waiting for the right animal to come his way and debating calling it quits altogether.
Whether or not the two were actually a good pairing or if both just knew they were down to their final option Reed wasn’t sure, but he was willing to take a chance on finding out.
Thus far, Billie seemed to be up for the same.
“Not at all,” Reed said. “This was legit. Lot of blood, lot of mud. Not the kind of thing we could risk footprints through just yet.”
Once more Mehdi nodded, Reed again getting the impression she didn’t quite believe him. It had been the same situation for the better part of two months now, both settling into their respective roles. Reed, stonewalling as much as possible, giving just enough to offer the illusion he was trying. Mehdi pushing where she could, backing away whenever it became apparent he was blocking her out.
“I see,” Mehdi said, lifting her foot and nudging a rock with the toe of her shoe, her tone betraying just the smallest bit of frustration.
Chapter Five
The day had yet to even start and already Captain Wallace Grimes looked ready for a drink. Dark circles underscored his eyes and his tie was loosened a half inch from his neck, the black fabric twisted to the side, hanging at an odd angle down his chest.
He was on the phone as Reed appeared at his door, tapping with the back of his knuckles, notebook in hand. Without verbal acknowledgment Grimes waved him inside, a scowl across his features.
More than a decade Reed’s senior, Grimes had been a sergeant in nearby Precinct 19 when Reed signed on. In the intervening years he had risen to the post of captain and shifted over to Precinct 8, a job that nobody was quite sure he wanted but all seemed to agree he was well suited for.
When making the switch to the K-9 Unit Reed came over as well, Grimes the only familiar face in a house that always seemed to be staring his way.
“Yeah, I got it,” Grimes said into the mouthpiece, dropping the phone into place without signing off. He made a face at the plastic implement, followed by waving his middle finger at it, his face contorted with anger.
“That good, huh?” Reed said, taking a step into the room.
“You have no idea,” Grimes muttered, passing a hand over his scalp before motioning it to the threadbare chair opposite him. “Sit.”
Approaching his fiftieth year in age, the captain was beginning to wear the time spent behind the desk. The bottom buttons of his shirt were starting to strain and the thinning hair atop his head was fast transitioning from black to gray.
“I’ll keep this brief then,” Reed said, sliding down onto the chair, not bothering to ask about whatever was on the phone.
In his experience asking could only lead to bad things, namely his being forced to take part in something.
Getting right to it, Reed dropped his focus to the notebook in his lap and said, “Last night at approximately one a.m. I was called to a house in The Bottoms about a possible homicide. Line came in from an anonymous citizen claiming DD, patrol officers called on us.”
Reed kept his voice neutral as he read off the information, rattling it out in rapid-fire sequence. “Upon arrival, confirmed as a homicide, called for crime scene crew and a full workup. No ID on the victim, had to run the plates on the car to get a name.”
Using his finger as a pointer, Reed scanned down the sheet and continued, “Edwin Mentor, in the system for some small time stuff a while back. Possession, assault. Nothing heavy, nothing after 2009.”
On the opposite side of the desk, Grimes laced his fingers across his stomach, his fingers lined up like thick brown sausages. He pulled his chin back into his throat as he listened, his frown and the ensuing folds of skin around his jaw giving him the appearance of a human bullfrog.
“I put the patrol officers on duty canvassing the area this morning to confirm the identity and to see if they could figure out who made the call. Given the neighborhood, I’m not holding my breath on either.”
The Franklinton area of Columbus was fast becoming notorious, the highest concentrated rate of crime and poverty in the metro area, behind only parts of Cleveland on a statewide scale. After the success of the Short North gentrification downtown there were some rumblings from local businesspeople that the same could be done in th
e west side, though momentum seemed slow in materializing for the project.
The area was technically dubbed The Bottoms because it was below the water levels for the nearby Scioto and Olentangy Rivers, though many in the area believed the moniker to have a far more dubious origin.
Whether that was true Reed wasn’t certain, though he wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Since moving over no less than half of his time had been spent covering the same turf, though he was still far from an expert on what went on there.
Especially given that he was assigned to night patrol.
Grimes nodded at the information and assessment, his gaze unwavering. “What made you certain it was a homicide?”
Again recalling the scene from the night before, Reed forced himself not to wince. “The victim was found face up on the ground, his stomach slashed, an oversized puncture wound through his heart, his right arm removed just below the elbow.”
The left eyebrow tracked higher on Grime’s forehead as he stared across at Reed. “Removed? As in taken?”
“As in, dismembered,” Reed said, answering without consulting his notes, recalling the horrific sight of the limb sprawled across the concrete.
“Damn,” Grimes muttered, letting his own face register the wince Reed had just bitten back.
“Mhmm,” Reed agreed, nodding for emphasis. “Lot of blood. Mixed with all the rainwater, whole damn place was painted red. Looked like some kind of art demonstration or something.”
On the desk the phone rang again, the sound shrill inside the office. The same look crossed Grimes’s face as he reached out and lifted the receiver, smashing it down just as fast.
“I’m not on the clock for another forty-five minutes. They can call back then,” he said by way of explanation. “Anything unusual found at the scene?”
“No,” Reed said, again ignoring his notes. He had spent almost five full hours scouring everything with the techs. More than once he had gone over what little evidence there was, coming up with a lengthy list of questions, ready to be handed off to the duty detectives that would investigate.
The Boat Man: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 2
