AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Soon vehicles crammed the street and the oyster shell drive, jammed at random angles, engines running, occupants warily scanning their surroundings. The strobing lights turned the path, the lawn, and the stucco at our backs into a pulsating red and blue tableau.
The armada included three prowlers, an unmarked Ford Explorer,the now familiar CSU truck, and an ambulance. Given the carnival-parade character of their arrival, I figured the media wouldn’t be far behind.
I watched a man maneuver from behind the wheel of the Explorer, long, spindly legs preceding the rest of him by several seconds. His pants were orange, maybe meant for golf, his shoes pale suede loafers, minimally size thirteen. No socks.
When the man’s upper body appeared, it was equally as gangly as his lower limbs. And missing its left arm. His shirt was an eye-blistering white, its long sleeves pressed into creases sharp enough to cut through cheddar. No tie. No blazer.
The man’s prosthetic hand looked like something designed by the Star Wars special effects team. His hair, curly on top and scalp-buzzed on the sides, was shiny and black. I put his age at a bump south of forty.
On seeing Spindly Legs, the six cops exited their cruisers. Car doors winging, radios spitting static onto the moist morning air, they stood at relaxed attention, awaiting instruction.
Spindly Legs crossed to the nearest pair. The three conversed, then he turned and strode in our direction. Behind him, the duo split to talk to the other teams, presumably to share a plan of action.
Drawing near the stoop, Spindly Legs pulled a badge from his belt and extended it toward us with his prosthetic hand. His skin was caramel, his freckles so dark they stood out like chocolate sprinkles on coffee ice cream.
“Detective Delroy Monck,” he said. “Division B, Grace Bay Station.”
Flores and I nodded. The Monk, I thought.
“Which one’s Brennan?”
“I am,” I said.
“You called in the nine one one?” Monck’s voice was that of a well-aged oboe, the shaping of his vowels suggestive of both London and the islands. And a high level of tightly wrapped anger.
“I did.”
“What do we have here?” Drawing a pen and notepad from a pocket of the relentlessly crisp shirt.
“A homicide.”
“I’ll decide about that.”
“I know a homicide when I see one.”
“Do you.” A pause, then, “Did either of you spot anyone else on the premises?”
I shook my head. So did Flores.
“Did you search the town house?”
“The moment we saw Musgrove we called it in.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“At the request of the dispatcher, the TV remote. No naked fingers.”
“Did you manipulate the body—”
“I know my way around a death scene,” I said, a bit too sharply.
“Stay here.” Barked with an intensity that startled us both.
Monck gestured two uniforms into the house. Shortly, they declared the scene clear. Monck gloved his right hand, slipped on shoe covers, and disappeared through the front door.
Twenty minutes later, Monck reappeared and told CSU to proceed. We all vacated the stoop so the team—neither Stubbs nor Kemp—could pass with their equipment.
Monck’s next question was directed to me.
