Falling

Twenty Seven (Crime Scene)

Small streaks of sun light flash onto black paint like racing strings. His eyes wash around the scene where a black SUV is parked crosswise on the sidewalk.

Pressing his right foot against the squad car's break pedal Captain Sepion brings his police car to a quiet stop some distance behind the black car, so as not to invade the crime scene.

His feet grapple with a smattering of gravel, bearing a big man's weight. His senses are on high alert for any shred of evidence—obvious or hidden. He knows this business and has made a name for himself in the department. He'd risen up in the department and proven himself a valuable asset. So important that he was sent to Verginia for advanced detective training and English class—using a government grant.

It looks like another case of gang violence that one Captain Sepion is not going to allow to go unpunished.

Another reecho of grinding gravel hints at the arrival of a backup police unit. Captain Sepion walked over to the hollow sound of banging car doors with a message for arriving officers.

"First, we need this area taped off...Then I want you to watch both ends of the road and keep people back...away from the scene," he commands. In English of course. It was important that his officers become fluent in the language.

He pulled out a bag of little, orange plastic cards and places them next to empty cartridges scattered on the ground and glistening in the sun light.

From a short distance he observes two bodies. A closer look confirms they are dead, two black men...late twenties.

Their heads are rolled back against brown, leather head rests. Small holes in their chests are still bleeding red.

Two black revolvers are clutched in the tight curl of silent fingers.

The snap of plastic gloves take hold of his wrists, a slight sting announces their claim on his hands.

He snaps some pictures with his cell phone camera. The scene must be captured, every detail in place.

He sees two more guns on the floor behind the front seats and bags them as well and snaps more pictures.

He surveys the ground around the car. Drag marks from the heels of shoes. They were dragged into the car. Someone staged this one. He runs his phone on video setting and follows the drag marks to their conclusion at the car doors.

He slips around to the back of the car and takes a picture of the license plate, barely clinging to the rear bumper.

The cloth seat huffs when he slides inside his squad car.

"Can you find the owner of this plate?" He speaks into the radio mike, repeating a series of letters and numbers to the officer at the other end of this conversation.

A surprisingly few minutes pass before an answer is sent back. He nods at the forensics man walking into the crime scene.

"They be the property of one Pappa Legba," the answer crackles into the squad car's speakers.

"Papa Legba?" He repeats.

"Yeah. Registered all proper."

"Send me some backup...Two officers...to the Market...I'll be there in fifteen minutes...out."Papa Legba...not any big surprise.

He sees a crowd of people milling around the various carts and shops that tempt a person into handing over hard earned money, before being swallowed up by the bustling continuing inside. The narrow hallways inside are clamoring with more open stands, where the smells of fresh fruit and raw meat mix.