He had a duty.
A purpose.
A responsibility.
He hoped that he would be able to impart the same advice to his new partner, Paul Mitchell.
“Who found our vic?” Berlin asked.
Mitchell reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black notebook. It opened up and, as he flipped it open, he began to read.
“A runner. Woman named Elizabeth Hawkins. She was out for her morning run and saw something out of the corner of her eye. She runs the trail every morning, so it stuck out like a turd in a punchbowl.”
“She didn’t really say that, did she?”
Mitchell laughed. “Nah, that’s mine.”
“Let’s keep it to the facts,” Berlin said. “She always run so early?”
“Yeah, she’s one of them power nuts. Big commute, so she gets up early. Has to head into the big city.”
“Anything else?”
“He wasn’t there yesterday she said, so he’s fresh.”
“So, Saturday maybe. That makes time of death possibly between the hours of 7 a.m. Saturday and 5 a.m. this morning, we’ll say,” Berlin said. He looked back down at the body and a thought occurred to him. “Hey, since you got here before I did, did you happen to notice anybody hanging around?”
“Nah, man,” Mitchell said, looking back to the shore. “It was quiet. Just us po-lice. Heck, the media wasn’t even here. I guess we got lucky. Why?”
“Just curious. The call came direct from up top. Not sure why.”
“No one told you? Our vic—he’s one of ours, man.”
CHAPTER 2
Jack Howell sat at his desk, dreading the thought of heading home for the day. It wouldn’t be so bad if only it wasn’t 9 a.m. and he only just started his day.
A crime reporter for the Garden Chronicle, the local newspaper in the Gardens, Jack had been with them for more than a decade. Some days he didn’t mind it. Most days, though, he hated it. At first he couldn’t figure out why, but, as the years went on, it started to become clearer and clearer. He was afraid that he’d waste away behind the desk. Start to become like Gus, down on the second floor.
God, who am I kidding? No one reads this crap anymore. Not with Facebook, Twitter, and God knows what else they’re cooking up right now.
I shoulda got out years ago.
I shoulda taken that package when I had the chance.
Maeve was right. He shouldn’t be here. But he hated to admit the truth. It felt painful. Made him sick to his stomach.
He told himself that he just needed that story. That one story that would set him free. That one story that would change their lives forever. It would give him the respect and recognition that he thought that he deserved. Then they could leave this godforsaken city. Just leave it all behind.
Maeve was getting tired of waiting, though.
As the years went on, every day became a bigger battle than the last. Their daughter, Allison, was getting older and a new problem was manifesting: the adolescent teen.
Why couldn’t they see? Why couldn’t they understand that all he wanted to do was to write? Write and maybe help put away some bad guys while he was at it?
“Jack. My office. Three minutes.”
Jack swiveled in his seat and saw his editor, storming off down an aisle.
Prick, Jack thought.
“Yo, Jack, you got a minute to look this over?” Another voice called from afar.
Jack shuffled paperwork on his desk into neat little piles. “Sorry, Noel, I just got summoned.”
Noel poked his head up from his cubicle, his eyebrows raised. “Summoned?”
“Yeah, boss wants to see me,” Jack said.
Noel frowned. “About what?”
“How am I supposed to know, kid? I just do as I’m told.”
Noel begrudgingly receded back down into his cubicle. “Fine.”
Noel was a good kid. Smart, talented, and he had a drive that was unmatched. Jack couldn’t figure out why the kid wasted his time here. He deserved better.
We all do.
Jack got up from his desk and began to make his way to his editor’s office. As he passed by the familiar cubicles, he was reminded of days gone by where the large room used to be full of energy and voices. There were some days when you would have thought that the world was ending, given the speed and tenacity of the working reporters. Now, you could probably hear a cough from the next aisle.
Get with the program, Jack.
This is your life now.
“How ya doin’?” Jack asked a pretty blonde.
“Gooood,” she said. “Yourself?”
Jack picked up on the hesitation in her voice. Yep, a real ladies man here, yessir. “Just great. You new here?”
“Yeah,” she said. She offered nothing else.
“Well, take care and welcome aboard,” he said.
Smooth. Real smooth. Such a charmer, you.
Seconds later, Jack stood outside Ray Ellsworth’s door. He knocked twice and waited.
“Come!” The editor’s voice sounded from inside.
Jack did so and stood in front of the large desk.
“Grab a seat, Jack. You know how much I hate craning my neck up to look at you.”
He had been this way since puberty. They called him Howlin’ Jack in the office, given his appearance and booming voice. Weighing close to 250 pounds, his six foot four frame cast a shadow everywhere he went. There were days that he enjoyed imposing his figure over his editor. If he had to guess, this was going to be one of those times. If he could work up the courage, that is.
He grabbed a chair with one hand and pulled it out, away from the desk. “What’s this about, sir?”
“Sit.”
He threw his weight into the chair and it creaked and moaned in agony.
“I’ve been looking over your notes here on that Port development story,” the editor said.
“Yeah?”
Here we go. What’s it gonna be this time?
Ray flipped pages over and over, although Jack didn’t think he was reading them at all. “They’re good, but you’re not there yet.”
“Sir?”
“I can’t have you writing this story. Not yet. I need more.”
Unbelievable. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t, but it’s just the way it is, Jack. Budgets are tight. Advertising’s down. We don’t need the extra attention right now is all.”
Jack leaned forward. “Sir, it’s all there,” he said, gesturing at the paperwork. “Let me take ’em down. This is a front page story.”
Ray Ellsworth had been the Editor-in-Chief of the Garden Chronicle for a few years now. Jack didn’t know where he worked before that, but he didn’t care either way. Ray was useless in his humble opinion.
Jack hadn’t liked him from Day One.
Ray leaned over on his desk with one elbow. He pointed squarely in Jack’s direction. “Jack, I decide what’s front page worthy. Not you.”
Jack sighed heavily. “Let me ask you something, Ray. Don’t you want this paper to be something more? I swear, it’s like no one gives a rat’s ass anymore. I don’t get it.”
Ray put a hand up. “Stop. No more games. If you want to work here, you write what I tell you to write. Everybody has to play by the rules here. If there are no rules, there’s chaos. I can’t have that.”
Well, your rules are horseshit, Ray, he wanted to say.
He knew that he couldn’t, though. Maeve would come down hard on him. Things were just too volatile at home. He couldn’t risk it.
Jack absentmindedly turned his wedding band with his thumb and forefinger.
Twenty years, Jack. The big 2-0. You can’t give up now.
“I take it by your silence that we are in agreement then,” Ray said. “I need you to head down to Court and King. There’s been a robbery.”
Jack sat up. “Sir, that was nuthin’. Some guy got jumped by three men.”
“Jack.”
<
br /> “All right. I’ll go.”
“Get the door on your way out,” Ray called.
“Sure thing.”
Jack shut the door. He stood on the other side, watching the reporters mill about, and he felt sick to his stomach.
CHAPTER 3
Berlin was the first one out of the boat. It rocked gently, next to the concrete, swishing and swaying from side to side. Berlin grounded his footing and reached across to grab hold of his partner. While pulling him up, his eyes moved to the young gentleman in the boat that was carrying a large black case.
“You ready, kid?” Mitchell said, talking to the young guy. Mitchell pulled him up and out of the boat in one swift motion.
Berlin signaled to the driver that they were all set and he pulled away from the concrete and retreated farther down shore.
“Berlin, this is Patrick Sullivan. We call him Sully. He’s one of’ em CSIs. He’ll be doin’ our primary search, I guess.” Mitchell chuckled to himself.
Berlin glanced at the kid. He looked like he was fresh out of the academy. He had short-cropped brown hair and he wasn’t very tall, shorter than the two of them. If Berlin had to guess, he’d put him at about five foot seven. He had a lean, wiry build. It was a body that was meant for running, maybe. He approached Berlin with his hand out.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Detective,” Sullivan said.
“Ya, I hear I’m damaged goods,” Berlin said in return.
Sullivan first looked to Mitchell then back to Berlin, unsure of how to proceed.
Mitchell finally clapped Sullivan on the shoulder. “He’s just messin’ wit ya, kid. Ain’t ya, Berlin?”
Berlin cleared his throat. “All right, kid—Sully. I need you to tap into that artistic side of yours and get this place photographed and sketched ASAP, so we can start doin’ our work.”
“Sure thing,” Sully said. He knelt down to the ground and popped open his case. Inside were a wide assortment of tools and kits including evidence identifiers, casting materials, a gunshot residue kit, marking paint, and more.
Each police investigator had their own favorite method and means of evidence collection, but the end result was always the same. You did your best and tried hard not to screw it up.
This wasn’t any TV show like CSI or Law & Order. This was real life. In real life, the jurors were less forgiving in trials.
While the CSI got to work, Berlin tried to take in more of the scene from a distance. He stood in place while Sully worked, but he desperately wished he could start his own search. He hated to rely on others. He’d rather just do the work himself.
His mind started to run through what they knew so far. Their victim had been found on a stone-like structure in the canal. Why there? Was it a body dump? Or, was he killed there? If so, how did he get there? Swimming seemed like an unlikely option.
“You ready for this?” Berlin asked.
Mitchell looked up from his notebook and met Berlin’s eyes. “Of course.”
“All right, due to the nature of the scene, small and intimate, I’m gonna use a spiral search pattern once Sully’s out of the way. You know what I mean?”
Mitchell nodded. “Yeah. Start at the body and work your way out in a circular pattern. I remember, I took notes,” He said as he held up his notebook.
“Okay. So what else do you have there?”
Mitchell smirked. “We’re really gonna go through all this again?”
Berlin was quiet.
“Fine. On our last case, you talked a lot about the silent witness. That’s us. Wherever we step, whatever we touch, whatever we leave behind, it serves as a silent witness against us. The evidence doesn’t forget.”
Berlin nodded.
Mitchell continued with, “We’re looking for the what, how, and why. Where were they standing when they dealt the final blow? That sort of thing.”
“Did you know him?” Berlin asked.
“Huh? No, can’t say that I had the pleasure.” He read through some of the notes in his notebook. “His name was Tim Scott. He worked in the Narcotics Division. He was UC.”
UC. He had been working undercover. Berlin thought about that new piece of information. He felt a tingling sensation inside, the tiny hairs rising on the back of his neck. A boat would have been both ideal and accessible to local drug dealers in the area. It could work.
Berlin watched Sully move around the scene. He appeared to know what he was doing, but Berlin still had his doubts. He wasn’t used to working with crime scene technicians. There simply wasn’t a budget for it. He guessed that he’d have to get used to the idea that things ran differently in the Gardens. “He been undercover long?”
“We’ll have to ask somebody.”
“Any idea if this is anybody’s turf?”
“I doubt it. I could check with some of the Narco guys but—”
“Maybe someone snitched,” Berlin said.
“I hope not.”
The Gardens was a city no worse off than many other large metropolitan areas like Detroit, Chicago, or Los Angeles, but over the last year things had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Gang violence and corruption was at an all time high.
Berlin had come over to Gardens Homicide three months ago, after coming off from a long leave of absence. Part of the agreement was that he needed to meet with the police psychologist once or twice a week. He was still unsure of how he felt about Dr. Maddie Coe. She had good intentions, but, lately, Berlin wondered if she was fighting a losing battle with him.
She was on Berlin’s mind as they waited for Sully to finish documenting the scene when something caught Berlin’s eye in the distance. Across the water on the opposite shoreline he saw a light. Was someone watching them?
“Detective?” a voice called.
Berlin blinked and the light disappeared. He could have sworn that there was something there a second ago.
He turned to face Sully. “Yeah?”
“He’s all yours, and sorry about the wait. Watch your step on those rocks. Almost fell in myself a few times.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“Maybe…I’ll see ya around? Grab a beer or somethin’?”
He shrugged and then said, “Yeah. Maybe. Later, kid.”
Berlin didn’t make plans. He wasn’t that type of guy. He kept to himself and he thought it suited him just fine.
Berlin crept closer to the body. He paid close attention to how he was stepping on the rocks. One misstep and he’d find himself with the fish in the canal. Once he was close enough, he looked down at Tim Scott. He lay on the rocks, splayed out like a beached whale, his arms out at his sides, with a grim expression on his face. Berlin had known then that rigor had set in since the substance that allows energy to flow to the muscles had been drained from the body. This caused the muscles to become stiff and inflexible.
Scott had dark brown hair, a silver earring in one ear, and wore a dark blue polo shirt with green khaki pants. He could have easily passed for someone’s father. Maybe he was? Two deep red splotches were centered in the middle of his chest.
Gunshot wounds.
Berlin’s eyes moved around the body, looking for anything out of the ordinary. “Does it say where he was working?”
“Down in Port,” Mitchell said.
Port? That was Berlin’s home turf. He made a mental note to ask around when he had a chance.
“I don’t think we’re gonna find anything here, Mitch,” Berlin said.
“No?”
“Nah. Wind could have easily blown away any trace evidence, and since he’s laid out on the rocks here, there’s not gonna be any shoe imprints, either.” Berlin glanced back at the shoreline where he saw the light earlier. “Our best bet is to maybe find some fibers or ballistics. Hopefully we'll get some good news during the autopsy.”
“Damn.”
“He wasn’t killed here, either.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It doesn’t feel right. Could explain the lack
of evidence.”
“Shell casings?”
Berlin cast a look. “Nope. What do you think? Where do we go from here?”
Mitchell thought on it. “Well what should be here, but isn’t?”
“Now you’re talking.” Berlin pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them onto his hands. He knelt down to the body and reached in behind at the back pocket. He pulled out the brown leather wallet and showed it to Mitchell, who simply gave a nod. He flipped it open to the driver’s license and, sure enough, it was Tim Scott. A wad of cash still resided inside the bill area. “He’s got cash. Not a lot, but enough to warrant the taking. I think that we can rule out robbery.”
“He carrying?”
Mitchell was catching on quick. Berlin started near Scott’s chest and worked his way down the pant leg, patting and squeezing the clothing. “Nothing.”
“Defensive wounds?”
Berlin pulled a pen out of his pocket and knelt down beside Scott. He put it underneath Scott’s fingers and pulled them up for closer inspection. “Nope.” He stood, his knees cracking, put the pen away then folded his arms across his chest. “Notice the entry wounds? Double tap center mass. This was an execution, Mitch.”
Mitchell made a ticking sound with his tongue while he stroked his chin. “So we’re lookin’ for a professional. Might be more to that gang theory after all. We’ll need to get with the Narco boys to see if there’s any beefs goin’ on that we should know about.”
“Yeah,” Berlin said, putting the latex gloves back in his pocket.
“Maybe someone let it slip. Exposed Scott. Put him out in the open.”
Berlin worked the possibilities in his head. Did it make sense? It certainly looked like a body dump. With no evidence to speak of, this was going to be a bitch of a thing to break. Hell of a thing to come back to, he thought.
“You all right?” Mitchell asked him.
“Yeah,” Berlin said. “Just thinkin’.”
Eyes of the Dead: A Crime and Suspense Thriller (The Gardens Book 1) Page 2