The first cop’s name tag read JAKES. He cuffed Billy where he lay, frisked him, and secured the SIG. The second cop, Ketty, frisked Freeman then knelt to check Augie for vital signs. He rose slowly, white faced, and shook his head at Jakes. They were young and gung ho. It was likely that neither of them had seen that level of violence taken out on a human being.
Ketty left to move through the apartment, securing the scene. Jakes paced the kitchen, his steel-toed boots clicking on the tiles. Protocol required their next step to be communication with their supervisor.
“I’m Sergeant Detective Billy Able. My MPD identification is in my back pocket,” he said to Jakes. “I met with Deputy Chief Middlebrook yesterday. I suggest you make your first call to him.”
Jakes pulled the ID. Billy gave him Middlebrook’s office number from memory. Jakes called and explained the situation to Middlebrook. He listened, then uncuffed Billy and handed the phone to him.
“What the hell happened?” Middlebrook asked.
“Augie Poston was murdered in his apartment last night. His neighbor claims to have found him about fifteen minutes ago. He called 911. I came in after him.”
“Poston? The ballplayer?” Middlebrook went silent. “Why are you there?”
“We’re friends. I stopped by to check on him.”
“I assume you weren’t involved in his death.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
More silence. “Let me speak with Officer Jakes. I’ll follow up with their supervisor and explain the situation.”
Jakes took the phone, listened, and hung up. He took the cuffs off Freeman. “Sergeant Able, we need the two of you to sit at opposite ends of that dining table. Don’t talk. Don’t even look at each other until the investigative team gets here.”
The EMTs checked Augie and left. No one to save on this run.
To Billy’s dismay, the next person to shuffle in was Dunsford, grumbling and pissed off about catching another goddamn case. He had two flunky detectives from burglary with him. Dunsford saw Billy and came over.
“I heard you were here. I’ll do my walk-through with Jakes and Ketty, then we’ll talk.” He turned to Freeman. “You called in the body. Did you or Able touch or move anything in this apartment?”
“I didn’t, but I don’t know about Able. He had me cuffed and on the kitchen floor. I couldn’t see what he was doing.”
“Son of a bitch, Able. You can’t stay outta my business.” Dunsford squinted at Billy’s puffy lip but said nothing.
The CSU techs filed in the door with their kits. An Asian guy clicked off a couple of hundred digital photos. A young woman with a ponytail began dusting the frame on Augie’s portrait in the entry. A third said he was going downstairs to process the elevators. During the walk-through, Dunsford shuttled between the back rooms of the apartment and Freeman to ask questions.
“My place is around the corner and down the hall on the left,” Freeman told Dunsford. “You’ll find two women there, probably still asleep. Thought I should mention it.”
Dunsford’s eyes rounded. “The hell you say. Two women?”
“It was a late night,” Freeman said.
“Jakes, go wake up those broads,” Dunsford said. “And keep them apart until we question them.”
Dunsford made the right call. Freeman had discovered the body. That made him the number-one suspect. Having Jakes bang on the women’s door would rattle them, and they wouldn’t have time to match their stories. Their statements could implicate Freeman or themselves, or they might provide Freeman with a solid alibi.
Billy needed that information. As soon as he left the building, he would call a buddy in the squad who could gain access to Dunsford’s interview notes and let him know what the women had to say.
He watched Freeman who was sitting at the other end of the table, his gaze scanning the living area, Augie’s desk, the bookcases.
“What’s missing?” he asked.
Freeman’s gaze stayed with Augie’s desk. “Augie had a draft of a manuscript written by some journalist. He kept it in a big envelope on his desk. Last night he said he planned to read through the manuscript this morning.” Freeman glanced around. “I don’t see that envelope, and those papers scattered on the floor aren’t formatted like a book.”
“Do you know the journalist’s name?” Billy asked.
“Augie never would tell me.”
“Did he say what the book’s about?”
“Civil rights in the sixties. I assume you know Augie was wrapped up in his mother’s death. He thought this journalist could help him. His laptop is gone, and look over there . . . his phone is off the charger. There’s other stuff missing, valuable stuff. When I went to the back, I noticed his collection of watches is gone.”
He wanted to bring up the photograph Augie had lifted at Bardog. Freeman might know where it was stashed, but Billy didn’t want to take the risk of Dunsford walking in on the conversation.
The medical examiner arrived with an assistant and began recording the body’s condition, the wounds, his clothes, and the bloodstain patterns. The ME mentioned that media was setting up outside the building. The story would go nationwide. There’s nothing better for ratings than the flameout of a fallen star.
Supervisor Lieutenant John Carter arrived and took Dunsford aside, their gazes tracking from Freeman to Billy as they talked. He’d thought through his lack of an alibi. No one had seen him after he walked home from the stadium. At least the DeVoy’s security cameras would prove he hadn’t come here until this morning.
He began to make notes of his actions since he’d arrived. As he wrote, he found himself floating in the detached state exhibited by family members of victims—emotionally blank faces, calm questions asked with a need for precise details. The detached ones would later fall apart far worse than the loved ones who’d lost it at the scene.
The ME’s assistants wrapped Augie in a white sheet, lifted him into a bag, and zipped it closed. Billy checked his watch. Time was 10:22 A.M.
Dunsford came over and spoke to Freeman. “You’re going to the CJC with the lieutenant to look through mug shots. Your women friends will come with me. When we’re finished here, all three of you will give your statements.” Dunsford cleared his throat and spoke to Billy. “Middlebrook let us know you were friends with Poston. Sorry for your loss, but you know the drill. We’ll need your statement. I’ll be backed up with these interviews the rest of the day. Come in tomorrow at ten. We’ll get it out of the way.”
Dunsford stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. “And you should go . . . now. Leave. And take the stairs.” His mouth twitched, getting a kick out of throwing Billy off the scene.
Billy stood. He was itching to work through the evidence, but saying even a word to Dunsford would be a mistake. He nodded to Freeman, then walked to the entry and stopped at Augie’s portrait. Fingerprint powder coated the frame. The man in the painting stared at him through the catcher’s mask, the warrior, the hero, Billy’s friend. That was the Augie Poston he would remember.
“Don’t worry, partner,” he said quietly. “I’m going to make this right.”