He turned his ringer back on and slipped the phone back into his pocket. With his other hand he returned the heavy steel cannon to its holster under his right arm.
Ike walked over to the body, the spray of blood and brains on the ground behind the suspect confirmed the detective's suspicions that his lead was cut short. The bag, of course, was gone. Ike stooped down over the suspect, it was a boy, no more than 23, his eyebrow was pierced, his face was clean shaven, the red bandanna he had around his neck was soaked, just like the rest of his clothes. The kid's shirt was after-market red, full of holes and burn marks, none of the bullets missed. There were two shots to the head, right in the middle of his forehead, right next to each other, the other three holes were clustered just as tightly around the kid's heart. A tragedy, this wasn't the shooters first gunfight, Ike thought as he reached down into the suspect's pockets, pulling out nothing but cash and a couple of crack rocks in a small plastic vial, which he stuffed back into the kid's pants.
Ike looked up into the sky, as if he were expecting to see something. He let out a long breath and stood up, he spotted an overhang and decided to stand under it to wait for backup. He reached down inside his coat, to the only dry spot left: the inside of his blue cigarette box. He pulled out a stick, put it in his mouth, he fumbled around his pockets for a while until he pulled out a small brass box, his lighter. Ike put the flame to the end of his cig and took a long, slow drag.
The first 48 hours after a homicide are the most important, if the cops can't get a lead in that time the chances of solving the crime drop drastically. This was hour 45, the kid laying in a pool of his own blood with the back of his head missing was Ike's last lead.
Ike walked over to the body, the spray of blood and brains on the ground behind the suspect confirmed the detective's suspicions that his lead was cut short. The bag, of course, was gone. Ike stooped down over the suspect, it was a boy, no more than 23, his eyebrow was pierced, his face was clean shaven, the red bandanna he had around his neck was soaked, just like the rest of his clothes. The kid's shirt was after-market red, full of holes and burn marks, none of the bullets missed. There were two shots to the head, right in the middle of his forehead, right next to each other, the other three holes were clustered just as tightly around the kid's heart. A tragedy, this wasn't the shooters first gunfight, Ike thought as he reached down into the suspect's pockets, pulling out nothing but cash and a couple of crack rocks in a small plastic vial, which he stuffed back into the kid's pants.
Ike looked up into the sky, as if he were expecting to see something. He let out a long breath and stood up, he spotted an overhang and decided to stand under it to wait for backup. He reached down inside his coat, to the only dry spot left: the inside of his blue cigarette box. He pulled out a stick, put it in his mouth, he fumbled around his pockets for a while until he pulled out a small brass box, his lighter. Ike put the flame to the end of his cig and took a long, slow drag.
The first 48 hours after a homicide are the most important, if the cops can't get a lead in that time the chances of solving the crime drop drastically. This was hour 45, the kid laying in a pool of his own blood with the back of his head missing was Ike's last lead.
