Page 10 of Cross the Line
I grabbed my raincoat from the back seat. Opened my door. The sound of the rain immediately grew louder. He mutteredwhat sounded suspiciously likeemotionally constipated assholeunder his breath as we stepped into the downpour.
Our shoes splashed through puddles toward the scene. The restaurant's lights glowed yellow through the dark. They lit a small crowd of officers and onlookers gathered outside. My partner matched my stride despite his shorter height. Determination in every step.
His robot comment didn't warrant a response. There were witnesses to interview. Clues to collect. A case to solve. That's what mattered. Not his opinions. Not his cologne. Not the way his hair somehow still looked perfect despite the weather.
Not the way I wanted to mess it up just to see if he'd still seem untouchable.
Just the job. Everything else was noise.
The interior of the covered patio looked like someone had shaken a snow globe. Overturned plastic stools. Soju bottles scattered across the floor, some intact, some shattered. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air. Mixing with grilled meat and alcohol. Rain pattered against the awning overhead, a steady rhythm under the chaos.
I moved through the space methodically. Cataloged each detail. Crimson spatter on the far wall, medium velocity, consistent with a slashing motion. A trail of drops leading toward the exit. Broken glass beneath one of the tables. Every element told part of the story. I just needed to arrange them in the correct order.
Constable Doyle approached, notebook in hand. A respectful nod.
"Detective Hawley. We've got statements from the owner and two patrons. Victim is Mark Donnelly, thirty-four, construction worker. Currently in surgery at St. Michael's with a severe neck wound and head trauma from falling. Suspect is Kyle O'Hara,twenty-nine, unemployed. Witnesses claim Donnelly provoked him verbally, then O'Hara pulled a knife."
"Where's the suspect now?"
"Fled. We have a description and his address from a witness who was present."
A nod. "Any surveillance footage?"
"Owner claims there's a camera above the entrance, plus one from the convenience store across the street that might have caught the suspect leaving."
"Get the footage. And secure the perimeter. The weapon might still be nearby."
Constable Doyle moved away. Carlson was removing his coat, draping it carefully over his arm despite its dampness. He loosened his tie. Unbuttoned his top button. Ran a hand through his damp hair. The transformation was subtle but deliberate. Polished detective into approachable confidant. So calculated I could practically see the gears turning in his head.
"I'll start with spatter analysis. You document the witness statements from the owner and..."
"Actually, I think our first priority should be the victim's girlfriend. She's traumatized and probably our best witness. I'll handle that." A vague gesture toward the chaos. "You can do your... forensic thing. Spatter patterns or whatever."
My blood pressure spiked. "We establish the physical remains first. That's basic protocol..."
But he was already moving toward a young woman huddled under a blanket near the back of the patio, tears streaking her face. The victim's girlfriend. Based on her proximity to the paramedics who had treated Donnelly before transport.
"We need to establish the physical remains first before..."
He either didn't hear me or, more likely, chose to ignore me. He crouched down to the girlfriend's level. Offered a gentle smilethat somehow appeared genuine despite how calculated I knew it to be. The entire display was infuriating.
My jaw clenched so hard I thought a tooth might crack. Constable Doyle glanced between us, then quickly looked away. Suddenly very interested in his notes. Great. Our dysfunction was already station gossip.
I went back to my work. Photographed the spatter from multiple angles. Measured distances. Noted the pattern of destruction. But my focus kept splitting. One eye on my task. One on Carlson. I hated that I couldn't ignore him completely.
His body language was open. Sympathetic. Soft words. Nodding as the woman talked between sobs. Their conversation was inaudible over the ambient noise. But she gradually relaxed, shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch. As much as I wanted to dismiss his methods as manipulative, they were clearly working.
"Detective," Constable Doyle called from the entrance. "We've got the CCTV footage ready to view."
At a patrol car, a laptop displayed grainy footage of the restaurant's entrance. The timestamp showed 21:47. About twenty minutes before the first emergency call.
Two men emerged from the patio, shoving each other. The larger man, Donnelly, based on the description, pushed the smaller man against the wall. Words were exchanged. Donnelly's stance was aggressive. Shoulders squared. Finger jabbing toward the other man's face.
"Can you enhance this section?"
As Constable Doyle worked on the footage, Carlson appeared at my shoulder, peering at the screen. The scent hit me again. Stronger now in the confined space. I shifted away slightly. Irritated by my own awareness.
"Find anything useful with the girlfriend?"
