The Angel of Knowlton Park Read Free

started with the boy's head.
    As Lee turned the head, Burgess saw blood in the boy's hair. Carefully, Lee felt the skull, describing his observations. In laymen's terms, it boiled down to a big lump and swollen, mushy tissue. "Looks like somebody hit him pretty hard. Hold on. Something strange here." He peered into the boy's hair, parting the curls so they could see. "Here's something for you, Detectives."
    Burgess leaned in for a closer look. Caught just behind the ear was a small brown feather. He looked around for Devlin. "Wink, you wanna shoot this before we bag it?"
    "What is it, Joe?" Perry asked.
    "Feather."
    "So we're looking for a chicken?"
    "Chickenhawk, more like," Burgess said. But it was something. He waited while Devlin took close-ups of the feather, then carefully removed it and bagged it.
    Dr. Lee bounced from foot to foot as Burgess grabbed the edge of the blanket where it was tucked under the boy's left side. "What do you think, Stan," Burgess asked. "Right handed?"
    "Or clever."
    Perry at the head and Burgess at the feet, they gently pulled the tucked blanket from beneath the body, stepped sideways, and laid it out on the sheet, moving with exaggerated care. The last thing they wanted was to fling some precious bit of paint, fiber, or hair that might tie this child to his killer out into the grass. They waited while Carr vacuumed the sheet and changed the filter, then unfolded the other side.
    The skinny little body—bruised white limbs and a narrow, bony chest Burgess could have spanned with one hand—was naked except for patterned cotton briefs, the pattern mostly obscured by blood, and a Band-Aid on one toe. Burgess stared silently at the wreckage that had been Timothy Watts. Then, in a move that might have been choreographed, he and Perry turned away.
    "There appear to be eleven stab wounds," Dr. Lee said. "I'll know better in the morning, but from the evenness of the borders, I'd say it was a double-edge knife, not serrated, perhaps an inch wide? I won't know about blade length until I get inside."
    He touched the pale skin with a gloved hand. "You can see here... and here... where the thrusts were sufficiently powerful to leave impressions of the handle." He touched a single cut on the side of the chest, and a small slice on the boy's arm. "Looks like he was trying to twist away, using his arm to shield himself." He examined the boy's arms and legs, pointed to some small cuts on the hands. "A few defense wounds. He was a small boy, possibly stunned by that blow to the head. Couldn't do much to protect himself."
    Lee pushed away and stood up. "If you'd like to get your pictures, we can turn him."
    "Sweet Mother of God!" Stan Perry said, kicking at the soda can Burgess had set on the grass and sending it flying. "It's fuckin' savage, Joe. How could anyone...?" He turned his face away and stalked to the edge of the roses.
    Burgess watched flies circle and buzz above vacant eyes reflecting a sky the color of the blanket. A tiny breath of wind rippled the soft hair. He studied the small form on that sea of blue and knew that Stan was right. He couldn't walk away from this.
    They were on the clock here—the critical first hours, first days—and there was no sign of Kyle. He didn't know where he'd find the energy for a major case, the strength to keep Kristin Marks at bay, or the words to explain this to Chris. He was just so damned burned out. But nobody got away with something like this in his town. Someone had to stand between Portland's kids and those who wanted to hurt them.
    The sun already felt hot as an iron on his head and neck. The air smelled of dust and death. He closed his eyes. As Devlin and Carr crunched wearily over the crisp grass, taking their pictures, Burgess drew a long breath, pulled deep into himself, and with a pang that was almost physical, kissed his vacation goodbye.
    As he exhaled, he knelt and put his hand on the dead boy's shoulder, on bones that felt fragile as a sparrow's,