All of them observing the lead detectives examine the body and its immediate surroundings, while a forensics team methodically set up to do its thing. A mass of curious people all watching the same thing, and generating a barely audible buzz, as though conversing any louder might wake the dead.
But not everyone is there for the same reason. One man in particular is more invested in this scene than the others. He hasn’t slept, he never does before or after a killing. But no one would know from looking at him.
He is of average height, average weight, and his face is as common and forgettable as dust. The way he’s dressed, this man could be mistaken for the guy in the third cubicle down the hall in any office. White shirt, blue tie, department store windbreaker, twenty-dollar haircut. Just another middle manager who hates what he does and counts the years to retirement.
Except this man is no middle manager, and he enjoys what he does. It’s the thing that keeps him going. Someone in the crowd sees that the victim’s neck has been cut from ear to ear, and whispers to no one in particular, “This makes seven—no, eight.”
Staring back at a plainclothes cop who is scanning the crowd, the man thinks, This makes nine.
As his eyes made their second pass across the crowd, Detective Conyers realized how after a while all crowds look the same. Eighteen years on the force, the last seven as a homicide detective, had made it difficult for him to separate the faces that always seemed to be part of these scenes.
He imagined how Roman gladiators in the Coliseum might have regarded ancient spectators in the same way. Blank faces gazing at a scene that offers them only violence, death, and nothing of real value. Vain attempts to sneak a look at something they don’t truly want to see.
The odor of death blended with the delicate scent of a newborn day in a way that was both perverse and familiar to Conyers. He wondered if any of the onlookers noticed it, if it made them want to turn away or just get on with their lives. Conyers doubted it.
No one stood out from the rest of the crowd. Though he’d been trained to look for anyone with a motive beyond morbid curiosity, he had never succeeded in picking out a potential suspect. Not even once, not even close. After another pass revealed nothing new or useful, Conyers gave up and glanced over at Murphy, his partner, who was dictating the details into a tape recorder as though he was ordering the usual at the corner diner.
“The vic is Hispanic. According to his I.D., he just turned twenty-four, and he definitely won’t see the quarter-century mark. His name was Orlando Corpas.”
Conyers interrupted, “He went by, ‘Orlo.’ I knew him when I was working a beat.”
Murphy nodded, then went back to recording his observations.
“Orlando,” he started, then looked up at Conyers, “a.k.a. ‘Orlo’ Corpas is now Corpas the Corpse on account of the ten-inch-long, quarter-inch-wide groove that someone opened in his neck. There are no signs of robbery.”
That triggered a memory for Conyers. Turning his attention away from his partner’s routine breakdown of the particulars, he began surveying the scene like someone playing that kids’ search game where valuable objects are hidden within a crowded picture. Conyers knew exactly what he was looking for, but not where to find it.
He walked around the large trash can and examined it carefully, not too concerned about getting some of the grime on his street-worn brown leather coat. He glanced back at his partner, who looked up from the body, saw what Conyers was doing, and shook his head then went back to recording his findings.
Conyers next searched the paved biking and running trail. He walked thirty feet away from the body, no need to go any farther if the previous crime scenes were any indication.
Conyers knew he resembled a shabby bloodhound as he glanced down and from side to side with each measured step.
He heard one onlooker ask another, “What do you think he’s looking for? A weapon? Blood splatters? Fibers?”
But Conyers wasn’t searching for anything like that, the sort of evidence that too often cracks fictional TV cases wide open. He walked back toward the body, then continued down the path in the opposite direction. Again, he covered the area a few feet at a time. Again, he came up empty.
He looked back at the crime scene and saw that Murphy had finished and was now talking to Bulling, the lead forensics officer. The small grove of recently planted poplar trees stood about midway between Conyers and the body. His black leather shoes sank a little into the moist ground as he walked toward the trees, and he felt the chill on the soles of his feet.
Though spring had started to arrive on the eastern seaboard, it had thus far produced only a smattering of leaves on the trees. They provided a splash of color, which seemed out of place at that moment, under these circumstances. But there weren’t enough of them to obscure much of the bark.
Conyers examined each tree from its base up to the low-hanging branches, but found nothing that shouldn’t have been there. Maybe this killing was different from the others. He would check out the shoreline, but already knew that would be a waste of time. He had walked it searching for evidence when they first arrived.
Then, as he turned back to where Murphy and Bulling were still talking, Conyers noticed a lighter piece of bark along the bottom of a thick branch. He’d been so focused on the tree trunks that he’d missed this before.
Conyers squatted under the branch and looked up. There it was. If it had eyes, they would’ve been staring down at him.
“Bulling, come here right now.”
Behind him, Conyers heard the large man moving in his direction, but he did not turn away from the branch.
“Yes, Detective?” Bulling asked, winded.
“We’re going to need a photo of that.”
Bulling carefully squatted and saw what Conyers was pointing at. A stick figure, comprised of an empty circular head, a torso, two short arms, and two legs had been carefully carved into the wood.
“Probably done by some kid, or a smartass with a pocket knife,” Bulling said.
Conyers shook his head.
“I don’t think so. In fact, I want you to cut this branch off at its base and take it back to the lab. I have a feeling you’re going to find traces of the vic’s blood in the grooves of that carving.”
Murphy walked up as Bulling wandered off to find a camera, some tools, and an assistant to do the difficult work.
“Check this out,” Conyers said, and Murphy bent down to get a look under the branch.
“A stick figure, big deal.”
“Yeah, like the one we found two weeks ago, painted on a bench near that pimp’s body. And remember last month’s—”
Murphy cut him off.
“Con, you know what I see? I see a dead piece of shit over there by the water. I see a useless slab of meat that might’ve killed a kid in a drive-by a few days from now, or would’ve taken a shot at you, me, or one of our guys at some point down the line.”
Conyers listened. He understood what Murphy was getting at, even shared many of his partner’s views. But still…
“Listen, Murph, there’s something going on here, something bigger than some bullshit turf war, and it has to end.”
The man blends into the crowd that has been watching the two detectives. He understands what is happening, and knows what will happen next. The police commissioner, maybe even the mayor, will hold a press