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paper, there’d been a homicide. Hank was needed on the scene.
    The detective crumpled up his coffee cup, pushed back his chair, and called Detective Simon King.
    “There’s been a murder,” Hank said into the phone when the cop answered.
    King emitted a loud yawn. “Just finishing up an interview. I’ll meet you there.”
    Hank gave him the location and hung up. In the past, Hank had worked alone, but his increasing workload had forced him to depend on King more often than he liked. Not that the younger cop was useless—he had his good points—but he lacked finesse. Diego had teamed them up for reasons of his own, and King grudgingly surrendered to Hank’s lead with a minimal amount of nudging.
    Hank stood, tossed his cup into the waste bin, grabbed his briefcase from his desk, and made his way back to the parking lot behind the precinct.
    He glanced at the address as he drove from the lot. The scene of the incident was located in a small park on the east side of town. Having been a beat cop for three years, then a detective for fifteen, he knew the city inside out. And he knew exactly where the park was.
    Five cruisers were parked along the street when Hank arrived. First responders had secured the scene, and three or four uniforms kept back the curious public. Hank pulled his Chevy in beside the coroner’s van and got out.
    The Channel 7 Action News van had parked just past the row of police vehicles. Lisa Krunk was the last person Hank wanted to see. The annoying reporter strained at the police barrier, waving her mike around, attempting to get the attention of one of the officers. Her cameraman, Don, had his equipment out, capturing images of the scene.
    Lisa spied Hank, waved, and started a purposeful stride his way. The detective avoided eye contact and kept moving. He didn’t want to get roped into giving an interview at the moment, especially since he didn’t know any more about what’d happened here than she did. He wasn’t about to discuss hypotheticals with the nosy newswoman.
    Maybe he’d spare her a few minutes before he left. Maybe.
    “Detective Corning,” she called, still beating a path toward him, her mike shoved out in front of her.
    He ignored her, ducked under the yellow tape, and was directed to an area a hundred feet further in.
    CSI was documenting the scene with painstaking care. Evidence markers were scattered in a variety of places. A photographer knelt down, snapping shots. Other investigators milled about, taking notes, bagging evidence, and discussing what it all meant.
    Hank approached a tall, gaunt man holding a clipboard. Even at six feet tall, Hank had to raise his chin an inch or two to look lead investigator Rod Jameson in the eye. “Morning, Rod,” he said.
    Jameson gave a one-sided grin and spoke in a deep, hollow voice. “Afternoon, Hank. We’re just about done here.” He turned and pointed toward a row of evergreens. “You’ll find the vic behind those trees.”
    “Thanks, Rod.”
    Hank turned when he saw a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye. King strode toward them, then stopped and nodded hello, finger-combing his long, greasy hair back.
    “Hey, King,” Hank said, giving the cop a quick glance. With his three-day-old beard, his worn-out jeans, and his faded black t-shirt, he looked more like a drug dealer than a cop. In the past, King had been a narc, working undercover as much as possible, busting druggies and drug lords. In that vocation, his daily attire had been an asset, and Hank had long ago given up demanding King invest in some new clothes.
    Hank turned and went behind the row of cedars, King following, and they approached the grisly sight. The victim lay on her back, her body arranged as though placed there by an undertaker. Except that her eyes were open, staring blankly at the foliage above, and the leather strap around her neck made it clear what the cause of death had been.
    But the most curious thing was that the victim’s head had