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He watched as all the detectives who would be going to the scene went to filing cabinets, unlocked them, and then took from them their personal equipment, which included their weapons, surgical rubber gloves, and leather- or vinyl-covered folders holding legal tablets.
He followed D’Amata out of Homicide, at the last moment picking up his briefcase, with his laptop inside, from atop a filing cabinet near the door.
When Matt got out of the unmarked Ford, he saw that yellow-and-black tape reading POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS had been strung along both sides of the path into the apartment complex to prohibit access to one of the buildings.
Two uniformed white shirts, a captain and a lieutenant, were standing talking to two detectives, one of t
hem a woman, on the concrete path in front of what was obviously the crime scene.
“Captain Alex Smith, the district commander,” Joe D’Amata said. “Good guy. I don’t make the lieutenant.”
“Lew Sawyer,” Slayberg furnished. “He’s a prick. The broad is from Special Victims, and she’s a real bitch.”
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Slayberg asked. “Special Victims Unit doesn’t have anything to do with homicide investigations, even when the victim has been raped.”
“Smile nicely at her, Matt,” D’Amata said.
Captain Smith saw the three of them coming and smiled.
“Hello, Joe,” he said, putting out his hand.
“Good morning, sir. I know you know Harry, but… Sergeant Payne?”
“Yeah, sure, how are you, Harry?” He shook Slayberg’s hand. “I know who you are, Sergeant, but I don’t think we’ve ever actually met.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Matt said, reaching for Smith’s outstretched hand.
“This is Lieutenant Sawyer,” Smith said. “And Detectives Domenico and Ellis, of Special Victims.”
“I think I used to see you around the Arsenal, didn’t I?” Detective Domenico asked.
There was something about her smile Matt didn’t like, and he remembered what Slayberg had said.
“I used to be out there with Special Operations,” Matt said.
Everybody nodded at each other, but no hands were shaken.
“What have we got, Captain?” Joe asked.
“A dead girl, the doer is probably a sicko, and maybe a problem.”
“What kind of a problem?”
“There was a ‘Disturbance, House’ call here last night. Two cars responded. The lady next door said her mirror fell off the wall. She said the trouble came from the Williamson apartment, and wanted them to check it out. There was no response when the officers rang the bell, no lights, no sounds, and no signs of a break-in. So they couldn’t take the door.”
“Uh-oh,” D’Amata said. “I think I know what’s coming.”
Captain Smith nodded.
“So they left,” he said. “And then the brother let himself in this morning, found his sister, and the lady next door told him what had happened last night. Actually, early this morning. And the brother is pretty upset with the police department for not taking the door the first time we were here.”
“Ouch,” D’Amata said.
Slayberg’s cellular buzzed.
He said his name, listened, then said, “Thanks. We just got here. Wait.” He turned to Matt.
“Sergeant, the search warrant is on the way. Grose will bring it. Reeves said there’s nothing but a couple of driving violations on either the victim or her brother, and wants to know what you want him to do.”
