IN LOVING MEMORY: This story is offered in memory of the hardboiled PI writer Robert E. Bailey, without whom it would never have been written. I miss you, sweetheart. MAY IS BRAIN CANCER AWARENESS MONTH. SUPPORT BRAIN CANCER RESEARCH!
***
The edge of the path around the tiny wooded island tumbled away to the water; jagged rocks covering the shoulder made for some treacherous footing. Detective John Robin steadied himself on a tree trunk and stepped down. At the bottom of the little cliff, an expanse of rock leveled off and stretched toward the James River rapids, beloved by local rafters. A riot of whitewater spray rumbled behind a trail of blood smeared over the rock, unfurling like a red carpet. At the end of it lay a corpse with his nose in a rocky crevice, dirty fingers reaching for the path.
The dead man's dark curls and tall, trim build drew John's attention. Dark blue jacket—Who wears a jacket out when it's almost ninety degrees even after sunset?
"He crawled a long way, up here," said Detective Arlene Johnson, off to his left. Arlene was originally from Queens, New York, and still sounded it. She'd worked the Richmond, Virginia police department's "A squad" for fourteen years. Almost twelve years longer than John; thirteen years and six months longer than red-haired Detective Mike Little.
Mike brushed up beside him, straightening his tie. "You know, Johnny," he said, "why don't I interview these lovely young ladies and give them a ride back up to the squad? Give you more time to check out the scene."
Standing in the trees behind him, the two girls who had called the murder in stood craning their necks to stare, then flinching and looking away. One of them had already puked on John's murder scene. Their jogging shorts revealed muscled, tanned legs; their cropped tops exposed long, lean bellies.
John snickered. "Yeah, sure. Knock yourself out." The gray morning sky drizzled a fine mist that threatened a thunderstorm. Mike turned away and John glanced behind him at Arlene. "I think I'm going to empty his pockets now in case it starts raining harder." He snapped on gloves, hurried forward to slide his hand into a jacket pocket, and got a better look at the face.
And then his voice completely left him, and he knelt down, staring. Finally his throat clicked, and he managed to say, "Arlene."
He felt her hanging over his shoulder, and she said, "Oh, my God."
John glanced behind at her, although he didn't need to; the damp air between them buzzed with recognition, as though lightning were about to strike. Arlene's face said it all behind her glasses: frozen, taut, pale. Every inch of John's guts ached.
Their sergeant, William Pride, whom nobody ever beat in to work, whose clearance record no one could touch, lay before them, dusty and smeared with blood.
Detective Savonn Peters, tall, African-American, impeccably dressed, came up behind and leaned in. "Shh-it," he said. Usually quick with a quip, the best he could come up with was, "I guess we know why he's not in yet."
***
Bullet wounds had torn through Pride's shirt and into his torso; at least three, several hours before, as near as they could tell. It was good that John had his procedures down cold, because he was stumbling around in a fog—the sort of numbed-down, stupid haze that had hit him the night Ma called and told him his father had died.
Arlene's eyes were red. She kept taking her glasses off and cleaning them. She knelt on the other side of Pride's body, gloved up, and checked the pockets on her side.
John thumbed through Pride's wallet. "Credit cards are in here." He counted the bills in the billfold. "Fifty dollars." He reached down. "Service weapon. Doesn't look like he even tried to draw."
"Must have been someone he knew," said Arlene, and laid out another wallet. "His badge and ID are all here. Handcuffs. I just don't see—"
John felt something jingly in a pocket. He pulled it out and held it up. "Keys." He reached back in to find nothing else and started over again on the pockets on his side. "I don't see his lighter, though. You got it?" Pride smoked Rocky Patel cigars with a silver lighter he'd had engraved with his initials and last name. It had a "D" carved in script on one side and made a distinctive musical ping every time Pride opened it for a light.
"Not yet," said Arlene. "Who would he be meeting out here, anyway? A girlfriend, maybe?" She looked at John, the question in her eyes.
Pride was divorced. John sometimes met him outside of the squad room, for dinner or something, to chew over cases, but he didn't know that much about his private life. "I don't know if he was seeing anybody."
Savonn called it in on his cell phone. Patrol cars, brass cars, and unmarked sedans started filing in before they were even done with the pockets. Cop cars lined up down the dirt path.
"Aw, fuck," said Savonn. "It's barely seven am, for Chrissakes." John looked up; the new crime reporter for the Times-Dispatch hovered behind the yellow police tape, staring at them through binoculars. A dozen car doors slammed as he fished out a digital camera and starting taking pictures. Black uniforms converged on him at once.
"Don't let anybody tell him who it is," said John, just as Mike stepped down off the path again.
"Johnny, what the fuck?" he said. "You got some big mob hit or something?" He looked at the corpse and did a double take. "Oh, sweet Jesus." Shock and sorrow filled his green eyes.
Fate had cruelly assigned many of the unsolvables to Mike this past winter and spring. He stared down at the body, and then he looked up at John, who was up to catch, with a look that said, Tough break.
The ME and Crime Scene crept along the path behind the patrol cars and stopped. John recognized the crime scene crew immediately as they bailed out and picked their way off the path. Sammy Rew and Jeff Downey—everyone called them Mutt and Jeff.
John sat back on his heels. "Hey, guys, hang on a sec." He held up a hand. "I just want to think for a minute." He twisted around to look at Mike. "If a tracking dog could pick up anything over where he got shot at, it might be useful. But we'd have to get on it, because if it starts raining, that's finito. Can you get that started, Mike?"
"Sure thing," said Mike, and retreated to murmur into his radio.
The ME was just snapping his rubber gloves on when one last car pulled up, far up the path. Several figures slammed car doors and disappeared behind the trees. When they emerged into the clearing and clambered down off the path, John looked up from his scrutiny of the blood trail to see the police chief and his top, top brass: one of the deputy chiefs, two captains—John's own captain and one from patrol—with a lieutenant and a sergeant for good measure.
The bosses retreated a short distance and circled for a powwow. John joined the ME at the body as an excuse to inch a little closer to the brass.
"Who's got this case?"
"I'll check who's up."
"I don't care who's up. I want the most senior people on it. Give it to Johnson. Let Peters assist her. Everyone else clears out except the ME, Crime Scene, and those two."
Goddamn it! John had been in the squad close to two years, his stats were neck and neck with Peters's, and he was no slouch. He was a hard worker. He knew he was more determined than anyone else would be to find the person who did this and make him pay. If it hadn't been for the boss, he wouldn't even be a homicide detective; certainly not at this point in his career.
John carried on as if he hadn't heard the chief even as Arlene and Savonn were summoned to join the powwow. Finally Arlene broke loose from the pack and walked over.
"Uh, John? I hate to say it, but they're making me the primary. It isn't anything about you. It's just—I've got the most time on the squad right now, and the chief wants someone senior."
"Yeah," said John. "Maybe he doesn't realize his voice carries out here."
"Sorry," said Arlene.
"So, what do you want me doing?"
He could already guess what his assignment was. He'd met Pride's mom once. More than likely he'd been chosen, with Trish or Solly or somebody, to go with the chaplain and a supervisor to make the death notification. John understood why, but...he'd miss everything going on out here.
"Ahh..." Arlene couldn't have stared harder at the yellow police tape if the uniformed officer standing there had suddenly begun disrobing. "You've been assigned to go with the recruits we're sending over from the academy and comb the rest of the island to check for evidence. Or any homeless who may have been here and seen anything."
John started to shout, "What?" and had to stop himself and whisper it instead. It came out like dragon's breath through gritted daggers.
He glanced to his left, where his other two squadmates and a whole second detective squad were stepping off the path to join the chief and his brass. They were going to be sent to do the death notification and search Pride's house, John realized—not him.
"That comes from the brass, not me." Arlene was looking directly at him.
"Arlene—they're supposed to send a patrol sergeant and a training officer to supervise recruits!" John hated the whine that crept into his voice.
Arlene studied the rock beneath her sensible black lace-ups. "They are, actually," she said. "You're with that detail." She looked up again, leaned closer, and lowered her voice. "I'm giving you the phone records. They didn't tell me who I had to assign to that. Start that as soon as you can get away, here. In the meantime, command post is going to be in the River Towers parking lot." That was across the vehicle access bridge on the other side of the island. "Start over that way, that's where they're sending the recruits."
John gaped at her; then he remembered to close his mouth.
March 29: If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider going here : https://www.wattpad.com/575693000-the-heart-awards-judging-round-2-for-💜-category
and voting for it. You vote inline by writing, "One of my favorite books!" Thanks! So far it has enough votes, but they are from only two people.