ONE
“Murder, jumper, or klutz?” Detective Lambrechts asked ducking under the yellow 'Do Not Cross tape'. The night was cold, but the rain had held off. Thick, low clouds and a flash or two of lightning nothing more. <Should have known there’d be NO rain since the WBZ weather team had all but guaranteed a deluge,> Lambrechts thought. Nothing was worse than working a murder scene, crime scene, death scene in the rain. Fucked the evidence; made everyone more miserable. <So, on the bright side, no rain.>
“B or C, Sir,” said the young officer standing at the tape keeping at bay the few curious onlookers from neighboring houses. His police hat might have fit if he’d had some hair, but on his buzz cut it hung like an eraser cap on the wrong end of a pencil. He lowered the clipboard he’d been wielding like a shield between himself and the scene of the purported crime to log Lambrechts name before swiftly, if discretely, raising the log back into position. “Unless we’ve got a murderer who can walk through walls and float away; door was locked and chained.”
Lambrechts surreptitiously noted the officer’s name before clapping him lightly on the back, “Stranger things have happened in Dorchester, Officer Obray. Can’t rule anything out ‘til we take a look see.”
Obray inclined his head in the direction of a clutch of darkly clad people sporadically illuminated by flashes from a powerful camera.
Lambrechts gave him a lazy thumbs-up and looked to the top story of the triple-decker as he made his way up the sidewalk to the scene. Dispatch had said there was a fatality in a three-story fall. No further information—which meant the Blues hadn’t asked many questions before they called him in. Thanks, guys, Lambrechts thought. <This turns out to be a suicide or an accident, I’m gonna make sure there are ample parade and Marathon security details in your futures.> Happened all too often, first responders didn’t ask enough questions, leapt right for calling the plain clothes. Lambrechts sighed. Sadly, that’s what it meant to be Detective on call: sometimes you got to eat your chocolate cheesecake and sometimes your steak and potatoes ended up in a doggy bag.
On the corner of Draper and Robinson, the building perched on a small hill, so the fall had been closer to four stories than three. Lights were on in all three floors. Lambrechts could see movement on the third; the Blues must have busted in or gotten a key or a little of both. People on the second floor balcony, wrapped in blankets sipped something from steaming cups.
Lambrechts saw Perry was tonight’s camera jockey. Pop and flash and whine. Seemed like he was overdoing it a bit. <How many photos did they need of a splat?> In the half-light shadows, Lambrechts saw a couple of more Blues were walking the perimeter. One checked the bushes around the building; the other examined the gutter, a flashlight beam fluttering back and forth in front of his feet.
“So?” Lambrechts ventured. “How far along are we?”
Perry didn’t glance up. “Nearly done down here. Ready for a bag after a few more shots.” He flicked his trigger finger at the triple-decker between photos. “Got the key to the apartment from the landlord who lives on the second floor. Meeker and Giles are going over the guy’s place. I hear, no struggle up there and certainly no smell of booze here.” He snapped another photo, close-up of the body’s hand.
“Any chance he left a note?” Lambrechts asked. “I was hoping to get back to Dali. Tapas was great, platos principales are on the way.”
Perry craned his neck to favor Lambrechts with a sour look. The swing of his head knocked him off his balance; he started to pitch toward the body. His free hand shot to the ground to steady himself. “Shit.”
Lambrechts placed a stabilizing couple of fingers on Perry’s shoulder.
The photographer’s hand came up and grazed Lambrechts’s wrist and coat sleeve.
“Hey! Watch the suit coat!” He said stepping back. “Dry clean’s a bitch.”
“My hand’s perfectly clean,” Perry said, only then checking it in the flat, cool light of the halogen scene lamps. He wiped a smudge of something off on his pant cuff.
“There’s plenty of crap all over the sidewalk not the least of which squished outta him.”
Perry rolled his eyes. <Obviously a total lack of tact and decency couldn’t keep a guy from making Detective.> With a quick shake of his head, he said, “I heard Giles on the balcony. There’s no note anywhere they’ve thought to look.”
<So much for an open and shut,> Lambrechts thought with a sigh. He pulled out his Blackberry to let Talley and Monroe know that he wouldn’t be back to the restaurant.
With a crack and a quick purple flash, the clouds cut loose.
Lambrechts’s ‘Fucking hell!’ was accompanied by a chorus of moans, expletives, and a grand flurry of motion from everyone on scene.