Shirl Lincoln said, “With a DB in plain sight, we felt we had to clear it. Easy access, the door was unlocked, makes sense when you’re taking out the garbage.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Once we cleared it, we didn’t stick around, figured the techies needed to do their thing first.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She left.
Milo turned to Sean. “Given all that, not sure we need a victim’s warrant but let’s be careful and get one.”
Sean moved a few feet away and talked to his phone.
He came back, nodding, and we headed toward the tarp. Positioned just inside an open redwood rear gate. Surrounded by its own rectangle of crime scene tape. One tech standing by waiting.G. E. Soames.
He said, “Hey, Lieutenant.”
Milo saluted. “Grant. Can we get closer?”
“Sure, this was just to keep it pristine until we photo’d and took samples of the blood.” Soames twanged the tape like it was a harp string, then produced a pocketknife and cut it.
“Lots of blood,” he said, “must’ve hit a big vessel.” He pointed to red-brown splotches on the grass, shifted to pointing out speckles on planks of the gate and a few fence boards. Finally, the chair, pocked by a hole through which tufts of stuffing protruded.
Milo said, “Where’s the bullet?”
“My partner took it, along with scrapings, et cetera. I’m here in case you or the C.I. need anything else.”
Milo said, “Where’s the C.I.?”
“On the way,” said Grant Soames. Drawing back the tarp, he receded several steps.
Emmanuel Rosales lay on his back in blood dried to tackiness. Open eyes, open mouth with a clear view of gold on molars. The neck wound was discreetly vicious. Identical to what I’d seen on Paul O’Brien’s corpse.
Rosales was midsized, with thick gray hair cut short and an equally bushy mustache. He’d fallen on his back, but his eyeglasses had remained in place. Round, gold-framed glasses that looped around the ears and fit tight. I imagined them lending him a scholarly mien as he tried to influence adolescents.
His barley-colored sweatshirt readBerkeleyin maroon letters arranged in an arc. Below that,1868,set in a horizontal oval. Below that,California.
The lettering was a creepy color match to the blood that stained the fabric then trailed down to generic black sweatpants where it had settled as chocolate glaze.
The glasses hadn’t budged but the shirt had ridden up on impact, exposing a band of abdomen fuzzed with white hair. Purpled by blood. White New Balance walking shoes on Rosales’s feet were similarly stained.
Sean said, “Poor guy. You go to take out the garbage.”
The three of us got down and examined the neck wound.
Sean said, “Right of center, just like the others.”
Milo said, “Calculating bastard, we need to stop this.”
He stood, rubbed his face, like washing without water. “Okay, time to learn more about him. Sean, how ’bout you run him through the usual while I go inside. Your eyes are better with the small print.”
Sean smiled. “So far.”
“I used to say that.”
—
Emmanuel Rosales had been a good housekeeper but his house gave off an apathetic bachelor vibe. Brown leather furniture was oriented toward a sixty-five-inch flat-screen. An undersized fridge in an undersized kitchen with bare counters hosted soda, beer, ketchup, mustard, mayo, hot sauce. The freezer was stacked with TV dinners, pre-cooked sausage, and a single barbecued chicken.
