Investigation

Devon Wallace, detective, stared at the dead man.

Something carved this man's chest into ribbons, deep below even the clavicle. Rot and oxidation had blackened the wound. From the pale and stiff flesh – which he tested by lifting the dead man's hand and letting it rigidly drop – Devon judged him to have died eight hours before.

He died drawing his gun.

Police milled about the crime scene. The smells were coffee and pollen and rot. Which was the stronger varied from moment to moment. Wind dared not blow today; the sun had already steamed the earth.

Someone had reported a corpse behind the First Baptist Church on Leverett and North. Devon attended this church during college when he still believed in God. He had good memories of the people here. They didn't deserve a murder on their campus.

'That's some hair he had,' said his partner, Martin Klempf. Martin adjusted his toupee with his wrist.

'Least he had it,' quipped Devon. He smirked at Martin.

Martin shrugged. 'I just like toupees.'

'So what do you think did that?' He pointed at the wings of blood in the man's chest.

'Knives? Shotgun? Did somebody just stick their fingers in there and rip him open?'

'Guess we'll leave that for the coroner to figure out.' Devon analyzed the brick wall with blood spattered on it. 'Found anything else over there?'

'Blood trail, leading north down the street. It dries out just before Hazel. Lot of the blood's been scuffed off of the street by tires.'

'Dries out, huh? Means the other party wasn't bleeding.'

Martin blew out a breath. 'Could've been self-defense.'

'Could've been? Man pulled out a gun.' Devon thought for a moment. 'Of course, defense goes both ways. He could have been too slow.'

Martin tilted his head. Devon found himself transfixed by the shape the blood resembled. If he squinted, it almost looked like the outline of a person – reminding him of the shadows of people left at Hiroshima.

A car door closed. Captain White leaned under the police tape and walked over. What had impressed Devon most when he met the Captain was his alabaster-white hair. He smiled and nodded at the two detectives; his broad smile always hid his eyes and where they were looking.

'Marty, D'von, how are ya?'

Devon winced. Only his mother called him D'von.

'Yikes,' White continued, finally noticing the corpse. 'What in the world?'

'Free lunch at Platinum caught up with him,' quipped Martin. Devon snorted; Captain White laughed boisterously.

'Marty, Marty. That sense of humor's going to get your food spit on.'

Captain White scanned around the scene. Devon sensed a precipitous shoe.

'Devon, can I talk to you a minute?'

Captain White began walking back towards his cruiser. Devon followed, throwing his gloves into a biohazard disposal on the sidewalk. He looked back one at Marty and shrugged. White sat inside the cruiser on the driver's side and Devon followed suit into the shotgun seat. The silence waited for a break.

'Fayetteville PD isn't going to pursue this case.'

The gravity in the car lightened. Devon looked at him. Captain White now seemed thoroughly perturbed.