Chain of Evidence Read Free Page B

oozing from a suit across the street. Who cares? he asked himself, trying to convince himself to give it up.
    But he knew that he couldn’t walk away. “Did he jump, or did he dive?” Dart attempted to correct for the second time.
    Inside his painful head came that unwanted voice: I did my job.
    â€œI’m telling you that the motherfucker dove.”
    â€œHead first?”
    â€œDamn straight. Just like the fucking Olympics.” He raised his hand for the reenactment, complete with the sound track. He was definitely stoned out of his gourd. Shitty witness , Dart thought again.
    But then there was the Ice Man, whose injuries also indicated a headfirst dive, though the body had been struck by at least one snowplow and moved several blocks before lodging in a snowbank for anywhere between four days and two weeks, making any positive conclusions about his sustained injuries a matter of conjecture. But he had taken a dive; and this guy had taken a dive. Coincidence? Shit!
    What Dart had seen stuck to the sidewalk seemed to support this witness: The jumper’s head was caved in, most of his face gone, his upper body a broken mess. What had once been his left shoulder and arm were now folded and crushed underneath him. Doc Ray and Ted Bragg would have more to say about the exact angle of impact, though neither was likely to spend much time with the case. Suicides cleared quickly.
    But Dartelli knew: Jumpers didn’t dive, they jumped—even off of bridges, where water presents the illusion of a soft landing. There were exceptions to everything, of course, he just didn’t want to have to explain them. He felt like tearing up the sheet of notepaper and burying this sordid detail right there and then. You did it once, you can do it again , the unwelcome voice inside of him claimed, punishing him, forcing him to do anything but.
    Dartelli instructed the patrolman to take the kid down to Jennings Road and wait for either him or Kowalski in order to make the statement count.
    â€œI can’t leave my crib,” the kid complained.
    Dartelli told the patrolman, “He gives you any shit, search him and bust him and let him sort it out.”
    â€œI can cut me some time,” the kid offered quickly.
    Dartelli eyed him disapprovingly. Piece of shit witness , he thought. Piece of shit case.
    Dartelli returned to the De Nada , passing his sergeant, John Haite, who was currently holding court with the smattering of media. Haite did not like the night shift—the two Crimes Against Persons squads rotated into the slot, and for those weeks, Haite was worthy of avoiding. Dartelli did just that.
    By the time the detective reached the room, Teddy Bragg, the civilian director of the Forensic Sciences Division, was standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette and looking impatient. “Working with a girl can be a nightmare.”
    â€œWoman,” Dartelli corrected. Samantha Richardson, the other half of Bragg’s team, was no girl.
    â€œWhatever. She’s like my wife—always telling me what to do. Bossing me around. I mean who needs it? I get enough of that at home.”
    â€œShe’s in there?” Dartelli asked rhetorically, hearing the vacuum running on the other side of the door.
    â€œRunning the aardvark, treating this thing like we got the Simpson case or something. The guy decided to kiss the cement—so what’s to vacuum? What’s the big deal?”
    Bragg was mid-fifties, short and lean with penetrating brown eyes and a top row of fake teeth. He had the disposition of a high school science teacher. His skin was overly pale and he looked tired. Dartelli knew that the man wasn’t feeling well, because Bragg was usually the first to demand thorough evidence collection.
    â€œSome Jordon offs himself,” Bragg continued, smoke escaping his lips. “Who really gives a shit?”
    Race , the detective realized. Half the department referred to blacks as