Page 2 of Daybreak

He didn’t need the phone, but he didn’t have it in him to rob a dead man and leave him lying, so he decided that an anonymous call to the cops would save the body from the rats, and maybe a little of Yankee Dan’s soul for the theft.

But the good idea fell flat when he couldn’t open the phone. It took him a few seconds to realize it had to be opened with a fingerprint. Taking a chance, he pressed the dead man’s thumb against the icon. The phone screen opened with a multitude of other icons.

“Bingo,” he muttered and immediately called 911, told the dispatcher that he found a body, gave them the address, then hung up without giving his name.

Satisfied he’d done his moral duty, he wiped the phone free of his prints, slipped it into the man’s pocket, then headed for the stairs. Desperate to get the new shoes on and get the heck out of the building, he sat down on the bottom steps to change his shoes. He winced as the scab on his heel pulled off with the leather, but for the first time in months, he had socks to pad the sore and shoes that didn’t rub. He was about to make a run for it when he began to hear sirens.

He hadn’t expected the police to respond so quickly, and now he was trapped. If he ran out onto the streets at this time of night, in this part of town, he would be looked at as a possible suspect in this man’s death. In a panic, he ran back up the stairs, hoping to hide among the discards of the company, forgetting that he’d left his old shoes behind.

Yankee Dan was running for his life in a dead man’s shoes. It did not bode well for him.

The first wave of police arrived, spilling into the warehouse in twos and threes. Fearing they would begin a search, Dan slipped into an office, crawled beneath drop cloths covering old filing cabinets that had been piled in the corner, and held his breath, praying that they didn’t search too hard.

There was a door at the far end of the second floor that would take him down two flights of stairs to the street below, but it would be locked. He could hear voices downstairs, but they stayed distant and muffled.

Just when he thought he might get out of this without being discovered, he heard more voices—louder voices, and then footsteps on the stairs, and in that moment, remembered the old shoes he’d left behind, and the body without any.

Reality hit. They would find him and blame him for the death. His only option was to run and hope for the best, and so he did, unaware that the man who was chasing him had once chased down a runaway longhorn on foot. He was already caught and just didn’t know it.

* * *

One wild ride through the rain-drenched city later, Gunner rolled up on the scene at an abandoned warehouse. Crime scene tape was up, streets were already blocked off, and cop cars were everywhere. His partner, Cliff Beale, was just pulling up behind Gunner as he reached for his tac light and got out of his car. He paused, waiting for Cliff to catch up.

“Hell of a wake-up call, isn’t it?” Cliff muttered as he approached.

“Aren’t they all?” Gunner said and ducked under the crime scene tape and headed into the warehouse with Cliff beside him.

They knew the area as a homeless squat, but when they entered the warehouse, the entire lower floor was empty. No boxes. No obvious signs of recent occupancy. Just the body lying on the concrete, surrounded by growing puddles of water. There was no power in the building, but the high-lumen work lanterns set up near the body spotlighted the tragedy, and the water puddles at their feet reflected that light back. Clearly, the roof was leaking.

The officers standing just inside the warehouse ended their conversation as the detectives approached.

Usually, it was forensics that set up lights on a crime scene, but they had yet to arrive. Gunner pointed at the lanterns.

“Where did all the light come from?”

A patrol officer named Davis spoke up. “We brought them in. Couldn’t see shit in here, sir, and after we found the body, we didn’t want to walk on evidence.”

“Right, so what do you know?” Gunner asked.

“An anonymous tip was phoned in to PD. We were dispatched to the scene, found the body, and called it in. We don’t know who called, and we haven’t checked the body for ID,” Davis said.

Gunner took a couple of steps closer and swept his flashlight over the body, noted the missing shoes and socks and the bruised and battered face, then saw a small shamrock tattoo on his neck and sighed.

“Cliff. Look.” He aimed his light at the tattoo. “It’s Freddie Welsh. This is our crime scene and the Feds’ missing victim. Better let Lieutenant Samuels know. He can be the bearer of bad news.”

“Right,” Cliff said and walked a short distance away to make the call. Gunner was still sweeping the area with his tac light when he saw the old shoes beneath the stairs. Suddenly, the reason the body was barefoot made sense. A homeless person found the body and took the shoes. He glanced back at Cliff, who was still on the phone, then headed up the stairs to the second level.

He began sweeping his light across the empty expanse and was headed toward the ramshackle cubicles when he caught a brief glimpse of a bearded man in rags running west.

“Runner!” he yelled and took off after him.

Downstairs, they all heard Kingston’s shout, and Cliff turned around in dismay. He didn’t know Gunner had gone up alone.

Cliff pointed at one of the officers. “You! Stay with the body. The rest of you take the west stairs up to block him off. I’m with Kingston.”

There wasn’t a man on the force who could outrun Gunner Kingston, but Cliff was his partner, which meant Cliff was also his backup. He took off up the stairs, two steps at a time.

* * *