table and sees the familiar cover page of a 1040.
“Those things drive me crazy, too,” says the uniform. “I guess he just lost his head.”
Edgerton moans loudly. It is still too early in the day for unchecked constabulary wit.
“He musta been itemizing.”
“Police,” Edgerton repeats, “are sick fucks.”
He looks at the shotgun between the victim’s legs. The 12-gauge is resting with its stock on the floor, barrel upward, with the victim’s left forearmresting on the upper barrel. The detective gives the weapon a once-over, but the crime lab will need a photograph, so he leaves the gun resting between the victim’s legs. He takes the dead man’s hands in his own. Still warm. Edgerton convinces himself that death was recent by manipulating the ends of the fingers. Every now and then, some irate husband or wife wins the argument by shooting the significant other and then spends three or four hours wondering what to do next. By the time they seize on the notion of staging a suicide, the victim’s body temperature has dropped and rigor mortis is evident in the shorter facial and finger muscles. Edgerton has had cases where the killers caused themselves much useless aggravation by attempting to push the rigid fingers of the not so recently departed inside the trigger guard of a weapon, an effort that fairly screams foul play by giving the body the appearance of a department store mannequin with a prop glued to its ungrasping hand. But Robert William Smith is one very fresh piece of meat.
Edgerton puts pen to paper: “V. braced gun between legs … muzzle to right cheek … large GSW to right side head. Warm to touch. No rigor.”
Both uniforms watch as Edgerton pulls on his overcoat and deposits the notepad in an outside pocket.
“You’re not staying for the crime lab?”
“Well, I’d love to but …”
“We’re boring you, aren’t we?”
“What can I say?” says Edgerton, his voice dropping to something approximating a matinee idol baritone. “My work here is done.”
The red-faced officer laughs.
“When the guy gets here, tell him I just need photos of this room, and tell him to get a good shot of the guy with the gun between his legs. We’re going to want to take the gun and that green sheet.”
“The discharge papers?”
“Yeah, that goes downtown. What about securing this place? Is the wife coming back?”
“She was pretty messed up when they took her out of here. I guess we’ll find a way to lock the place up.”
“Yeah, good.”
“Is that it?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“No problem.”
Edgerton looks over at the female uniform, still seated at the dining room table.
“How’s your report coming?”
“It’s done,” she says, holding up the face sheet. “Do you want to see it?”
“No, I’m sure it’s fine,” says Edgerton, knowing a sector sergeant will review it. “How do you like the job so far?”
The woman looks first at the dead man, then at the detective. “It’s okay.”
Edgerton nods, waves to the red-faced officer and walks out, this time carefully sidestepping the ear.
Fifteen minutes later, he is at a typewriter in the homicide unit’s administrative office, converting the contents of three notepad pages into a single-page 24-hour crime report, Criminal Investigation Division form 78/151. Even with Edgerton’s hunt-and-peck typing skills, the details of Robert William Smith’s terminus are condensed to a manageable memorandum in little more than a quarter hour. Case folders are the essential documentation for homicides, but the 24-hour reports become the paper trail for the activities of the entire Crimes Against Persons section. By checking the log containing the twenty-fours, a detective can quickly familiarize himself with every ongoing case. For each incident, there is a corresponding one-or two-page missive with a brief, declarative heading, and a detective flipping through the log can look at those headings for a complete chronological
“Those things drive me crazy, too,” says the uniform. “I guess he just lost his head.”
Edgerton moans loudly. It is still too early in the day for unchecked constabulary wit.
“He musta been itemizing.”
“Police,” Edgerton repeats, “are sick fucks.”
He looks at the shotgun between the victim’s legs. The 12-gauge is resting with its stock on the floor, barrel upward, with the victim’s left forearmresting on the upper barrel. The detective gives the weapon a once-over, but the crime lab will need a photograph, so he leaves the gun resting between the victim’s legs. He takes the dead man’s hands in his own. Still warm. Edgerton convinces himself that death was recent by manipulating the ends of the fingers. Every now and then, some irate husband or wife wins the argument by shooting the significant other and then spends three or four hours wondering what to do next. By the time they seize on the notion of staging a suicide, the victim’s body temperature has dropped and rigor mortis is evident in the shorter facial and finger muscles. Edgerton has had cases where the killers caused themselves much useless aggravation by attempting to push the rigid fingers of the not so recently departed inside the trigger guard of a weapon, an effort that fairly screams foul play by giving the body the appearance of a department store mannequin with a prop glued to its ungrasping hand. But Robert William Smith is one very fresh piece of meat.
Edgerton puts pen to paper: “V. braced gun between legs … muzzle to right cheek … large GSW to right side head. Warm to touch. No rigor.”
Both uniforms watch as Edgerton pulls on his overcoat and deposits the notepad in an outside pocket.
“You’re not staying for the crime lab?”
“Well, I’d love to but …”
“We’re boring you, aren’t we?”
“What can I say?” says Edgerton, his voice dropping to something approximating a matinee idol baritone. “My work here is done.”
The red-faced officer laughs.
“When the guy gets here, tell him I just need photos of this room, and tell him to get a good shot of the guy with the gun between his legs. We’re going to want to take the gun and that green sheet.”
“The discharge papers?”
“Yeah, that goes downtown. What about securing this place? Is the wife coming back?”
“She was pretty messed up when they took her out of here. I guess we’ll find a way to lock the place up.”
“Yeah, good.”
“Is that it?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“No problem.”
Edgerton looks over at the female uniform, still seated at the dining room table.
“How’s your report coming?”
“It’s done,” she says, holding up the face sheet. “Do you want to see it?”
“No, I’m sure it’s fine,” says Edgerton, knowing a sector sergeant will review it. “How do you like the job so far?”
The woman looks first at the dead man, then at the detective. “It’s okay.”
Edgerton nods, waves to the red-faced officer and walks out, this time carefully sidestepping the ear.
Fifteen minutes later, he is at a typewriter in the homicide unit’s administrative office, converting the contents of three notepad pages into a single-page 24-hour crime report, Criminal Investigation Division form 78/151. Even with Edgerton’s hunt-and-peck typing skills, the details of Robert William Smith’s terminus are condensed to a manageable memorandum in little more than a quarter hour. Case folders are the essential documentation for homicides, but the 24-hour reports become the paper trail for the activities of the entire Crimes Against Persons section. By checking the log containing the twenty-fours, a detective can quickly familiarize himself with every ongoing case. For each incident, there is a corresponding one-or two-page missive with a brief, declarative heading, and a detective flipping through the log can look at those headings for a complete chronological
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