Red Line Read Free Page A

homicide dicks.”
    “Watch him. He’s a dirty old man,” said Sinclair, winking at Dawson.
    As Dawson’s partner set up the gurney and body bag, Dawson and Sinclair traded information, each of them scribbling notes in their respective notebooks. “I’ll handle the next of kin notification on this one,” said Sinclair.
    “You hate the sobbing and Oh Lordy, Oh Lordy wailing,” Dawson said.
    “Yeah, well, this kid ain’t your average dope-dealing, parolee murder victim. His suburban mom and dad might know something and actually believe talking to the police isn’t taboo.”
    “Doc Gorman’s already got two bodies waiting, so he probably won’t get to this one until late morning,” said Dawson.
    “Call me when he’s ready to start.”
    The body snatchers gloved up and approached the bench. Talbert stood to the side, snapping photos with her Nikon. A uniformed officer stood to the other side and took notes. Sergeant Clancy stood in the back watching.Braddock fished a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, pulled them on, and then handed another pair to Sinclair.
    “I don’t plan on touching anything,” Sinclair said without looking at her.
    She put them back into her pocket and moved in to get a better view.
    Dawson and his partner lifted the body and laid it on a white sheet spread on the sidewalk. As they did, the body released a pungent odor, and Sinclair heard Braddock catch her gag with a soft groan. The putrid smells—body gasses, feces, urine—filled the air, but Sinclair had long ago become accustomed to the smell of death.
    Dawson went through the kid’s pockets, dropping items into a plastic bag: key ring, cell phone, loose change, and wallet. He ran his hands over the victim’s clothes. “No rings, no watch,” he said. He removed a necklace with a shiny pendant from the kid’s neck. “Medallion on neck chain,” he said, dropping it in the bag.
    Dawson lifted the victim’s shirt and did a cursory look. “Let’s roll him,” he said. His partner grabbed an arm and pulled the body onto its side. Sinclair remembered a homicide a few years ago, when they were baffled as to the cause of death until the coroner rolled the body and pointed out a tiny, nearly bloodless entrance wound in his back. The autopsy showed a .25 caliber bullet embedded in his heart and the entire thoracic cavity filled with blood. However, this body had no such wounds.
    They grabbed the corners of the sheet and lifted the victim into a body bag and onto the gurney. Dawson announced, “No rigor, so probably been dead less than four to six hours.” As they tucked the arms into the bag, Dawson looked up. “Sergeant Sinclair, look here.”
    Sinclair looked at the crook of the right arm and saw several purple bruises and a series of fresh injection marks spotted with dried blood. “Danville boy turns into a junkie for a day,” Sinclair said but not believing it.
    “The doc’ll have to say for sure, but these bruises seem consistent with someone tightly gripping his arm,” said Dawson. “You can almost make out where the fingers pressed into the flesh. And whoever was working the needle wasn’t very good at it. Looks like he missed the vein a bunch a times. Accidental OD?”
    “Hands and legs bound, arm grabbed tightly, syringe jabbed and missed before it got the vein,” Sinclair said, thinking aloud. “If drugs killed him, I don’t think the kid did it voluntarily.”
    Dawson zipped the body bag and wheeled the gurney to his van. Sinclair reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an inexpensive cigar. He clipped the end of the Dominican corona and lit it with an old Zippo lighter he’d bought years ago in a dust-filled Army PX tent in Baghdad.
    Braddock shot him a look. “Isn’t smoking at a crime scene a no-no?”
    Sinclair glared back at her. “And why is that, Sergeant Braddock?”
    “Because it could contaminate the scene,” she answered.
    A BART train clattered along the elevated track above him,