Читать книгу When One Man Dies - Dave White - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Bill Martin stood on the curb watching the officers work the crowd. He puffed on a cigarette, which he knew he’d catch hell for, but didn’t care. He missed the days when Leo Carver was still in charge. He could do whatever the hell he wanted then.

The body of the old man was long gone, but the chalk outline was there. The street was closed off, and he could hear the horns of cars being forced to detour. A hit-and-run could only make this town more congested.

Martin got called in late, after the officers had started questioning witnesses and letting them leave the scene. Back when they originally thought it was an accident. It wasn’t until more than one witness said they thought the car aimed at the victim that he was summoned.

He hadn’t worked a homicide in a long time. In a town like this, only detectives and uniforms, usually the cops in good standing, got the homicides. Martin was stuck with robberies.

But it’d been an unusual week in New Brunswick, with two drive-by shootings and a college kid pushed down a frat stairway. So Martin was the only detective left on duty when this call came in. He was glad it got him out of the office.

He wasn’t sure what the crime-scene guys would find here. There were some drops of blood splattered along the pavement, but that was about it. Maybe some paint chips from the offending car? Like that would help. Pounding the pavement, getting descriptions, that’s what would help. Maybe someone had been quick enough to catch a plate number.

Martin did a quick scan of the faces in the crowd, the dumbfounded looks. There wasn’t anyone quick enough.

He waved over Officer Franklin, the first one on the scene. The short guy, hat tilted wrong, sweat pouring off his brow. He didn’t make eye contact.

“Yes, Detective?”

Martin grinned, loved intimidating the rookies. ‘You talk to everyone here?”

“Most of them.”

“Start letting some witnesses go?”

“Yeah,” Franklin said. “After we talked to them, we told them to go home.”

“Make a list of the people you talked to? Contact information?”

“Yes, sir.”

Martin waited. Figured Franklin would get the hint and give him the list. But Franklin stared at something on the sidewalk.

Martin cleared his throat and Franklin’s head snapped up. “The list?” Martin said.

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Franklin fiddled with his pockets and pulled out a piece of paper folded into fourths. Real professional.

Martin took the paper, lit another cigarette, and looked over the names. It was the third name that jumped out at him as if it’d been outlined in neon. It was a name he hadn’t uttered in years, but thought about every day. Memories clouded his thought process. He barely remembered the hit-and-run.

All he saw was the name that nearly ended his career. And he knew which witness he’d be speaking with first.

Jackson Donne.