The Juan Doe Murders: A Smokey Brandon Thriller Read Online Free Page B

honey-gold faces to me as I got out of the car.
    Two black-and-white sheriff’s units were parked under the U-clipped-us, while a third was at the far end of a line of yellow scene tape strung across the trunks of several trees.
    I walked up to one of the deputies, a man I knew from a case a year ago that took us to long waits in court hallways and what-a-tough-job-it-is conversations. “Hi, Art. I hear we have a homicide bright and early.”
    “I’m thinking suicide,” he said, and pointed up the hill.
    “What does Homicide say?”
    “Not here yet. Stuck in traffic.” He hiked his belt laden with gear, and went on: “I checked the weapon. Little peashooter.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    “Okay? Okay? I don’t get any rise out of ya?”
    “Can I yell at you later?”
    “I had to clear the weapon, Smokey, you know that.”
    “Two rounds out of seven,” Art said, and pointed under his chin. “Poor dumb shit had to shoot himself twice. Time comes
I’m
thinking serious suicide, I’m damn sure usin’ a bigger gun.”
    “It’s not the bullet that kills ya, it’s the hole,” I said.
    “I still don’t see how a guy could cap himself twice,” another deputy said.
    “People do the damnedest things, ain’t that right, Smokey?”
    “That they do.”
    Long ago, I’d read a book on suicide by one of the Doctors Menninger of the famous clinic. Curdled my blood, you could say.
    “No casings around though,” Art said, “is what has me bothered. Maybe you can find them. Also, looks like a California collie’s been gnawin’ on his foot. Bigger ’n life, I see this ol’ dude come right down off the hill and go loping across the park.” When he pointed, the nannies, whose faces had been trained in our direction, quickly glanced away. “I almost took a shot at him.”
    “Contrary to rumors, Art, you’re a bright man.”
    “A guy with a shotgun in the closet and a three-year-old in the back yard will blast the hell out of that thing one of these days. I would, I lived here.”
    When I started for the hill, the other deputy said, “Better wait for Homicide.” I gave him a look, said nothing, then waded through a carpet of lavender Mexican poppies at the foot of the slope.

    The victim sat against the trunk of a tree, head sagged forward. One ankle was marred with purple bands. I knew at once the marks were not from a coyote. The animal would’ve gone for the bigger wound, first to lick the drainage and then to topple the body over for an easier feast.
    In the right hand lay a .25 semi-auto. Its magazine lay on top of a brown paper sack where Arty had put it, blocked from sliding down the slope by a patch of weed. A few feet back I located a flat spot on which to set my kit and camera. I drew a map, then tooka number of shots, and finally pulled on latex gloves. I wanted to see the hole, the hole that kills ya.
    Ordinarily, nobody touches the body until the coroner’s people do, but there are exceptions. L.A.’s not Orange County, Orange County’s not Fresno, Chicago’s not New York, and none of it is Kermit, Texas. There’s a lot more latitude at crime scenes than people know.
    The back of the victim’s jacket collar was a tarry red. Ants ran a two-lane course on the tree behind, business as usual. I took hold of the victim’s hair and lifted the head to check for the onset of rigor. It gave, with only slight resistance. Blood that had pooled in the mouth drooled out.
    Entry, as Art had said, was under the chin, with sooting at one edge of the hole, indicating a near-contact wound. The size of the hole looked bigger to me than that from a .25, but I wasn’t a pathologist and maybe two rounds would do that. On the other hand, it didn’t seem likely a person could put two in a single channel, no matter that I’d read about and seen some strange things. Art thought there were two rounds because it was a seven-round magazine and two were missing, but maybe he didn’t have it loaded to capacity, or maybe