Bob stared down at what he was no longer quite so sure was a dead body. The chest wasn’t moving, but when Bob held three fingers against the neck he could feel the beat of a slight pulse.
“First aid,” said Bob.
“Eh?”
“You take the first-aid course, Heinz?”
“Sure, but—”
“Then on you go.”
“Okay, okay. Then help me to—”
“No, no,” said Bob as he stood up. “He’llhelp you.”
Bob nodded in the direction of Heinz’s partner, who was standing in the doorway with the roll of crime scene tape in his hand.
“Enjoy the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” said Bob as he straightened up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m a homicide detective, so unless this guy dies then my business here is done.”
—
Bob walked around the bloodstains on the sidewalk. A half-dozen curious onlookers had gathered outside the tape that extended three yards out from each side of the doorway. In the distance he could hear the wailing of the ambulance. He glanced up at the surrounding high-rises. Held the appointment card up to his eyes and checked, first along one line, then the other. Let his glance glide down the tower on his left. Caught sight of the open window on the sixth floor. The black drapes were slightly parted, and inside that gap was the only place they moved, as though they were attached to the wall. Bob Oz took a few steps back and positioned himself directly behind the pool of blood and once again checked the lines on his card. Then he pulled out his phone and made a call. It was answered before the first ring had died away.
“SWAT.”
“Jesus, anyone would think you were expecting the call.”
“What is it?”
“You cowboys better get saddled up and ride on out here.”
—
Bob rubbed his hands together and shivered as he stood in front of Tower 1 and watched as the SWAT team jumped out of the armored truck. There were twelve of them, wearing green uniforms and helmets, black bulletproof vests and automatic weapons that looked so small and neat they always made Bob think of the toy guns he and his childhood friends used to play with. It was their show now, but the few remaining members of the audience had hidden themselves behind the windows of the high-rises. The sidewalks and parking lot were deserted, even the onlookers behind the crime scene tape in front of Tower 3 had vanished nowthat the ambulance had come and gone. A solitary boy, hunched over in a hoodie, hurried by.
“Excuse me,” said Bob, “is there anywhere around here to get something to eat?”
“Fuck you.” The boy didn’t look up or slow down.
Bob shrugged.
The leader of the SWAT team approached Bob. He was well built, walked like an Iraq vet with landmines on his mind every time his feet hit the ground, and that radar scan of a look that never rested in one place for more than a second. On the name tag above his breast pocket it said “Sergeant O’Rourke.” He handed Bob a bulletproof vest with the wordPOLICEstamped across it in yellow lettering.
“What would I want with that?” said Bob, looking blankly at it.
“You not coming in?”
“You need help?”
“No, but—”
“Then go and do your job.” Bob waved O’Rourke toward the entrance. “Fetch, Bonzo, fetch.”
The SWAT leader stared at Bob in disbelief. Then he turned away, head shaking, and made his way back to his men, who had spread out and taken up positions by the front and back entrances to the tower. O’Rourke gave a quick command through the microphone in his earpiece. It was as if he’d turned on a vacuum cleaner that sucked his men into the building.
