Blood Line by Rex Burns

happen—there’s a lot of stuff laying around out there. But there’s security people after work. You know, they close the site and have patrols and all.”
    It was Wager’s turn to nod. “Any other detective interview you about Julio?”
    “No. You’re the only one.”
    Knowing Golding, Wager wasn’t surprised. He thanked the youth and told him not to say anything about their talk.
    “You don’t have to worry about that, man!”
    The usual wad of messages and notices was waiting in his pigeonhole when he reported in the next morning. He didn’t expect any urgent ones—that’s what the location board and the police radio were for—but everybody who sent anything wanted you to think their crap was urgent anyway. On top of the stack was a mailer from the DA’s office marked OPEN NOW IMPORTANT. Wager did: a single memo slid out—FROM: ADA Kolagny. TO: Det. Sgt. G. Wager, SUBJ: Plea-bargain conference for Madeline Slusser, C.N.: 94-40-3-161. Wager stared for a long moment at the memo. What in the hell was there to bargain about? A smoking shotgun and a woman who wouldn’t stop telling all and sundry how much she enjoyed shooting the son of a bitch. Shaking his head, Wager copied the time and date of the meeting into his notebook and turned to the next official envelope.
    It was a photocopy of the lab report on the rounds that the coroner had dug out of Julio: .22-caliber hollow-point. The accompanying scrawl from Golding said, “ Looks like a gang bang to me, Gabe .” Golding was right—hell, even a stopped clock was right twice a day. The small caliber pointed to a cheap weapon, the kind gang-trained shooters like to use because you could throw them away without losing much money. Just good economy: shoot a lot of people and those little things added up after a while. Wager guessed the round had come from a revolver rather than an automatic; low-cost automatics were more likely to jam than were revolvers, and everything else indicated a killer who had thought things out ahead of time. But people besides gang members knew about that, too, and Wager wasn’t quite as ready as Golding to close the door on other possibilities.
    He was unwrapping the string of another interoffice envelope when a civilian clerk leaned through the doorway to search across the desks and telephones and bent heads. Her eyes found him, and she hurried over, a large brown envelope in her hand.
    “Chief Sullivan sent this With Dispatch for you, Sergeant Wager. It’s marked Immediate Reply.” She handed him the envelope with defensive quickness; a With Dispatch memo from the top floor always meant trouble, and she wasn’t going to let whatever was in that envelope bite her.
    He peeled open the seal. It was a single typewritten page headed SHERIFF’S OFFICE CITY AND COUNTY OF DENVER. A freshly inked Received stamp had yesterday’s date and the time of delivery—4:30 PM. The message was brief: “Notification of charges pursuant to filing: Charles Harold Neeley, DOC #636659, against Det. Sgt. Gabriel V. Wager, et alia.” Another cryptic sentence cited a date and a street address, both of which Wager knew intimately: It was the time and place where Wager had shot and wounded this same Charles Harold Neeley who was now officially known by his Department of Corrections number.
    “You’ll have to sign this, Sergeant Wager.” The clerk shoved a receipt at him. “It says you received the message.”
    Wager carved his initials into the form. Written notice of charges filed, date of sending notice, form for receipt of notice—Chief Sullivan was covering his ass with paper, and that hinted to Wager how much departmental help he could count on if he might need it.
    “And Lieutenant Parker said he wants to see you right away.” She allowed her hushed voice to show a little excitement. “I think it’s about the same thing—he got a With Dispatch memo, too. He’s in his office now.”
    Wager nodded. “Anybody looking for me, that’s