The Coldest Fear by Rick Reed Page B

who were bellied up to the yellow crime scene tape. Small clusters of people stood around, talking excitedly or laughing and slapping each other high-fives. It was party time in the Sweetser Projects.
    Detective Ray Chapman was a thirty-four-year veteran detective. He had the gray hair and the lines in his forehead to prove it. He had caught the run and now stood with his hands in his pockets, a dour look on his face, as he waited for Jack Murphy and Liddell Blanchard to make their way through the crowds. He’d called them as soon as he had arrived.
    Jack pulled the Crown Vic past the news media vans and felt the familiar tingle of anticipation. He looked around at the crowds of onlookers and newspeople. He knew that the killer might be among them.
    In one of these clusters, Jack recognized Channel Six’s own Claudine Setera, who was just wrapping up an interview with a dangerous-looking young man wearing pants whose waistband threatened to fall off his bony hips. A dozen or so enthusiastic teens were surrounding the pair, hamming it up for the camera and hoping they would get a glimpse of themselves on television later. Several of the kids were making grabs for the cameraman’s equipment belt.
    â€œJack. Jack Murphy!” Claudine called from the other side of the yellow tape.
    Jack hesitated, but then remembered that if you didn’t tell the media something—no matter how useless a piece of information—they would report that the police had no comment. “No comment” always came out sounding like “The police are hiding things from you that you need to know.”
    â€œMiss Setera,” Jack said, “I’ve only just arrived and probably know less than you do.”
    She gave him a look that said, Of course you know less than I do.
    â€œCould I just get a photo of you entering the crime scene again?” she asked. “We didn’t see you arrive.”
    Sergeant Walker had stopped and now smiled at Jack. “You’re a movie star,” he said. “I’m heading in.”
    Jack nodded at Walker and then raised his eyebrows at Claudine.
    â€œOh, just come out here a few feet and then cross under the tape,” she said, and shrugged.
    â€œOkay,” Jack said, and ducked under the tape and walked a few feet from the cameraman. She didn’t care what he had to say, she just wanted some film to play along with her scripted version of events. “Is this okay?” he asked, and she nodded.
    When he was finished reentering the crime scene for benefit of the camera he approached his partner. Without even a thank-you, Claudine and her cameraman were loading the Channel Six van, no doubt to make a hasty retreat from the area before the throngs of kids could strip them of valuables.
    Detective Chapman walked toward Jack and said, “I think I might have found your missing hand.” Chapman ran a hand through his thick gray hair, and then gave Jack a disconcerted look. He put his notebook in his jacket pocket and then stuck both hands back in his pockets, and to Jack he looked like an old coat hanging on a coatrack. His whole manner spoke of someone who was wrung out.
    Jack and Walker exchanged a look. Walker nodded, and confirmed, “We found a hand at this scene that doesn’t belong here.”
    Chapman was looking at the crowds of people. He was not a happy man.
    â€œOne of their neighbors has been slaughtered, and they act as if this is some sort of entertainment for their benefit.”
    â€œYou’ve got your time in, Ray,” Jack said. “You’ve got enough to draw a good retirement. Go fishing whenever you want. Eh?”
    Chapman’s face hardened. “You think I can’t cut it anymore ?” he asked, surprising Jack.
    â€œI’m just saying, Ray,” Jack began, but then thought better of it.
    Chapman seemed to get a grip and pulled his notebook back out, and forced a grin. “Well, maybe I will take