Chapter 17

When Cecelia pulled off the freeway at the Montgomery exit we ran into traffic. We fumed through it – it was thick enough that even if we'd had lights and siren we wouldn't have been able to make a lot of progress – and turned north when we got to Carlisle. From there we pulled into the parking lot of the church on the northwest corner of Carlisle and Montgomery, where a whole flock of official vehicles were, parked haphazardly the way cops do when they're responding to something.

I led the way toward the diversion channel, and found an APD officer at the crime scene tape, which barred entrance to the bank. "I'm Darvin Carpenter," I told him, displaying my PI license, "and this is my wife Cecelia. We're working with the task force. You can check with Lt. Stubblefield."

He examined my license, and Cecelia's driver's license, and then used his radio to talk to Stubblefield. After a couple of minutes he lifted the tape, allowing us to pass under it. We walked up the bank toward the crowd.

Stubblefield came to meet us. "Mr. Carpenter, have you ever been at this sort of crime scene?"

"I have, more or less, but Cecelia hasn't."

"Okay," he said. "There's not a lot of blood on the ground – it's a dump site, not the scene of the killing. The clothing is soaked, though, and still tacky. It's not pretty. Mrs. Carpenter, are you ready for this?"

"Lieutenant, I shall not know for certain until I view the scene, but I believe so. I have been present at one crime scene involving a homicide, though there was but one wound and the primary affliction was the odor; the corpse had been there for several days."

"Just remember, don't contaminate the scene," he said, and led the way.

As we got up to the knot of people I said to Cecelia, "Keep your hands in your pockets."

"Why?"

"So you don't touch anything. We don't want to have to sort your DNA out from whatever else is here. You'll remember how Alan had his hands in his pockets back in Red Hawk."

"I see," she said, and put her hands in the pockets of her jacket, a lightweight number that would probably be insufficient before we left. Neither of us had expected to see the sun go down while we stood outside, but it looked like it was going to happen. "I must confess I didn't really notice Officer Mills' hands at the scene – I was too busy keeping my stomach under control." She had in fact vomited when she first got to the scene – she'd taken the initial call of a foul odor – and the rest of the time she was there she'd been shaky.

Lt. Stubblefield parted the crowd, and Cecelia and I followed him – I decided not to pursue the matter of the crime scene back in Oklahoma. Before I gave the body more than a glance, I looked at Cecelia. She was expressionless, which I knew meant she was keeping a tight rein on herself, for normally she either has some animated expression, or simply looks serene. She gazed at the body, and I thought she might be slightly pale, but it's hard to tell with her skin.

After a minute or so she said, "I find I am not going to egest my last meal."

"Cool," I said. "Stay with me. Move when and where I move, but don't on any account get closer to the body than I do. If I tell you to do something, do it without question, and if you have questions I'll answer 'em later. And keep your hands in your pockets."

"Yes, sir."

I walked toward the body, my own hands in the pockets of my heavy jean jacket, which I'd worn because I don't care for cold at all. I was going to be grateful for it, I expected. The features and build matched the description Cecelia had gotten from her contact. The clothes did too, for that matter, but you could find any number of people on any given day in clothes that would match that description.

I didn't bother cutting for sign – by the time we got there 50 cops had been all over the scene, and any tracks there might have been were long gone. I'd have to talk to Stubblefield about that. I hadn't expected any of the bodies to turn up in places where my tracking ability would be useful, but this one had, and it was too late now to make provisions.

I squatted down next to the body. It was hard to tell, but it looked like he had a dozen or more wounds in front – anyway rips in his clothing that probably matched wounds in the torso. I saw one clear wound in his right thigh – bone was showing through the rip in cloth and flesh, and what looked like it might be another on his upper left arm. But I saw no obvious defense wounds, which could mean any number of things.

The man's eyes were open, as is often the case with sudden death. He was on his back, with his legs straight and his hands folded together on his belt buckle. "Clearly a display posture," I said to myself, but out loud. I talk to myself when I'm examining a crime scene – every investigator has his way of registering what he's seeing, and that's mine. "Multiple wounds, hard to tell how many. He didn't fight – maybe didn't have a chance." I looked toward the feet. "Blood on the tops of the shoes..." I duckwalked to my right. "But none on the soles, so he didn't move around much, didn't step in it."