When the Dead Speak

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Beautiful job. What do you think, Frank?" Jake stepped back from the encroaching dust clouds, brushing his hands against his pants.

"It's about a nine on my scale," Frank replied.

They stepped gingerly through the debris covering two lanes under the 130th Street overpass. Frank flicked the rock dust from his short-cropped Afro. "Yep, this one's a keeper. Department of Transportation is going to love it."

In front of them was a jackknifed semi, its cab wedged against the center support beam, its trailer blocking the northbound lanes of traffic. What had started out as just an accident report had turned into a homicide once the body had been discovered.

High-beam lights had been positioned around the crash site turning darkness into day. Overhead a news helicopter circled, directing its spotlight on the semi. Jake motioned at a beat cop whose thick, curly hair snaked out from under his cap. "Rizzo, move your car around this mess and keep that reporter from getting anywhere near the scene."

Access to the 130th Street exit had been blocked by police barricades. Rush hour traffic had ceased hours ago and only emergency vehicles were on the road.

The two detectives walked over to the driver of the semi. He was holding a Bulls cap in one hand while the other hand scratched his sweat-soaked tee shirt. An entire Lionel train from engine to caboose was tattooed up one arm, disappearing under his shirt.

"Looks like you had a bad day, buddy," Frank said.

The driver nodded. "I had a gole dern Vette, shit ass excuse for a car, cut me off. Had to slam on my brakes." He punctuated his disgust by spitting out a wad of tobacco.

Their gaze followed the landslide of rock and gravel, up the concrete pillar to just below where it connected to the overpass. Enough concrete had broken away to reveal mummified remains, human, perfectly preserved.

"After seven years in homicide, you'd think I had seen everything," Frank said.

"Ain't that a damn sight?" The truck driver ran a forearm across the beads of perspiration on his face and turned to the detectives. "So, do ya think we found Hoffa?"