Warrior in the Shadows Read Online Free Page B
Author: Marcus Wynne
battered old Smith & Wesson Model 645 .45 automatic pistol he carried. Bobby Lee liked his battered old pistol and ignored the jibes he got from fellow officers. He had lots of experience in gunplay, and while he knew that as a detective he had little likelihood of getting in a gunfight, he liked to be well armed in case one came his way. He stayed ready for it, and a part of him occasionally longed for it, much as it had when he was a young soldier.
Bobby Lee took off his jacket and draped it over a chair, rolled up his sleeves and pulled on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. He nodded to the uniformed officers securing the scene and went in to talk to the forensics team working the gruesome mess that was the entertainment room of one Madison Simmons, a prominent bank officer with First World Bank. Bobby Lee stood back and let the evidence technicians work while he took in the whole of the scene with a careful detective's eye. While he did so, he unconsciously rubbed the faded master parachutist wing tattoo on his left forearm.
The first thing that struck him was the blood. Blood everywhere. But there were no arterial sprays. The blood was puddled and splashed. So the victim's heart had stopped before the main action took place. And that action had taken place in and around the leather recliner chair, so soaked and coated in blood it looked as though another layer of leather had been painted onto it.
"Detective Martaine?" one of the uniformed officers said. "The photographer is outside… dowe sign him in as a department member or what?"
"Sign him in as a contract civilian attached to forensics," Bobby Lee said without looking at the patrolman. "Tell him to come here before he starts shooting anything else."
"Right, Sarge," the uniform said. He left and a moment later ushered in Charley, who had one Nikon poised in his hands, flash unit in place.
"Jesus Christ," Charley said.
"You could throw in all the saints, too," Bobby Lee said, "I don't think any of them ever saw anything like this."
"How do you want me to shoot?" Charley said.
"I'll point and talk," Bobby Lee said. "That way you can collate the photos to my tape. Once I'm done, you take the photos that Nord-strand over there needs you to take. I don't care about any overlap… just make sure we get everything. We'll work this room the most, then we'll go outside and work what we found out there. Which isn't much."
"Roger that," Charley said. "You on point, me on slack."
One of the other uniforms listening snorted and said to the officer who'd brought Charley in, "Who's that guy? Press ain't supposed to be in here."
"He's not press," the other said. "He's a contract photographer the sarge brought in to work on high-profile cases. Some kind of shit-hot photographer, knew the sarge in the war."
"Which war?"
"Gulf War."
"Fucking press."
"Hey, the sarge says he's okay. They're friends."
"Must be a cozy job. Wonder what he makes."
"Why don't you ask him, you want to know so much?"
Bobby Lee said, "I want an overview shot first, from the doorway, then from that other door that leads into the living room. Use wide angle and get the big picture."
Charley stepped back and changed the lens on his Nikon to a 24mm. He began to snap a series of rapid photos catching the disarray in the room: the chair spilled backward in a sea of clotted blood, smears of blood on the wall, a drawing of some kind in blood on the wall, the body hanging from one ankle held by an electrical wire that sprouted from the ceiling where a chandelier light fixture had been pulled out.
"Close up on chair, first for the setting, then close in on the seat and arms," Bobby Lee said.
The strobe light of Charley's flash brightened, then dimmed, brightened, then dimmed.
"This son of a bitch must have killed him first," Bobby Lee said. "Then propped him in the recliner while he worked on him. Cut him open there, opened the whole body cavity with a very sharp knife. See those ragged cuts? Get
Bobby Lee took off his jacket and draped it over a chair, rolled up his sleeves and pulled on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. He nodded to the uniformed officers securing the scene and went in to talk to the forensics team working the gruesome mess that was the entertainment room of one Madison Simmons, a prominent bank officer with First World Bank. Bobby Lee stood back and let the evidence technicians work while he took in the whole of the scene with a careful detective's eye. While he did so, he unconsciously rubbed the faded master parachutist wing tattoo on his left forearm.
The first thing that struck him was the blood. Blood everywhere. But there were no arterial sprays. The blood was puddled and splashed. So the victim's heart had stopped before the main action took place. And that action had taken place in and around the leather recliner chair, so soaked and coated in blood it looked as though another layer of leather had been painted onto it.
"Detective Martaine?" one of the uniformed officers said. "The photographer is outside… dowe sign him in as a department member or what?"
"Sign him in as a contract civilian attached to forensics," Bobby Lee said without looking at the patrolman. "Tell him to come here before he starts shooting anything else."
"Right, Sarge," the uniform said. He left and a moment later ushered in Charley, who had one Nikon poised in his hands, flash unit in place.
"Jesus Christ," Charley said.
"You could throw in all the saints, too," Bobby Lee said, "I don't think any of them ever saw anything like this."
"How do you want me to shoot?" Charley said.
"I'll point and talk," Bobby Lee said. "That way you can collate the photos to my tape. Once I'm done, you take the photos that Nord-strand over there needs you to take. I don't care about any overlap… just make sure we get everything. We'll work this room the most, then we'll go outside and work what we found out there. Which isn't much."
"Roger that," Charley said. "You on point, me on slack."
One of the other uniforms listening snorted and said to the officer who'd brought Charley in, "Who's that guy? Press ain't supposed to be in here."
"He's not press," the other said. "He's a contract photographer the sarge brought in to work on high-profile cases. Some kind of shit-hot photographer, knew the sarge in the war."
"Which war?"
"Gulf War."
"Fucking press."
"Hey, the sarge says he's okay. They're friends."
"Must be a cozy job. Wonder what he makes."
"Why don't you ask him, you want to know so much?"
Bobby Lee said, "I want an overview shot first, from the doorway, then from that other door that leads into the living room. Use wide angle and get the big picture."
Charley stepped back and changed the lens on his Nikon to a 24mm. He began to snap a series of rapid photos catching the disarray in the room: the chair spilled backward in a sea of clotted blood, smears of blood on the wall, a drawing of some kind in blood on the wall, the body hanging from one ankle held by an electrical wire that sprouted from the ceiling where a chandelier light fixture had been pulled out.
"Close up on chair, first for the setting, then close in on the seat and arms," Bobby Lee said.
The strobe light of Charley's flash brightened, then dimmed, brightened, then dimmed.
"This son of a bitch must have killed him first," Bobby Lee said. "Then propped him in the recliner while he worked on him. Cut him open there, opened the whole body cavity with a very sharp knife. See those ragged cuts? Get
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