woman. The black and the white. The life and the death. The Tai-ji. The message.
Sleep watched as the detective made his way back up to the last row of the bleachers and sat on the aluminum bench. He slumped forward, hands dangling between his knees, staring down. Body language said the detective was beat, and it was only the first day of the investigation. Sergeant Mooney would have to get used to those feelings just as he had ten years ago.
CHAPTER 16
S ergeant Detective Ray Figgs ducked into the men’s room and took a swig of scotch from the flask in his breast pocket. Carefully unfolding a bar napkin, he took a small cache of peanuts and shoved them into his mouth. He’d chew them as long as possible before swallowing. Wiping the salt from his hand onto his wrinkled pants, he straightened out his tie and stepped into the corridor. Ballistics was around the corner.
Figgs rang the bell, and one of the ballisticians let him in. He picked a pair of latex gloves from one of the boxes lying on the desk top, and put them on. He took a seat and waited for Sergeant Reginald Stone. Stone had promised to do a rush job on the bullet that killed George Wheeler.
Stone came from his office carrying an envelope and a plastic vial containing a single bullet. He secured the bullet and gestured for Figgs to come over to a comparison microscope. “Ray, this is the projectile you brought me this morning. The George Wheeler homicide. Forty cal.” Stone took a second vial with a second bullet from the manila envelope and secured that alongside the first. “This is from the Jesse Wilcox homicide. The number of lands and grooves gives us our weapon, the striations give us a match.”
Figgs had anticipated this news, but the reality hit hard. The same .40 was being passed around all over the city. It didn’t make sense that a community gun, a stash gun, was being used by so many rival gangs. Itwould be impossible to link it to any one suspect. “How many incidents is it tied to?” Figgs asked, dreading the answer.
“Close to a dozen, if you count everything, homicides, nonfatals, and shots fired.”
“Any connections between them?” Figgs asked.
“None that I know of. But the analysts at the BRIC have mapped each incident where ballistic evidence was recovered. That’ll give you a history of the gun and how it’s been used.”
In the old days, they used to map all that out on a chalkboard. The Boston Regional Intelligence Center was his next stop. Right down the hall. After that, after the fancy computer-generated maps and information bubbles, it was back to basic police work. Knocking on doors, reinterviewing witnesses, finding a common link. If there was one.
Time for all that after he freshened up in the men’s room.
CHAPTER 17
C onnie parked in the South Bay courthouse parking lot, next to the police station. He was trying to make roll call, but he was late. He grabbed his police radio from the center console. Besides the use of an office vehicle, the radio was the only thing he got when the DA named him a Rapid Indictment Prosecutor. But it was a good piece of equipment to have. He pushed the button on the side of the radio. “Bravo DA One, Ocean Nora,” he said, signing on for the night.
“DA on,” the dispatcher acknowledged him.
Connie stuck the radio in the back pocket of his jeans and secured his .38 in his ankle holster, the weapon of choice of some of the old school cops before they got the semis. As an assistant DA, he wasn’t supposed to carry a gun at work, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to carry one riding around at night with the cops. But he’d rather lose his job than lose his life.
Figures moved across the windows in the courthouse, and he thought back to the long nights he’d put in prepping cases in that building. The courthouse was still home to him. He had started his career there, working cases with Angel Alves, next door in District B-2, Roxbury.
Connie picked up his pace. He’d
Sleep watched as the detective made his way back up to the last row of the bleachers and sat on the aluminum bench. He slumped forward, hands dangling between his knees, staring down. Body language said the detective was beat, and it was only the first day of the investigation. Sergeant Mooney would have to get used to those feelings just as he had ten years ago.
CHAPTER 16
S ergeant Detective Ray Figgs ducked into the men’s room and took a swig of scotch from the flask in his breast pocket. Carefully unfolding a bar napkin, he took a small cache of peanuts and shoved them into his mouth. He’d chew them as long as possible before swallowing. Wiping the salt from his hand onto his wrinkled pants, he straightened out his tie and stepped into the corridor. Ballistics was around the corner.
Figgs rang the bell, and one of the ballisticians let him in. He picked a pair of latex gloves from one of the boxes lying on the desk top, and put them on. He took a seat and waited for Sergeant Reginald Stone. Stone had promised to do a rush job on the bullet that killed George Wheeler.
Stone came from his office carrying an envelope and a plastic vial containing a single bullet. He secured the bullet and gestured for Figgs to come over to a comparison microscope. “Ray, this is the projectile you brought me this morning. The George Wheeler homicide. Forty cal.” Stone took a second vial with a second bullet from the manila envelope and secured that alongside the first. “This is from the Jesse Wilcox homicide. The number of lands and grooves gives us our weapon, the striations give us a match.”
Figgs had anticipated this news, but the reality hit hard. The same .40 was being passed around all over the city. It didn’t make sense that a community gun, a stash gun, was being used by so many rival gangs. Itwould be impossible to link it to any one suspect. “How many incidents is it tied to?” Figgs asked, dreading the answer.
“Close to a dozen, if you count everything, homicides, nonfatals, and shots fired.”
“Any connections between them?” Figgs asked.
“None that I know of. But the analysts at the BRIC have mapped each incident where ballistic evidence was recovered. That’ll give you a history of the gun and how it’s been used.”
In the old days, they used to map all that out on a chalkboard. The Boston Regional Intelligence Center was his next stop. Right down the hall. After that, after the fancy computer-generated maps and information bubbles, it was back to basic police work. Knocking on doors, reinterviewing witnesses, finding a common link. If there was one.
Time for all that after he freshened up in the men’s room.
CHAPTER 17
C onnie parked in the South Bay courthouse parking lot, next to the police station. He was trying to make roll call, but he was late. He grabbed his police radio from the center console. Besides the use of an office vehicle, the radio was the only thing he got when the DA named him a Rapid Indictment Prosecutor. But it was a good piece of equipment to have. He pushed the button on the side of the radio. “Bravo DA One, Ocean Nora,” he said, signing on for the night.
“DA on,” the dispatcher acknowledged him.
Connie stuck the radio in the back pocket of his jeans and secured his .38 in his ankle holster, the weapon of choice of some of the old school cops before they got the semis. As an assistant DA, he wasn’t supposed to carry a gun at work, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to carry one riding around at night with the cops. But he’d rather lose his job than lose his life.
Figures moved across the windows in the courthouse, and he thought back to the long nights he’d put in prepping cases in that building. The courthouse was still home to him. He had started his career there, working cases with Angel Alves, next door in District B-2, Roxbury.
Connie picked up his pace. He’d
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