Chapter 1

“Oliver, rope this off and keep everyone out of here! The coroner’s on his way, and no one, I mean no one, comes near this room.” The sergeant barked. “And for fuck’s sake; get it together, kid. Don’t you dare puke in here! I don’t want any evidence ruined. Got it?”

I had gagged a couple of times already. The smell in the apartment was horrendous, and it repulsed me when it wafted past my overly-sensitive nose. The victim’s blood had oozed its way through the area rug he was lying on and across the light oak hardwood floor to the carpet in the living room before it began to turn into a thickened blood-gel. It reeked of an old, coppery, death stench to me. I nearly lost my breakfast when I first saw that poor guy and got a whiff of the pungent aroma. I had no idea why no one else seemed affected by it.

I knew one thing -- he really pissed someone off. And as much as seeing him kept my stomach twisted in knots, I couldn’t stop staring at him. This guy wasn’t known as a drug dealer or a street thug. He was a college professor, and not much older than me.

I was one year on the job as a Detective. It had only been one short year since I’d graduated from the Academy. Up to this day, everything I’d been doing had been easy and routine. It was pretty repetitious. My mornings were started with a cup of black coffee and an egg-white sandwich, which I consumed during my drive to the station. Then my partner and I would leave the station to make the rounds, driving through a normally quiet neighborhood. If we had a couple of guys out on vacation, I got a chance to ride by myself. It had been the same thing day after day after day. There were a few calls for domestic stuff but nothing too serious, or of this magnitude.

But on this day, an hour into our drive, just as we’d passed the elementary school where the children were running and playing in the crisp air on the playground equipment, the announcement came across the radio to everyone in the area about a possible missing person. The guy’s co-workers were concerned because he hadn’t shown up and wasn’t answering his cell phone. As I listened, my heart began to thunder against my ribs at the excitement of being part of a real crime. Finally.

At Sarge’s orders, Jones and I drove up to the last known residence of the missing guy to meet up with him and the others who had already arrived.

Sarge said, when he pulled up a neighbor complained about a smell they believed was coming from apartment seven. Lucky number seven. We were told the door wasn’t locked, but it was closed. After knocking several times, they tried the door and were able to get in.

The building wasn’t a typical apartment complex. It looked like a huge brownstone or row home that had been converted into a multiple-dwelling unit. As we parked, we saw a small number of people gathered on the sidewalk outside, as if they knew what secret we’d find inside. Walking into the eerily quiet apartment building and slowly making our way up the stairs to the second floor was nerve-wracking. I didn’t know what to expect. But it didn’t take long before we knew what we were facing.

The sickening faint smell of death emanated into the halls when we got within yards of the apartment door with the brass number seven on it. We walked into the front room and, before I made my way over to Sarge and Detective Johnson, I saw a middle-aged, well-dressed man in a black two-piece suit lying face up on the dining room floor, not far from the living room. We took a few steps closer and noticed a bullet hole in his forehead. I saw a single small wiggly maggot in the congealed blood on his face. My gag reflex kicked in and I was swallowing hard, forcing the bile that kept rising in my throat to stay down.

The bullet looked like it probably had gone all the way through because of the amount of blood that pooled in his hair at the back of his head, and there were fragments of skull and brain matter underneath him. He also had so many stab wounds and cuts through his dress shirt he looked like a hunk of Swiss cheese. His white dress shirt had turned a dark crimson, port wine color across his chest after being soaked by his own blood.

“Oliver!” Sarge bellowed. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed hard again. “Got it, Sarge.” I made my way to the door and began stretching the yellow caution tape across it, and then taped off a large portion of the living room. I was relieved to have been given the job of taping off the hallway. I was even more relieved that the coroner was on his way, and that he and his team would be the ones picking up the tiny pieces of skull and brain fragments that were blown off, collecting them as evidence for part of the investigation.

My partner taped off a section of the hall that would have only been used by those who lived in this blood-bathed unit. He quickly went back into the apartment when Sarge called for him. I was just fine in the hallway, taping off the rest of the area. I was hoping Jones would get the nod to lead the case, then maybe I would be chosen to assist him. He’d worked several large cases before and was one of the lead detectives.

I looked up to see an older gentleman looking in my direction, huffing and puffing like a steam engine as he struggled up the steps. Based on his receding hairline, pot belly, and the amount of grey intermingled with the slim streaks of brown, I’d put him in his late fifties to early sixties. I turned my attention back to my taping.

“Hey,” he gasped as he struggled to catch his breath. “What happened in there? Someone get killed?” he asked. “That apartment was starting to smell pretty ripe.” He gasped a few more breaths into his lungs. “When that tape is used, it’s not a good sign, either. I’ve watched a lot of episodes of Law & Order.” He maneuvered his barrel-shaped body around the tape near the stairs.

“We have a police matter; an investigation is underway right now, sir. Do you live in the building?”

“Yep, I’ve lived here for ten years now. Next floor up directly above them, apartment twelve.” The way he was gasping, I wasn’t sure he’d make it up another flight of stairs.

“Were you home Friday, and over the weekend? Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?”

“I was here alright. But can’t say I heard anything out of the ordinary. Things are pretty quiet around here most of the time.”

I grumbled. He wasn’t going to be any help. “Thank you. If you think of anything or hear anything, please give us a call.” I dug in my back pocket, then handed him my business card.

“Sure. Just tell me this, is it that brazen Carlotta or her young demanding husband stretched out in there?”

“Sounds like you know the couple that lives here.”

“They’ve been here about five years. Everyone knew them. When they first moved in, I thought they were a mother and son.” The guy shifted his ample weight from one foot to the other. He perched his left elbow on the wooden stair rail. “I guess you can imagine my surprise when I found out they were newlyweds.”

“Did you ever hear them argue?”

“They argued a lot during the last year. But it wasn’t anything too crazy. I guess maybe I just got used to it after some time and learned to tune them out.” He chuckled. “It’s been really quiet the past couple of months, though.”

He swallowed and rubbed his hand across his brow. “Another guy comes around and he fusses. A lot. At both of them. He’s younger than her, too. I think he’s her son.” He chuckled. “Or maybe he’s just her new boyfriend.”

“Can you think of anything else, Mr...?”

“Buckley. Jordan Buckley. Can’t think of anything else right now, but if I do ...” He held up the business card and waved it back and forth. “I’ll call ya.”

“Thank you again,” I said.

Mr. Buckley took the final step to get past the tape in the provided space, and walked up the stairs.

In addition to taping, I’d been given the job of look-out. Sarge was expecting the widow to show up. I peered out the large window that was situated above the front door of the building. I recognized the Mercedes that parked in the no-parking zone as the car we were waiting for. It fit the description I’d been given. It was her. I poked my head in the doorway. “Sarge, the car just pulled up. The vic’s wife is on her way.”

“Fine; keep her back behind the tape, though. We can’t have anyone trampling in and out of our crime scene, wife or not.”

“Will do. Oh, and I just talked to a neighbor.” I looked behind the Sarge and saw Detectives Jones and Johnson diligently scanning the rooms for any pieces of evidence. They dusted pens, remotes, window ledges, and the door frames for prints. I watched as they used a special type of dusting powder and pressed tape into it to lift fingerprints. They maneuvered around the covered body like he was a piece of old furniture. They never even flinched at the thought that there was a dead guy lying in a pool of blood under that sheet.

“Sarge,” Detective Johnson interrupted. He nodded his head in the direction of the door leading into the hall.

As Sergeant Clancy turned, a well-taken-care-of older woman was standing in the apartment doorway.