Reapers: The Preston Project

By Kevin Crozier

What happens when an accident isnt really an accident? What starts as a routine inquiry into an accidental death takes Detective David Becker on a thrilling journey that tests his physical, emotional, and spiritual nature. He soon learns that danger is always lurking, and circumstances are never what they seem to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490819204

Kevin Crozier

Christian fiction has become a great tool for expressing biblical principles and spreading the message of the gospel. A good story that points people in the direction of Jesus is worth writing. It is this belief that brought about the desire to write this book. The author’s hope is that this book will lead readers to either a knowledge of Jesus or a closer relationship with him. Kevin Crozier is a full-time firefighter with the Columbia Fire Department and serves as minister to youth and young adults at Foxworth First Baptist Church in Foxworth, Mississippi. He currently resides in Foxworth with his wife, April, and children.

Book preview

Prologue

Friday, Feb. 3, 6:30 p.m.

Radio Static.

Coordinate B initializing Scenario 2 on Task 1 of the Preston Project on secured frequency. This is a four-mark scenario; all accoms report status, beginning with Tag…

Accom 5 in Tag position.

Accoms 4 and 7 set on Marker 3, green.

Accom 3 set and ready on Marker 2, green.

Accom 8 on Marker 1, green.

Delay.

…Coordinate to Accom 2, report status.

Delay.

…Coordinate to Accom 2, report status immediately.

Static.

Accom 2 is on location. Negative entry. Status is currently yellow, repeat status yellow. Will report when on marker.

Copy, Accom 2. Report when on marker.

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The lavish Victorian at the end of Fourth Street was a bustle of activity. The two occupants sounded like a dozen. A woman, nearly frantic, dabbed and painted in front of a hanging antique mirror. She reached for various brushes, combs, and other grooming utensils and brandished them as she saw need. Beside her a man adjusted his tie, fitted his belt, and splashed cologne. Simon Little was a slight man in his early sixties. He had the look of exactly what he was, an accountant. His face was more wrinkled than it should be for his age, and he tried to cover it with large framed glasses, which served only to emphasize his features. He tried to cover his head with a weak comb-over, which likewise emphasized his balding scalp. He could never have been considered an attractive man, though he would never be convinced otherwise. Simon looked into the mirror and nodded his approval.

The couple maneuvered around each other in the small bathroom. His wife, Maurine, was about the same age, but looked much younger. She had taken great care over the years to preserve her looks with diet, exercise, and the occasional surgery. She was obviously out of his league, though he would never think so. True love? No. Simon enjoyed her looks; she enjoyed his money. They were both content.

Did you confirm the reservation? she asked.

I did, honey. It’s for seven-thirty. We’ve plenty of time.

You said that last time, and we were fifteen minutes late, complained the woman.

I can’t help traffic; plus Marcus would never give our table away.

It was like this every Friday. For twelve years Friday night was their time–their Night on the Town. They had their cycle of eight different high-end restaurants. The host from each restaurant could count on a call for a reservation every few weeks. The only chance they would miss Friday night dinner was if his work took him out of town. Tonight the restaurant of choice was La Chez. She had her heart set on the tomato pasta; he always got the stuffed mushrooms. The highlight tonight would be the wine, since La Chez had the best wine in town. After another fifteen minutes of powdering, straightening, and preening, the couple was finally prepared for the night. So they thought.

He reached for his jacket and said what he always said, You look stunning, dear.

Suddenly no longer anxious, she replied, Thank you, darling. You look very handsome.

He leaned over gently, kissed her cheek, stepped back, and offered his arm.

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Radio Static.

…Tag to Coordinate, please acknowledge.

Acknowledged, Accom 5.

Be advised Task 1 is in motion.

Copy, Accom 5. Coordinate to Accom 2, report status.

Delay.

Accom 2, what is your status?

Delay.

Accom 2, we have the Task in motion; all accoms are green; we need your status to proceed.

This is Accom 2. I am on mark. We are green.

Copy, Accom 2. Coordinate to all accoms, we are green; I repeat, we are green. Scenario 2 is initialized. Time is 6:46 p.m. Report as markers are crossed.

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Their car sped down the highway. It was fifteen miles to the restaurant, but traffic had been slow downtown. The gathering clouds indicated a storm was approaching. Simon Little reached to turn the volume down as they approached the first signal, Honey, I meant to remind you earlier that I’ll be leaving next Tuesday for Atlanta.

She sat back and grumbled, That’s the third time in as many months.

Well, we’ve, ah, had some trouble in accounting. Technical things. I’m about to get my head around it, but I need to confer with their ledgers. Is your sister still coming down? he asked, changing the subject.

Yes, on Thursday.

Good, I hope to be in Friday. We’ll take her to Murphey’s. I know how she loves veal.

That would be delightful!

Mr. Little checked his mirrors as he approached the next intersection, preparing to turn right beyond the restaurant for the parking garage. He gently changed lanes and slowed in front of La Chez before making his turn. A sudden squeal of tires caused him to instinctively brake and turn to look. Mrs. Little grabbed his arm and screamed as a car sped through the intersection, only a few feet in front of them. A red sedan veered sharply to the right, jumped the curb, clipped a fire hydrant, and finally came to a halt with its front bumper buried into a light pole. Out of the broken water main water blasted fifteen feet into the air. The couple looked at each other in shock and relief. Mr. Little glanced at the car just as a man burst out of the passenger side and sprinted down the sidewalk out of sight. A crowd began to gather around the car, some on cell phones, some talking to the driver, still others pointing in different directions. Most were getting wet as the water continued to gush out onto the sidewalk. The couple contemplated getting out and helping until they saw several inches of water gathering around their car.

My goodness, I can’t believe that happened right in front of us, gasped the woman.

Dear, are you all right?

Yes, yes. I’m fine.

The first police unit arrived on scene, barking orders to bystanders and directing traffic.

What should we do? she asked.

I suppose we should just wait here a moment.

Well, it would appear La Chez is no longer an option.

They watched as a few angry patrons began to file out of the restaurant. He dug into his pocket for his cell phone and chose La Chez’s number from his contact list. He saw the host, Marcus, run back to the desk and pick up the phone. Simon could sense agitation in the host’s voice.

Marcus, this is Simon, we’re right outside, and it looks as though everyone is leaving.

Ah, Mr. Little, yes, I’m terribly sorry, but it appears we’ve just lost our water due to an accident. I’m afraid we’re closing for the evening.

I understand Marcus, perhaps next Friday…

No response.

Mr. Little looked up to see through the window that Marcus had already hung up the phone and was talking with restaurant personnel.

They’ve lost water.

Oh, my. Look there’s Victoria and Lealon. Their feet are getting soaked. How terrible.

In the rearview mirror, Mr. Little noticed a fire truck pulling up several cars behind them. A knock at the window startled him. He looked to see a police officer motioning him to roll down his window, which he did.

Sir, are either of you hurt? the officer asked.

No, we’re fine thank you. Will you be needing a witness? We saw the accident.

From behind, the fire truck blew its air horn. The officer waved.

No, sir, we have several. What I do need you to do is move out of the way. This whole block is likely to shut down, so you’ll need to get clear. Thank you and have a good night.

The Littles, along with a few other following cars, moved slowly straight ahead under the direction of the officer. A moment later the whole scene was in their rearview mirror.

Well, just whatever are we going to do? Mrs. Little asked. We’ll never get in anywhere now.

Mr. Little pulled over to the next open parking spot. A couple of cars passed by. Another pulled over not far behind. The occupant, wearing a fedora and an overcoat, exited and approached a newspaper stand nearby. Since Mr. Little’s window was still down he could overhear the conversation inside the car.

What about Murphey’s? He would find us something, Mr. Little suggested.

No, we plan to go there next week. You think Alfred would seat us? she asked.

At Mill’s? Absolutely not. He wouldn’t seat his own mother in the pouring rain.

They both chuckled.

The closest place is the Garden; Lin is strict, but considerate.

Well, I wasn’t in the mood for Asian, but I don’t think we have much choice.

They pulled back onto the roadway and started the three-block path straight to the Garden Cuisine. The man in the hat half-heartedly pulled a paper from the stand and returned to his car.

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Radio Static.

…Accom 8 to Coordinate, acknowledge.

This is Coordinate. What’s your report?

An out-of-breath response came, Marker 1 has been crossed…

Coordinate, this is Tag reporting; I confirm. Marker 1 has been crossed. I repeat, Marker 1 has been crossed.

Copy your last, Accom 8 and Tag. All accoms, be advised, Marker 1 has been crossed: we are still green.

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Simon Little offered his hand and a twenty to the parking attendant at the Garden Cuisine. He and his wife strode confidently to the outside desk to the awaiting host, Mao Lin.

Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Little, we not expecting you tonight. How can I assiss? He asked in a thick Asian accent.

Mao, we are in a terrible fix, Simon began. We were scheduled at La Chez, but a car accident has taken out their water.

Mr. Lin eyed them suspiciously.

I’m sure you heard the sirens, Mrs. Little added. It literally happened right in front of us. We’re fine, of course.

Mao Lin seemed to recall the noise. Let me see what we have. After a moment he informed, I terribly sorry, but we booked through nine-thirty.

Surely, you have something available for your faithful customers.

The desk phone rang. I afraid not, Madam. Could you give a moment?

They turned aside as Mao Lin talked on the phone.

Mrs. Little began her rant, You would think with all the times we’ve been here and with the customers your office brings in they would have something. People are just so inconsiderate these days. The next party we host will not be here! That is for certain!

Ah, Misser Little, you in luck, we just have cancellation. Mao waved to a server inside, Mika, take Misser and Miss Little to little table on patio.

Lin, you’re a darling, beamed Mrs. Little. He bowed in return.

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About twenty feet down the sidewalk, another man in an overcoat and hat folded a cell phone, which he placed back into his pocket. He turned away, speaking into his collar.

…Accom 3 to Coordinate, Marker 2 has been crossed.

Tag to Coordinate. Confirmed. Marker 2 has been crossed.

Acknowledged. All accoms, be advised; Marker 2 has been crossed: we are still green.

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Well, my dear, quite an exciting evening. We averted a near fatal collision, had our dinner plans wrecked, barely found a table, yet here we are on the patio at the Garden, sipping wine on this wonderful night.

You’re always positive, Simon. It could have been much worse. I just hope the rain holds off. What will you be having? asked Maurine as she looked over the menu.

Oh, you must try the salmon, came a remark from behind.

Simon turned around to see a young couple seated in the corner table. The suggestion came from an attractive blond. Simon’s eyebrows rose in interest as he looked the young woman over.

Mrs. Little spoke up, Thank you for the suggestion, but we’ve never had a taste for fish.

The young woman continued in spite of the obvious attempt by Mrs. Little to regain Simon’s attention. We didn’t either, but Mao talked us into trying the new salmon dish. It was just exquisite. We both had it.

The young man nodded in agreement as he finished a phone call.

Simon began to speak, but was overridden by Mrs. Little: He has to be very careful of his diet. At his age he cannot be careless.

Ignoring the remark, the young woman continued, completely focused on Simon, It’s lightly seared and covered with this heavenly honey glaze.

Simon could not take his eyes off the woman. He seemed to recover himself and addressed the young man. Sir, would you agree with your wife?

This brought smiles to the young couple. Yes, I would agree with my business associate: the salmon is delicious, the man replied.

There was an awkward laugh among them all, except Mrs. Little. The young man added, And it’s a healthy dish as well. Your daughter needn’t worry.

That remark brought a small smile to Mrs. Little. There was another awkward laugh among all, except Mr. Little.

The young man reached over and offered a hand to Simon, Bradley Johnson. This is Michelle Miller.

Simon accepted the hand. Simon Little. This is my wife, Maurine. You are visiting here on business then? queried Mr. Little.

The young woman answered, We are. We’re both in medical supply sales. We’re here for the convention at Mercy Hospital. It’s such a nice city. So unlike New York.

Ah, excellent facility. I know Dr. Morris, the chief administrator. Fine gentleman. He’s very charitable. Simon finally turned back to Mrs. Little, What do you say dear, should we try the salmon?

Well, we will need to check the ingre…

Nonsense, Simon raised his hand and motioned for the waiter. We’ll both have the salmon dish.

The new entrée? questioned the waiter.

Simon gestured toward the young couple, I believe this couple here had it.

The waiter nodded in assent.

Mrs. Little stopped the waiter, Pardon me, sir, could you please tell us how the salmon is seasoned. We have to be careful of my husband’s diet.

Simon looked down, slightly embarrassed.

Ah, yes, it cooked with lemon and butter sauce, then covered with honey and soy glaze, and sprinkled with cinnamon. Very good fish.

Mrs. Little nodded and the waiter left.

Simon turned and said to the young woman, Maurine is such a worrier. He was disappointed to see the young couple preparing to leave. So will you be in town for a while?

The young man gathered his coat and hat and said, Sadly no, our flight leaves tomorrow afternoon.

Simon was surprised to see the young woman gather a similar coat and hat. Odd, he thought. Simon stood as the young woman stood, Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit.

He extended his hand toward her; she took it, smiled somewhat formally, and left without another word. The young man shook his hand, It has been a pleasure meeting you. Offering his hand to Mrs. Little, which she accepted, he smiled, stating, I hope you enjoy your evening. He placed some bills on their table and exited.

Simon sat, Well, that was somewhat strange.

Yes, it’s a shame you didn’t get a chance to ask her to dinner.

Maurine, be serious. I was just being polite. More wine?

She held out her glass, unappeased, and they both sipped in silence.

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The young couple left the restaurant and started down the sidewalk. After several yards, when out of sight from the restaurant, the man grabbed the woman by the arm and turned her to face him. You have got to see the plan all the way through!

They ordered, she argued.

That’s not the point. If you say, do, or act strange in any way, it could arouse suspicion. Ignoring the Task at the end could have made them suspicious. Suspicious people make unpredictable decisions. It’s that kind of sloppiness that led us to Scenario 2. If you are going to do this job, you will see it through the proper way. Or you’ll find yourself at the end of your own scenario.

The woman nodded in agreement but said nothing.

As they walked away the man spoke into his collar, Acomms 4 and 7 to Coordinate, please acknowledge.

Copy. What is your status?

Marker 3 has been crossed: Repeat, Marker 3 has been crossed.

Acknowledged. Coordinate to Tag, do you concur?

Affirmative. Marker 3 has been crossed.

Copy, we are still green.

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After a few moments of silence and another glass of wine, Mrs. Little finally spoke. So what’s got you off to Atlanta again?

Oh, it’s nothing. We had a call from the monitoring office over there about some account discrepancies between them and a local company here in town. A bunch of elementary brats over there is what they are. I can’t for the life of me understand why Geoffrey wanted to use either of them. Something about helping the local economy. I warned him they would make a mess of it, and they did. It’ll end up being like last fall. I’ll go over there, go through their books, find the errors, correct them.

Their conversation drifted from one topic to the next. Whatever little conflict that had surfaced earlier had gone away. And despite the earlier excitement, it was turning out to be a nice evening.

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As with many restaurants, the relaxing dining atmosphere is in complete contrast to goings-on in the kitchen. In a place like the Garden Cuisine, there are just as many people preparing the food as there are people dining. The kitchen was roughly the size of a small house. On a typical night sixty people or more were working at various stations to the banging of pots and pans, the sizzling of meats, and the bubbling of soups. The scene initially appeared to be utter chaos, but it was actually a well-organized system.

Everyone was so involved in his or her own task that no one noticed the man slip in from the rear door. He wore black pants, a white shirt, and a little white chef’s hat–the same as almost everyone else in the kitchen. He glided across the kitchen, grabbing various items and moving them from one place to the next. He slithered his way to the food storage closet, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and slid inside. After looking over the shelves containing the spices, he found the one he sought, and grabbed a wrapped bundle. He opened the bundle and slipped out of the closet back into the fray. A cook barked a few instructions, which he followed quickly. As he went from place to place, he left a container of the seasoning next to the other spices being used by the chefs, slipping one into his own pocket. He made his way to the area where all the orders came in. The Garden Cuisine still did it the old-fashioned way; numbered tables and written orders. The man stayed just busy enough not to draw attention to himself and kept a close eye on the orders as they came in. Within minutes, he spied the number he sought. The kitchen boss distributed the order to the appropriate station. He followed the order to the station where it was to be prepared, positioned himself beside the chef, and began straightening and cleaning a particularly cluttered area. He kept a close eye on the chef and took a deep breath. The entire scenario hinged on him now. This had to be a very discreet and delicate maneuver. The man watched closely as the chef prepared the meal. After a few minutes, the chef retrieved several containers of spices which he placed within hand’s reach of the cooking food. This was it. Immediately behind the chef, a pot clanged and spilt it’s contents of steaming noodles across the concrete floor. The chef swore and jerked around to find what had startled him. In one smooth and quick motion, the young man produced the seasoning from his pocket and switched it with one in a very similar container. Enraged at the interruption, the chef never saw the switch. The man apologized amid a tirade from the chef and busied himself with cleaning the mess. The angry chef returned to his cooking, grabbed each of the seasonings without looking, and seasoned the meat liberally to his satisfaction, thinking he had applied the correct seasoning. Finishing the cleaning, the man returned the swiped cinnamon beside the others on the shelf above the chef. In a matter of minutes the mess was cleaned. The seasonings above the chef’s work area were back where they had started along with one extra, unnoticed container. The chef drizzled the entrées with the honey glaze and called for the waiter to present them. The man worked his way back toward the rear of the kitchen. With a backward glance, he exited unseen. Outside the rear of the building he discarded his little chef hat, replaced it with the fedora he had left minutes earlier; and slipped into his overcoat. As he got into his car, he spoke into his collar, Accom 2 to Coordinate: Marker 4 has been crossed. Repeat. Marker 4 has been crossed.

Copy that, Accom 2. Coordinate to all units: All markers have been crossed. We are awaiting apogee. Tag, report as soon as apogee is reached.

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Ah, here we are, beamed Mr. Little, as the waiter placed both entrées in front of them.

I must say it does look delicious.

We may have found a new favorite, my dear.

The waiter bowed and left.

Mrs. Little took a sip of wine, then stirred the rice and vegetables to release some heat. The steam rose, filling her nostrils with a sweet, lemony aroma. She broke off a piece of salmon and took a whiff of it as well. The flavor was nothing she expected. It didn’t have the strong fish taste she despised, but a soft sweet taste with something else she couldn’t quite place. It had to be the cinnamon. She glanced over to Simon, who had already eaten several bites. He nodded his approval and continued eating. She took another bite, still wondering how they managed the flavor. It couldn’t be cinnamon, she concluded. She’d cooked enough herself to know that taste. It was a familiar taste but one she couldn’t quite place. Another bite and a flash of concern shot through her. She looked up to see Simon loosen his collar. She felt another twinge of panic. Dear, are you alright?

He nodded and waved a dismissive hand, I’m fine, dear, he managed between a few coughs. He sipped some wine and seemed to compose himself somewhat.

She looked down at the fish and hoped the thought she just had was wrong. She turned and motioned for the waiter who quickly came.

Sir, could you tell me again what this is seasoned with?

When no immediate response came, she looked and saw the waiter seemingly frozen. She followed his gaze toward her husband just as his hand came crashing down on the table.

Oh, God! she exclaimed.

Simon Little couldn’t breathe. He reached up and grabbed his throat and began tearing at his collar.

Oh, God, no! Mrs. Little rose to help her husband. Not knowing what to do, the waiter stood motionless and patrons around them stared, murmuring. As Mrs. Little approached, Simon stood, abruptly knocking over their table. Glass shattered and food flew across the flagstones and onto nearby tables and patrons. By now, the whole restaurant was aware of some commotion. Ladies were screaming. A few men were coming over to offer assistance. The waiter finally turned and ran to Mao, who was already on his way over. Simon Little struggled desperately to take a breath but to no avail. His airways were swelling shut. He stumbled into two more tables, knocking them to the floor. One man attempted to restrain him. Mrs. Little began to cry hysterically, pleading for anyone to help. Mao got there just as the man was able to wrestle Simon to the floor.

Misser Little! Misser Little! Are you okay? Mao said. He and the man turned him face up and found Simon a light shade of blue. Simon Little, no longer struggling, had fallen into convulsions. His bloodshot eyes seemed ready to burst from their sockets. Mao turned and screamed for someone to call an ambulance. Seconds later, Simon Little went limp. Another man and woman came to help and began CPR. Mrs. Little could only look on in horror as the man she’d shared her life with the past thirty years lay motionless on the floor.

Ten excruciating minutes later, the ambulance arrived. The EMTs rushed in and began their assessment. They continued to work on him as they packaged him for transport. He was lifted onto the stretcher and whisked away along with a frantic Mrs. Little. Despite their best efforts, Simon Little was dead before they left the scene.

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Outside, a man in an overcoat and hat watched the commotion as the stretcher came to the rear of the ambulance. When the doors were closed, he approached the EMT and inquired what had happened.

Looks like this guy choked on his food or something, replied the EMT.

That’s terrible. Will he make it?

We tried everything we could. He’d been down too long. Obviously frustrated, the EMT motioned back down the road as he got into the driver’s side of the ambulance, Couldn’t get here fast enough because of that wreck.

Have to mark this place off my list, huh?

The EMT ignored the remark and pulled onto the road.

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Radio Static.

…Tag to Coordinate. The Scenario is absolute.

Copy that, Tag. Scenario B is absolute. All accoms report to debriefing point two at 12:00 p.m. tomorrow. Coordinate B clear.

Chapter 1

Saturday, Feb. 4, 2:00 a.m.

It started with a body.

This particular body currently lay in the morgue of Mercy Hospital in the city of Preston. This particular night, Mercy Hospital was being drenched in a downpour. The rain began just about an hour ago, slow at first. Now it was coming down in earnest. Power failed in this part of the city only minutes ago. The hospital’s generators ran smoothly to keep the building and those inside alive. Aside from a few outside emergency lights around the hospital, all was dark. There were no stars, no moon, just black. The storm poured the darkness onto the city. Snapshots of the city would suddenly appear with occasional lighting. Slow rumblings of thunder would follow. Traffic throughout the city was sparse. The rain and the hour of night had most people tucked into their homes. Only a few had dared to venture out–patrol cars or utility workers. Just outside the rear service entrance of the hospital, a lone figure sat in a grey sedan. Detective David Becker reclined slightly with his eyes closed. He sipped his coffee and waited.

Becker glanced in the rearview mirror. He noticed the gray was beginning to show a little more on his temples. He had never been considered an extremely good-looking guy, but his charm and simple demeanor made up for any physical shortfalls. His black hair and naturally dark complexion had always given him the look of a Native American, even though there was no trace of Indian blood in his background. There was evidence of an athlete in his two hundred pounds; but years of stress, his job, and a few years of neglected exercise had him looking and feeling every bit of his forty-five years.

His hope was for the rain to subside. He looked upward into the darkened sky as heavy droplets struck the windshield. Fingers of lighting stretched across the sky and grabbed at the clouds. The clouds rumbled in protest and darkness returned. He had always liked the rain.

His habit had always been to arrive on a scene of a homicide and take a few minutes of quiet time sitting in his cruiser to clear his mind. It was what he liked to call the calm before the storm. Twenty years of police work, the last eight as a homicide detective, he’d learned one thing: No matter how it happened, death was a storm.

The rain came harder and he smirked at the irony. He’d received the phone call at home just after 1:00 a.m. He hated the calls to home. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, it was usually bad. He’d tried his best to separate work and home. He worried about the phone calls waking his wife and son. As quietly as possible, he had gotten dressed and left his family still sleeping. It was a thirty-minute ride to the hospital in the rain with no traffic. Becker had received no details with the call. He was simply to report to the hospital morgue as soon as possible. When he did get a call, it was usually to go to a crime scene. This was different. He was surprised to hear the raspy voice of his police chief, Martin Sickle, on the other line and not the dispatcher. It was this early morning call from Chief Sickle that sent him straight to the morgue in the middle of the pouring rain. His instinct told him this was trouble. He trusted his instincts. This type of situation usually meant the deceased was someone important or someone on the force, or the nature of the crime was particularly brutal. He ruled out brutal, considering the body had been moved and was here at the hospital. He ruled out a fellow police officer, considering there were no other units here. The victim must have been important somehow. Whatever the case, he dreaded what might lie ahead. With another sip of coffee, the caffeine began to take effect and wake him. He glanced around the parking lot, looking for his partner. Nothing stirred. He could see a few people just inside the doorway of the hospital. They looked to be maintenance workers. Lights suddenly appeared at the corner of the building and worked their way toward him. He glanced up at the rain again, which had yet to slacken. Oh well, here we go, he thought. He exited his car and walked steadily to the covered entrance. The driver of the second car parked, then jogged toward the entrance where Becker waited.

About time, McFoe. What took you so long?

Traffic, came a curt reply.

With a sweep of his hand Becker said, After you.

Detective J.J. McFoe was still what one would call a rookie. Two years of detective work with only a handful of cases. McFoe had reached detective status at the age of thirty, the youngest ever in the history of the department. Hard work and discipline played a big part in this achievement. This also was evident in McFoe’s physical appearance. Sandy blond hair and sharp, thin facial features made McFoe appear younger than thirty-two. Despite being only five-foot-six and no more than a hundred and forty pounds, McFoe was no one to mess with. Rigorous workouts and dieting were part of a strict daily routine. Some thought McFoe didn’t have the size to handle the job. There seemed to be a hint of frustration, maybe even resentment, at that opinion. McFoe was eager, though, and smart. Becker’s most difficult challenge had been teaching McFoe to slow down and be patient with investigating. Investigating wasn’t like patrolling, where you had to be ready to react at a moment’s notice. With investigating, one had to be methodical, observant, and objective.

McFoe strode past Becker and straight into the building. They walked through the door, receiving unfriendly looks from the janitors, who’d been cleaning the floors. Becker looked down to notice the tracks they had left as they entered. He nodded apologetically but continued down the hallway. After several turns, they entered an elevator.

When the doors closed, McFoe finally seemed to come around. He tell you anything?

No. Just to come here.

Must be someone important, observed McFoe.

Becker smiled inwardly.

The door opened with a ding. At the end of the hallway, a partially lit sign read Morgue. Standing beneath the sign was a short, pudgy man in a white overcoat. Becker recognized him as the city coroner, Roger Yen. He showed features of his Oriental father but had grown up entirely American. Becker saw him frequently and wondered how he’d always seemed to be in a good mood, considering his occupation. Beside him was police chief Martin Sickle. He was, more or less, a bulldog. Just over six feet, broad-shouldered, stocky, and bald, he always looked like he’d just drunk a cupful of vinegar. Regardless of his looks and demeanor, Chief Sickle was a top-notch police chief. He had been brought in three years ago from some big city to bring the department under control. He’d lived up to his name, literally, and cut many long-serving officers. The cuts were unpopular, but in the end had proven justified. It was a better department–that was the bottom line.

As they approached, Becker nodded to Chief Sickle, who returned a similar gesture, Detectives.

Becker extended his hand to Yen, Good to see you, Roger.

You too, David, came an overly happy reply. How’s Andie?

Well, she’s fine. Hopefully, still sleeping.

Ah, they’re better when they’re sleep, huh?

Becker smiled falsely, ignoring the attempt at humor, and looked back to Sickle. So, what do we have?

Sickle simply opened the door. McFoe entered first, followed by Becker then the others. The room was a typical cold, sterile autopsy room. All along the walls were stainless steel tables, shelves, hanging instruments, a couple of industrial sinks, and metal containers. On one end of the room was a wall of small rectangular doors, each with a place for an information card. A barely noticeable hum of refrigerators came from that end of the room. In the center of the room a table held the profile of a body beneath a white sheet. The four surrounded the table. Yen consulted a clipboard and began to read off some general information. We have a Caucasian male, age sixty-four, weighing seventy-two kilograms; name is Simon Little.

Cause of death? asked McFoe.

Yen looked up from his clipboard, Currently unknown.

Here we go, thought Becker.

McFoe continued, So what are the circumstances here?

Becker held up his hand, Before we get into that, let’s have a look at the body.

This was one of Becker’s tactics. Examine the body on scene before he hears any outside information. He liked to try to determine certain things for himself. He had found that if he listened to or read other reports before examining a body or a scene, he might have the tendency not to look as closely as he needed, then overlook something. Yen knew he liked to do this; McFoe was still learning. Yen reached over and dramatically jerked the sheet away, exposing the corpse of Simon Little. Becker was somewhat embarrassed by the sudden, total nudity and glanced around to see everyone else unaffected. Yen passed around a box of rubber gloves. Becker and McFoe accepted; Sickle declined. Becker took out a notepad and pen before beginning his closer inspection.

The body of Simon Little lay on its back with its arms by its side and its feet slightly apart. He caught the first real whiff of death as he moved in closer. He began at the head. Mr. Little’s silver hair was in disarray. The mouth and eyes were slightly opened, giving him a haunting look. He activated an LED light that was in the end of his pen and inspected the facial area. There were some markings around his nose and mouth that Becker knew to be those that occurred from EMT and ER work. He made a few notes. There was no visible bruising around the neck and throat area. He saw more bruising on the chest and sternum area, again consistent with CPR. He picked up each arm and checked for gunshot wounds, cuts, puncture wounds, and defensive wounds. He found none. He made more notes. He worked his way down to the feet with the same result. With assistance from Yen, he turned the body over and examined the back as well. Nothing visible. He stepped back and allowed McFoe to examine the body. McFoe did a similar, but hastier, examination, coming up with the same result. Sickle stood back a little with his arms patiently crossed and allowed them to do their work.

Becker stepped back and began reciting his non findings for Yen, We have no visible wounds of any kind. No head injury, no defensive wounds, nothing to suggest a physical injury.

McFoe nodded in agreement and posed a question, Are we looking at some kind of poisoning?

Yen answered, It’s possible, but unlikely. Right now I’m thinking possible choking or shock-induced cardiac arrest.

Becker wore a confused look, Okay, now give us a little of the circumstances.

Yen pointed to Sickle.

Mr. and Mrs. Little arrived at the Garden Cuisine restaurant around 8:00 p.m. and were promptly seated. According to initial witnesses, they had talked to each other and with people around them, showing no signs of sickness, hostility, or anything out of the ordinary. They drank wine, ate cheese, ordered, and appeared to be having a normal evening. Shortly after beginning their meal, Mr. Little here began, according to witnesses, choking on his food. There was, of course, a big commotion and in a matter of seconds, he was unresponsive. A few patrons tried to assist until the EMTs arrived. They worked on him for some time and prepped him for transport. He wasn’t declared until they arrived here, but he died at the scene.

Now both Becker and McFoe had a confused look. McFoe spoke up, Forgive me, Yen, but if you’re thinking this guy choked on his food, why was homicide called?

Yen again pointed to Sickle, You have to ask him. He made that call.

There was no word from Sickle until they were outside the hospital. Chief Sickle had simply motioned for them to follow. They made their trek toward the parking lot, and Sickle had them wait just inside the door while he exited. He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. Becker looked out to see that the rain had slackened somewhat. They had been in the morgue for nearly an hour.

So what do you think? asked McFoe.

It’s got to be about who it is. Becker replied. McFoe nodded. Becker continued, He can’t be tied to the city in any way, I don’t think. I don’t recognize the name. He could be with the university or from out of town. We just don’t know enough.

Sickle appeared to end the call, then dialed another. Curious, thought Becker.

You think it could be something with the restaurant? asked McFoe.

It’s possible. The Garden is a high-end place. I don’t recall any problems there before, answered Becker.

Sickle snapped the phone shut then motioned for them to come outside. Before they had a chance to ask a question, he said, My office, 7:00 a.m. Don’t be late. Oh, and not a word to anyone. With that, he strode out into the rain toward his SUV.

McFoe started to leave too.

Where are you going?

To the gym. Got plenty of time for a good workout and breakfast before seven. McFoe looked Becker over, You should join me. You‘ve been slacking.

Becker looked guilty as he replied, I may go by this afternoon. Think I’ll go home, get a little sleep, maybe have breakfast with Andie if she‘s up.

Suit yourself. And with that McFoe was gone.

Becker watched as McFoe left the parking lot, knowing he needed to be going to the gym. His thoughts drifted back to Sickle. Becker wondered who exactly he thought they would see and talk to before 7:00 a.m. That was odd. Sickle’s behavior was a little odd as well. He was usually an upfront and very straightforward type of guy, not this secretive business. As a matter of fact, the only thing that wasn’t too unusual was the dead man. So far, it was just a guy who died eating at a restaurant. It didn’t even appear to be a homicide. His optimistic side said this would all be cleared up in the morning when Yen could determine the cause of death, which could be before the meeting with Sickle. His pessimistic side told him this was going to be a horrible storm. He looked around to notice the rain had stopped. He again smirked at the irony.

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Several miles away, across town, a cab came to a halt at a deserted intersection in the old industrial part of town. A figure in a long black coat and hat exited into the light rain.

Will you be okay, Ma’am? asked the cabbie with obvious concern on his face.

The tall lady replied, I’ll be fine, thank you. My building is right here.

When the cab was out of sight, the figure turned and headed south down the street. She pulled her collar up and her hat down to protect herself from the rain. After two blocks, she made a left. As she neared her destination, she noticed two shadowy figures lingering close on the sidewalk. She paused and took a deep breath. The figures caught sight of her simultaneously. One motioned to the other. She put her hands in her pockets and continued forward. They stood in front of the alley way that led to her desired entrance to the building. She continued slowly with her head down slightly. As she neared, she could smell the alcohol over the smell of rain. She relaxed somewhat. Drunks were easier to handle than stoners. The coat and hat did a good job of hiding her feminine features. One of the shadows stepped out in front of her.

Hey, buddy, I like your coat. Where you going?

She looked up and spoke at the same time, Well, hello, gentleman. Nice time for a walk, wouldn’t you say?

Both men stepped back in surprise at the realization that it was a woman, a very attractive, dark-skinned woman. To her left, the bigger thug’s surprised look quickly turned into one of malicious delight. It’s a very nice night for a walk. Too bad I don’t have a coat, came a slightly slurred reply. What do you say, Hoot? I like her coat. I think we should take this coat off of her. The second drunk let something of a laugh out of a toothless mouth.

Now, you boys don’t want to be messing around with a poor helpless little lady, do you? said the woman.

The bigger one took a step forward and was nearly in her face. The boozy smell nearly gagged her. You are helpless, but in a few minutes you won’t be a lady. Another toothless laugh from her right.

The big thug reached and grabbed her left arm with a vice like grip. In a flash of movement, the woman took a half step back and brought her right hand across. The big thug saw a glint of steel just as he felt a searing pain in his right forearm. His grip released as his tendons were cut. He looked down to see an eight-inch gash running the length of his arm, blood was already trickling out of the cut. The other thug made a move to grab her right arm, but with an equally fast motion she back lashed him across his right cheek, leaving a cut from his ear to his jaw. Both reeled back cursing. Regaining themselves somewhat, they turned to attack. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw that the woman not only still had the blade in her right hand, but had produced a pistol in her left hand, a very large pistol.

Forgive me for misleading you. I don’t think I’m quite so helpless and whether I’m a lady will always be questionable. Now run along.

Fear, anger, and humiliation flashed across the big thug’s face. The two thugs, holding their wounds, turned and stumbled hastily down the street.