The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3) by Brian Shea (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📗

following tracks or any blood trail that might be left. Rain was like God's eraser, washing away critical evidence.

Tarps and canopies were set up over bodies whenever the situation dictated, and this was one of those cases. A large pop tent was set up on the sidewalk near a bank, and officers were posted at various places around the tape, ensuring nobody would cross through.

Kelly was always surprised by how many people would just walk right into or duck under the tape, oblivious to a crime scene, as if they had a right of way through whatever investigation was underway. The inconvenience of detouring was too much for some.

Cell phones exacerbated the situation, making for some of the worst offenders. People walking without looking, staring down at their handheld computer screens. A few years back, as a patrolman, Kelly witnessed a heavyset man plow through the crime scene tape as if he were a runner crossing the finish line after the hundred-meter dash, taking with him the yellow tape strapped across his chest. The large man hadn't even noticed before he was halfway into the scene when another officer standing nearby rushed up to physically stop him.

Kelly remembered the look on the man's face as he glanced up from his cell phone to see where he was. His disconnection from his virtual world to the real one was comical and almost cost him a trip to the slammer for interfering.

The scene he looked at now was well contained. Probably wouldn’t be much foot traffic to worry about for the next couple hours. Apparently the media hadn't mobilized yet, since there were no news vans in view. Kelly hated getting to a scene after the media circus had begun. He preferred that their arrival coincided with his departure.

The snow crunched underfoot as he approached Barnes, who was talking to a patrol sergeant. Kelly squinted as the flurries struck his eyelashes, recognizing the uniformed patrol supervisor as Jeremy Parker. A solid cop, he grew up in Dorchester, not far from Kelly. He was a few years older, but the two knew each other. Parker had opted to work the downtown beat, saying he didn't want to arrest his friends and neighbors. Kelly understood, but had taken an entirely different approach, deciding, at least in the early stages of his patrol time, to navigate and protect the citizens he knew best.

Even though Boston was all one city, downtown felt slightly foreign to Kelly, the Dorchester native. It was an amalgamation of businessmen and college students from all over the world and had a much bigger feel than his hometown neighborhood. Although he loved the city in its entirety, whenever he was downtown, he always felt a sense of disconnect.

His badge swung freely as he ducked under the tape and nodded to one of the watch guards standing nearby before making his way along the outskirts of the scene to Barnes and Parker.

His gaze scanned over to where the pop tent had been erected, and he saw the dead man’s form standing out against the white of the snow he had collapsed into. He figured it was better to check in with his partner and shift supervisor to get a feel for the scene before he approached.

"Michael Kelly slumming it tonight, hanging with us hoity-toity types," Parker said in jest, knowing Kelly's general disdain for the area.

"Just doing my part to keep the rich folk safe," he said with a laugh. The banter was always the same, regardless of the weather. Detectives and patrolmen always had their one-liner shticks when in the uncomfortable presence of death or working the early stages of a crime scene. It was a way of breaking the ice, creating a norm out of the abnormal.

"What’ve we got?" Kelly asked.

Barnes spoke, summarizing whatever she had discussed with the sergeant and putting it into Homicide terms. "Our stiff over there was apparently making a withdrawal. At least that’s the best guess. The machine still had the printed receipt sticking out of it. He's got three stab wounds. One to the stomach, two to the back. No weapon located on patrol’s initial response. And no witnesses."

"Well then, what was all that about with Sutherland saying we had a witness detained?"

"Guess there was a miscommunication," Parker said, inserting himself into the conversation.

"So, no witnesses?"

"Well, not per se,” Barnes said. “We’ve got somebody detained who was with our dead guy earlier in the night. Apparently, he left the bar and wandered off. He was drunk and pissed off."

"So how did he end up at the ATM?" Kelly asked, mostly to himself.

"I guess that's what you detectives are going to have to figure out," Parker said. "Scene wide enough for you?"

"Good enough right now. I'll know more in a few minutes once I do a little quick walk-through and see what we have. I don't want to adjust anything until the crime scene unit gets here. When it comes to manipulation of a crime scene, I like to default to my technicians, and Charles will be here."

"Sounds like you're in good hands. I'll go talk to my guys, tell them to hold the scene. We're here for whatever you need. Shift change is at seven, but we can stay late. You know, my guys wouldn't mind a little bit of overtime, especially when it's just standing by a piece of tape. They live for those kinds of gigs," Parker said. "Maybe not so much on a cold snowy day, but overtime is overtime."

Kelly nodded. He knew many cops lived beyond their means and supplemented their white-collar lifestyle with blue-collar work with excessive amounts of overtime. Kelly didn’t do the job for the money. The only overtime he ever accumulated was forced on him by the investigations he worked.

A squeak of brakes cut the stillness. Kelly turned his head and saw Ray Charles pull the crime scene van to a stop near his Caprice. The technician stepped from his vehicle and took a long drag from