This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2021 by Melinda Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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eISBN: 9781542039581
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
CHAPTER ONE
Detective Bree Taggert ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and greeted the uniformed cop holding a clipboard. A pair of sawhorses blocked the street. “What’s happening, MacDonald?”
“Corpsicle.” MacDonald wrote Bree’s name and badge number on the crime scene log.
He wasn’t being disrespectful. Cops used gallows humor to cope with the violence and despair they witnessed on a daily basis.
He looked around Bree at the car she’d just exited. “Romano’s your new partner? I hear she’s a hard-ass.”
Bree shoved her hands into the pockets of her wool peacoat. “Better than a dumbass.”
“This is true,” MacDonald agreed.
Bree had been transferred to homicide a couple of days ago and paired with Detective Dana Romano, a twenty-one-year veteran of the Philly PD. Just forty-eight hours into their partnership, Bree would agree that Romano was indeed a hard-ass. Bree felt like she was back in the academy, which was ridiculous. She had plenty of investigative experience, even if that experience was mostly in burglaries and property crimes. But Romano had years of homicide experience. The call they’d responded to the day before had been ruled a suicide. This was their second death investigation as partners, and Bree already knew that Romano was also one of the best. Given a choice between smart and sociable, Bree would take the smart partner any day.
Romano slid out of the Crown Vic and tugged a black knit cap over her short, tousled blonde hair. Long and lean, the forty-six-year-old dressed almost entirely in black—pants, boots, jacket—except for her bright raspberry lipstick. To be fair, Bree also wore mostly black. City road grime was rough on clothes.
Bree stepped off the curb and joined her partner in the center of the street. Her boots were clunky, waterproof with knobby rubber treads. Last week’s snow had melted, leaving an occasional lump of ugly gray snow and random patches of black ice.
Three patrol vehicles were double-parked, lights flashing in front of a brick warehouse that spanned most of the North Philadelphia block. Graffiti covered the rolling overhead doors along the loading dock. Tall chain-link fencing topped with razor wire surrounded a parking lot full of commercial trucks and vans.
Rowhomes on the adjacent block varied from well tended to boarded up. Parked cars lined the streets. Despite the frigid December wind, die-hard weeds sprouted between the concrete slabs and in the cracks of patched blacktop. Bulging black garbage bags had been piled at the curb next to a discarded rusted bicycle frame.
Another uniform gestured toward a vehicle twenty yards away, an old blue Ford Escape with a huge dent in the front fender. “The body’s inside.”
At thirty-one years old, Bree had been with the Philly PD for nine years, first in patrol, then as a detective. She recognized most of the uniforms. “Reilly.”
“Taggert.” He nodded, then greeted her partner. “Hey, Romano, you still dating that lawyer?”
He said lawyer like he meant to say serial killer.
Romano shook her head. “Nope.”
“You should have known you can’t date a lawyer.” Reilly frowned. “Cops and lawyers shouldn’t mix. It ain’t natural.”
“From your lips, Reilly,” Romano said in a knowing voice.
Reilly fell into step beside Bree. “You still dating Ben Harris from the twelfth?”
“What are you, the district matchmaker?” Bree rolled her eyes.
He patted his well-rounded belly. “I just want to see all my fellow officers as fat and happy as I am. Besides, my brother-in-law is in town. The wife wants to fix him up.”
Bree laughed. “Harris and I broke up. The only thing worse than dating a lawyer is seeing another cop.”
“No kidding.” Reilly snorted.
“But I’m not interested in a blind date.” The only male Bree was currently keeping company with was her tomcat. “Too soon.”
Reilly gave Romano a questioning look. “Help a brother out?”
Romano held up a hand. “No fucking way. Not happening.”
They approached the Ford. The driver’s door was open, and a figure slumped over the wheel. “We responded to a call from a passerby who spotted the body.” Reilly motioned toward a man hunched against the cold on the sidewalk. Dreadlocks spilled out from under a black watch cap. “The vehicle doors were unlocked. We opened the door to assess the victim’s condition.” He didn’t need to go on. The victim’s condition was evident.
Bree fastened her top coat button. The dampness cut right through to her bones. Despite MacDonald’s corpsicle reference—and the frigid feel to the wind—overnight temps hadn’t gone below freezing.
Romano leaned over to peer into the vehicle. “Messy.”
Bree looked over her new partner’s shoulder into the Ford. Blood and brains spattered the interior. A bullet had entered the side of the man’s temple. The entry wound was the size of a quarter. The bullet must have tumbled and fragmented inside his skull because it had made a bigger hole on the way out.
Romano stared at the body, her crow’s feet deepening as she assessed the scene.
Bree stepped back and glanced through the rear window into the back seat. The floor was covered in fast-food wrappers, empty kid’s meal boxes, and a couple of discarded sippy cups. A child safety seat was strapped into the middle seat. She tamped down the small punch of emotion. “He’s got a kid.”
Reilly stamped his feet. “The vehicle is registered to James Tyson.”
“Did you run him?” Romano asked Reilly.
“Yeah.” Reilly consulted a notepad. “Twenty-seven years old. He’s got a rap sheet. Mostly old drug possession charges. No recent arrests.”
Romano glanced back at Bree. “Check the glove box.”
Tugging on gloves, Bree rounded the vehicle and opened the passenger door. The cold might delay decomposition, but the vehicle still smelled nasty. Muscles relaxed upon death, releasing the contents of the bladder and bowels. There was no dignity in dying.
Ignoring the blood-and-gore-spattered interior, she used one finger to open the glove compartment. Inside, she found the normal paraphernalia: vehicle registration, a dog-eared Ford manual, a flashlight, and a box of crayons. “Nothing interesting.”
She removed a wallet from the center console and opened it. The driver’s license of James Tyson showed through the plastic window. Bree leaned into the vehicle and tilted her head until she could see the victim’s face and compare it to the license photo. “Looks like him.”
Pulling her head out of the compact SUV, she took a deep breath of cold, exhaust-tinted air. Glancing down at the wallet, she read off an address less than a mile away from the scene. She opened the billfold. “Forty-three dollars and two credit cards.”
So, probably not a robbery.
Ducking back into the vehicle, Bree picked up the cell phone in the cupholder. “Passcode protected.”
This was a roll ’em up kind of city block. “He was a local. I’m sure he knew plenty of people,” Bree said.
“Probably a drug deal gone sideways, or a gang hit.” Reilly knew his turf. A good percentage of Philadelphia homicides—especially shootings—were drug and/or gang related. “How long do you think he’s been dead?”
Romano shrugged, stepped back, and scanned the area. “With the window down, he’s visible from outside the vehicle. In this neighborhood, people would have been walking by. He couldn’t sit here, dead, for very long without someone noticing.”
“Doesn’t mean they would have reported it.” Reilly rocked back on his heels.
Bree sorted through crumpled receipts on the passenger-side floor. Smoothing them out, she read the date and time stamps in faded print. Two were recent. “He bought gas and a kid’s meal yesterday. He was alive at 8:06 in the morning.” She checked her watch. It was nearly eight a.m. “He’s been dead less than twenty-four hours.”
Romano looked up and nodded toward a medical examiner van approaching. “ME’s here.”
They stepped away from the vehicle and waited.
Romano gestured at Reilly. “Let’s get a few uniforms knocking on doors. See if residents will admit to seeing or hearing anything last night. Also, look for doorbell or front-porch cameras on the houses facing this direction.”
Reilly grabbed another patrol cop, and they turned toward the rowhomes across the street.
Bree eyed the houses. She had no doubt someone had heard the shot. But in this neighborhood, residents weren’t likely to call the cops. They’d go inside, lock their doors, and shut the fuck up. Gangs owned the blocks. Ratting on them proved hazardous to one’s health.
Bree turned in a circle. “I see surveillance cameras around the warehouse parking lot. I’ll go talk to management about getting copies of the videos.”
“I’ll take a statement from the witness.” Romano started toward the man with the dreadlocks.
Bree pulled off her gloves and tucked them into an evidence bag. She crossed the street and strode to the old brick building. She showed her badge at the entrance and explained what she needed. As she stepped into the warehouse, her breath fogged. The chill seeped from the concrete floor through the soles of her boots. It felt colder inside than outside.
“No problem.” A skinny security guard escorted her to a back office, where he opened the previous night’s surveillance footage. Bree pulled up a wheeled chair and watched him locate the correct camera and fast-forward through the video.
On the monitor, Bree spied the Ford cruising down the street. “Stop.”
The crime scene was in the periphery of the camera’s focus. With the darkness and distance, the film was too grainy to read the license plate, but the make and model were clear. The Ford disappeared behind a furniture truck. Bree assumed it parked, because it didn’t emerge on the other side of the truck and was in the same location it currently sat.
The guard advanced through the frames. About fifteen minutes after the Ford disappeared from view, a figure slipped from behind the truck. It crossed the sidewalk behind a pile of garbage bags and disappeared into a shadowed alley. The shooter? Where did he come from? “Can you go back?”
“Sure.” The security guard replayed the video.
The figure was visible for only a few seconds. Bree could see a hoodie-clad head above the garbage bags. Suspect number one. Unfortunately, the footage was too dark to see any detail. “Can you print that?”
With a nod, the guard clicked his mouse.
Bree studied the screen. A few minutes later, a shadow shifted on the edge of the video. “What’s that?”
“Looks like someone approaching from the south.” The guard shook his head. “He’s staying in the shadow of the truck.” He froze the video and zoomed in on the figure.
The second suspect appeared to be male due to his general size and build. He turned, and Bree could see his profile. “Stop! Can you print that as well?”
“Sure.” The guard clicked the mouse again, then returned to fast-forwarding the video. No one else appeared. He made a copy of the entire video and downloaded it onto a thumb drive.
She stuck the thumb drive in her pocket. “Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
She left the building. Outside, she walked up and down the sidewalk but spotted no additional surveillance cameras, then headed back to the Ford. The ME was leaning into the vehicle. His assistant manned a camera.
Romano turned as Bree crossed the street. “Witness didn’t see anything. He works on the loading dock. Saw the body when he was walking from the bus stop to the warehouse.” She paused. “No luck with the canvass. Everyone on the block was sleeping soundly all night long.” Sarcasm rang in her voice.
Bree called bullshit, but what could you do? She summarized what she’d seen on the surveillance video and showed Romano the printed photo of suspect number two.
“Let’s get a copy distributed to the uniforms. We can check with the Gun Violence Task Force too. If he’s a local gang member, someone will recognize him.”
The Gun Violence Task Force was a joint effort with the attorney general, the Philly PD, state police, and the ATF.
“Suspect number one looks smaller, but we only have a back-of-the-head picture,” Bree said. “The video does give us a window for potential time of death.” She pointed to the time stamps on the two pictures. “Tyson arrives a little after one a.m. Both suspects are seen on the video between 1:11 and 1:30 a.m.”
“It’s a start.”
Bree stabbed at the photos. “Either one of these suspects could have arrived in the Ford with Tyson . . .”
“Or were waiting for Tyson here.” Romano finished Bree’s thought.
“We can’t say for certain that no one else was there,” Bree added. “Too much of the camera view is blocked.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Bree agreed. “Fuck.”
The ME had a body like Santa. He pulled out of the Ford’s interior. “No rigor yet. Livor mortis isn’t fixed yet either. Cold would slow decomp, but he’s relatively fresh. Died very early this morning.” He closed his eyes and his jowly face screwed up as he did the mental math. “Six to eight hours ago, roughly between midnight and two a.m.”
Which matched the times on the surveillance video.
“Detective Romano?” Reilly called. “CSU is here.”
As soon as the ME removed the body, the crime scene unit would take over.
“Do we have a next of kin for the victim?” Romano asked.
Reilly nodded. “He’s married to Kelly Tyson.”
“Let’s go notify Mrs. Tyson.” Romano turned back toward their vehicle. Once behind the wheel, she rubbed her palms together, then pulled a pair of leather gloves from her pocket and tugged them on.
In the passenger seat, Bree blew on her freezing hands.
Romano peeled away from the curb.
“Wasn’t a robbery.” Bree rolled the facts around in her head. “They left cash in Tyson’s wallet. Also, they didn’t take the car. Drug deal gone sour?”
“We have no idea what happened, other than a guy got shot.”
“You don’t like any of those theories?” Bree asked.
Romano shot her a direct look. “I like evidence, not theories.”
Bree could have run the mile to the victim’s residence faster than they drove in morning rush-hour traffic. Romano pulled to the curb in front of a block of rowhomes that directly fronted the sidewalk. They stepped out of the vehicle.
Bree studied the crumbling brick facade. Thick utility wires hung overhead. She scanned the doors for numbers. “Looks like she rents the basement apartment.”
Cracked concrete steps led to the lower unit. A freshly painted robin’s-egg-blue front door made the rest of the block
look older and more worn. They went down, and Bree knocked on the door. She heard footsteps on the other side. A curtain shifted in the window next to the door. A few seconds later, the door opened, and a young woman eyed them with suspicion.
According to Kelly Tyson’s motor vehicle records, she was twenty-three years old, but she could have passed for early thirties. She was tall and bony, with sallow skin that said she didn’t get outside much. Her shoulder-length blonde hair sported three inches of dark roots. Worry lines etched the corners of her mouth and eyes.
“We’re Detectives Taggert and Romano.” Bree opened her badge wallet and turned it toward the young woman. “Are you Kelly Tyson?” she asked, even though the woman matched her driver’s license photo.
Nodding, Mrs. Tyson crossed her arms and chewed on her thumbnail. Her fingernails were bitten far below the quick, and her cuticles looked like they’d been through a meat grinder. In a heavy sweatshirt and yoga pants, she shivered in the doorway.
“Are you married to James Tyson?” Romano asked.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t live here anymore.” Mrs. Tyson stepped back and grabbed the door, preparing to close it.
“May we come inside, Mrs. Tyson?” Bree asked.
“No.” Mrs. Tyson lifted her chin with a defiance that seemed permanent. “Whatever James did, it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“May we please come inside?” Bree asked. “It’s freezing, and we’d rather not have this discussion in public.”
“A’ight.” Mrs. Tyson stepped into the house.
Romano and Bree followed her into a tiny living room–kitchen combination. The apartment was long and narrow. The air held the permanent chill of a basement. Off the main living space, a door opened into a small bathroom. Behind that, it appeared as if there were two bedrooms the size of walk-in closets. Despite the cramped quarters, there was an obvious attempt to keep the place tidy. The worn couch was draped with blankets. A stack of milk crates in the corner contained children’s toys and books.
“Mrs. Tyson,” Romano began.
“Call me Kelly.” But Kelly didn’t sit down or relax. She stood just inside the apartment, barely giving Bree room to close the door. Kelly knew something was wrong.
Her Second Death: A Short Story (Bree Taggert) Page 1