people like us.
We had been in the War Room with detectives and interviews and coffee mugs and cold takeout cartons, and the victims, all four of them up there on the bulletin boards, reminding us constantly what could happen to David, when the call came. I watched Rauser’s face change. The War Room had emptied out in seconds as Rauser shouted out instructions. He was already on his cell with a bloodstain analyst as we skipped the elevators jammed with detectives and ran down the stairs. Minutes later, his Crown Vic screeched through the parking garage at City Hall East.
“I want to process the shit out of this scene,” Rauser told me. “No mistakes this time. First officer secured the scene. No one gets in. I got CSI techs waiting for us and our spatter analyst on the way. We need anyone else there?”
“No. But you’ll want a good forensic odontologist at the morgue for the bite marks.”
Rauser was quiet for a few blocks. “I wanted to find David, Keye, find him alive, save his life.”
“Lots of people end up dead on their stomachs, Rauser,” I answered, and turned toward the window in time to see the huge fins on Symphony Tower glowing like something from
Star Wars
. “Lots of folks get stabbed and bitten. Doesn’t make it a Wishbone scene. Doesn’t mean it’s David.”
Minutes later, Rauser whipped the Crown Vic into the parking lot of an upscale extended-stay hotel off Piedmont in Buckhead. Immediately ahead we saw a tangle of police and emergency vehicles, lights in blue and red, officers stringing crime scene tape, dealing with arriving news crews and a gathering crowd. Unmarked vehicles, Crown Vics in different shades and in different states of disrepair, were pulling in—task force members. Rauser handed me a pair of surgical gloves from the scene case on his backseat, and I followed him across the parking lot past half a dozen police cruisers with blaring scanners. I watched him say a few words to some of the officers outside. Rauser had the heart of a beat cop. In his memories and in his stories, he was happiest back then. He missed feeling the grit in his shoes and still thought of himselfas climbing into “civilian clothes” each morning even though he’d been in Homicide twelve years.
We passed a crowd at the roped-off entrance. “Someone filming?” I asked.
Rauser nodded. “Williams and Balaki were in the area when the call came, so they got things moving. Let’s hope this one likes to hang around. Lots of ’em do.”
A chill suddenly lifted the hair on my arms. I looked back at the crowd. Something out there looked back. I felt it, and tried not to let my hopes sink. The signature elements and the physical evidence, tool marks, wound patterns—that would tell us if this was another Wishbone murder.
Guests had gathered in the lobby. The night shift manager was doing her best to keep some order amidst a storm of rumors. In the background there was a constant, faint ringing of the switchboard while the clerk stood idle and gaping at the front desk. Detective Brit Williams was standing next to her with an open notepad in his hand, but she wasn’t talking, wasn’t looking at him. Her face was gray, expressionless. I’d seen the look. She’d found the body, I realized, and she’ll never be quite the same, never push open a darkened door without remembering. I thought about Tim Koto finding his mother stabbed and beaten next to the stove where she had cooked for him. Who was taking care of him now? The night shift manager had started to sob. Murder disrupts everyone in its path forever.
More than thirty years ago, I sat on an old tiled floor watching as my grandparents’ blood drained from them and pooled up around me. I don’t really remember them or anything much before that moment. It’s like being born into a crime scene at five years old. I had been playing behind the counter when I heard the door open, heard angry voices.
Where’s the money, old man? Give us the
We had been in the War Room with detectives and interviews and coffee mugs and cold takeout cartons, and the victims, all four of them up there on the bulletin boards, reminding us constantly what could happen to David, when the call came. I watched Rauser’s face change. The War Room had emptied out in seconds as Rauser shouted out instructions. He was already on his cell with a bloodstain analyst as we skipped the elevators jammed with detectives and ran down the stairs. Minutes later, his Crown Vic screeched through the parking garage at City Hall East.
“I want to process the shit out of this scene,” Rauser told me. “No mistakes this time. First officer secured the scene. No one gets in. I got CSI techs waiting for us and our spatter analyst on the way. We need anyone else there?”
“No. But you’ll want a good forensic odontologist at the morgue for the bite marks.”
Rauser was quiet for a few blocks. “I wanted to find David, Keye, find him alive, save his life.”
“Lots of people end up dead on their stomachs, Rauser,” I answered, and turned toward the window in time to see the huge fins on Symphony Tower glowing like something from
Star Wars
. “Lots of folks get stabbed and bitten. Doesn’t make it a Wishbone scene. Doesn’t mean it’s David.”
Minutes later, Rauser whipped the Crown Vic into the parking lot of an upscale extended-stay hotel off Piedmont in Buckhead. Immediately ahead we saw a tangle of police and emergency vehicles, lights in blue and red, officers stringing crime scene tape, dealing with arriving news crews and a gathering crowd. Unmarked vehicles, Crown Vics in different shades and in different states of disrepair, were pulling in—task force members. Rauser handed me a pair of surgical gloves from the scene case on his backseat, and I followed him across the parking lot past half a dozen police cruisers with blaring scanners. I watched him say a few words to some of the officers outside. Rauser had the heart of a beat cop. In his memories and in his stories, he was happiest back then. He missed feeling the grit in his shoes and still thought of himselfas climbing into “civilian clothes” each morning even though he’d been in Homicide twelve years.
We passed a crowd at the roped-off entrance. “Someone filming?” I asked.
Rauser nodded. “Williams and Balaki were in the area when the call came, so they got things moving. Let’s hope this one likes to hang around. Lots of ’em do.”
A chill suddenly lifted the hair on my arms. I looked back at the crowd. Something out there looked back. I felt it, and tried not to let my hopes sink. The signature elements and the physical evidence, tool marks, wound patterns—that would tell us if this was another Wishbone murder.
Guests had gathered in the lobby. The night shift manager was doing her best to keep some order amidst a storm of rumors. In the background there was a constant, faint ringing of the switchboard while the clerk stood idle and gaping at the front desk. Detective Brit Williams was standing next to her with an open notepad in his hand, but she wasn’t talking, wasn’t looking at him. Her face was gray, expressionless. I’d seen the look. She’d found the body, I realized, and she’ll never be quite the same, never push open a darkened door without remembering. I thought about Tim Koto finding his mother stabbed and beaten next to the stove where she had cooked for him. Who was taking care of him now? The night shift manager had started to sob. Murder disrupts everyone in its path forever.
More than thirty years ago, I sat on an old tiled floor watching as my grandparents’ blood drained from them and pooled up around me. I don’t really remember them or anything much before that moment. It’s like being born into a crime scene at five years old. I had been playing behind the counter when I heard the door open, heard angry voices.
Where’s the money, old man? Give us the
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