“Can’t believe this killer lives just a few blocks away from me!” Murphy said as she exited the car with both the arrest and search warrants in hand.
Rosebud glanced at the building where the suspect resided—a three-story structure made out of wood that hadn’t received the care, paint, or attention it needed. The faded apartment doors were exposed to the elements behind the not-so-straight guardrails that ran the entire length of each floor.
Affordable rentals. Well, as affordable as Boston made them.
“Never know your neighbors, do you?” Rosebud said. “Hey, by the way, you still haven’t invited me over for a drink.”
“Not the time or place, Rosebud,” Murphy said, looking toward a blue Honda parked across the street. “That’s his car, right?”
“Yep. Probably home then. But wait, no. The man’s got a broken arm. But it doesn’t mean anything, unless it’s a stick shift.”
“We never followed up on his broken arm. He was probably faking it. Stupid of us.”
“I saw his X-rays.”
“On his phone. Could have been someone else’s. Doesn’t count. Anyways, we’ll find out soon enough,” Murphy said as she followed the SWAT team to the suspect’s home.
Rosebud watched some of the men getting dispatched around the back to cover all emergency exits. Even though detectives weren’t allowed in until after SWAT cleared the place, the rush of excitement still flowed through his veins. Murphy had insisted on being near the building instead of waiting down the block as they normally did.
As Rosebud passed by the crime lab specialists and photographer who had also been dispatched, he spoke to them. “We’ll call you in the instant SWAT clears the place.”
Heads bobbed, so he ambled toward the building as he silently voiced a quick prayer for his colleagues, a habit he’d begun long ago and couldn’t quit, afraid the one time he didn’t do it would mark an unlucky day. Possibly someone’s last. It dawned on him that maybe he was more superstitious than religious. But a prayer had never hurt anyone.
He had joined Murphy on the main floor by the time the SWAT leader pounded three loud bangs on the suspect’s door two floors above them. “Boston Police! Open up!”
A loud crash echoed above and Rosebud knew the leader had forced the door open.
A few minutes later, when the all clear was given and SWAT officers started walking down the stairs, Rosebud sighed. While the thrill of potentially being the one to find and arrest the suspect was at times exhilarating, Rosebud preferred walking into a home without worrying about getting shot. Not that this particular suspect was likely to own a gun. They’d checked his file, and he hadn’t used guns in his crimes. His modus operandi was more peaceful, albeit just as deadly.
The thought still made his skin crawl. How could a man of God behave in such way? What could have gone horribly wrong to twist his thoughts in such perverted ways? But his excursion down the rabbit hole of questions came to an end as the stream of SWAT officers ended and Murphy headed up. He followed.
Rosebud could hear his heartbeat in his head and feel his lungs still recovering from climbing the stairs as he watched Murphy go past the officer manning the door and enter Anderson’s apartment.
Looking over the guardrail, Rosebud waved to the crime scene techs down below. They acknowledged his signal, so he ambled inside, taking in the somber home. The kitchen walls were bare, save for a cheap clock that ticked the passing seconds as though they were a punishment. Several nails stuck out from the patched-up paint—possibly from the previous tenants—and a sole crucifix hung from one of them.
The kitchen counter was a different story though. It overflowed with stuff, but not the cereal boxes, spaghetti container, or tea boxes he would have expected. No. Several unidentified bags of powders and tiny pebbles. It wasn’t meth-lab quantity or paraphernalia but could easily explain the unknown drug in the vics’ systems.
And there was that box of disposable gloves and another with surgeon’s caps. Those explained the lack of DNA or fingerprints.
“We’ll have to bag all of those and get the lab to identify the concoction he made,” Murphy said, turning to look at Rosebud. “SWAT said we’ll love the bedroom. I’ll just have a quick peek in the bathroom. Why don’t you get started in the bedroom?”
The door on the right was clearly the bathroom. A one-bedroom apartment was like hitting the jackpot when it came to easy evidence gathering.
He headed toward the left door from which shone a reddish glow but stopped in his tracks when he saw the origin of the flickering lights.