Don't Cage The Birdie (Book 2)(rough first draft)

Chapter 1. Welcome home

New York, 1996.

~

It was a warm morning and James Holland felt the sweat gather beneath his shirt collar and could even feel it begin to drip down his back. It was a strange, humid heat, unnatural for the time of year. It was difficult to think when it was hot, when you were uncomfortable and dreaming of being able to change into a shirt that wasn't damp. There was another problem caused by the heat, and that was the effect it had on things. Like dead bodies.

The smell was bad. Not bad bad, but if the body had sat undisturbed and unnoticed for any longer than it would be awful. The body in question was a woman, slumped in a sofa. The only sort of identifying feature that told James that he was looking at a woman was the fact that she was wearing a dress. He couldn't tell from the face because that no longer existed. In fact, her head and face was plastered all over the TV screen and surrounding wall. He drew in a deep breath through his mouth and left the room.

It was July in New York and the weather had only just begun to heat and warm through the pavements of the sidewalks and the streets. Tourists were beginning to flock to New York City and see the sights of Broadway and Central Park. In the outskirts of the city itself, further up north near Syracuse things were quieter and had not yet begun to heat up, as it were, with tourists or even locals heading out to enjoy the warmth in the open countryside.

'What do you reckon?' an officer outside the house asked James as stepped out onto the front porch. James exhaled the breath he had been holding, releasing it into the air and drew in a fresh breath through his noses. There were jasmine in garden pots along the front fence of the porch and the scent hung thickly in the air.

'It's a mess,' said James in reply. 'A big mess.'

'That's what I thought,' the officer said, nodding in agreement. James sneaked a peek at him out of the side of his eyes. The man's face was white. Not pale from not being in the sun, but sickly.

'You had a look, huh?' he asked.

The officer nodded.

'You throw up?'

The officer frowned at the question, taken by surprise and hastily shook his head. James' eyebrows raised questioningly and the officer meekly looked at the floor and nodded.

'It happens to the best of us,' said James, unbuttoning his coat and flapping the sides to get some sort of breeze circulating. 'It's how we know we're alive and how we know we're human.'

The officer didn't reply but simply nodded. James smiled reassuringly, drew another deep breath of jasmine and went back inside.

The house was a rundown three bedroom place with one storey and garage, a bathroom and open floor living area with a tiny kitchen. At the moment the hub of activity was the living and dining area. Various officers stood around watching as the small forensics team examined the body.

Bile rose in Jame's mouth as he stared once again at the blood mess before him. There was a shot gun lying on the floor by the chair, the deceased woman's arm hanging over the edge of the arm rest, fingers barely touching the polished barrel of the weapon. The call out had happened early that morning an hour or so after he had arrived at the office in Manhattan, One Police Plaza.

'We have a situation we want you to look at,' the captain said, calling James into his office. He wasn't even seated before the captain told him. 'We received a call of a possible break-in by a neighbour who noticed the front door of the house broken in, glass everywhere and no sign of the owner. Police arrived and found who think is the owner deceased in her living room.'

'Think is the owner?' asked James, seating himself and bending forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and cupping his chin in his hands.

'Yeah,' said his captain. 'We haven't got an official ID of the victim yet. I want you to go down and head the investigation. Find out whether it's a break in gone wrong or something else.'