He suddenly stood up and stomped his foot, then kicked the futon. “No! I want to go home!” he shouted. “Who are you? Leave me alone!”

He ran for the door. Strong hands reached out and grabbed him.

“You will stay here.”

He struggled, but the powerful hands suddenly propelled him backwards. His body slammed against the wall, his head banging against the concrete. He dropped to the floor. He hurt so bad, but he was too scared to move or cry. He could feel the rage seething from the figure standing over him.

Finally, a stepping back. “You’ll learn to like it here.” Then the figure turned and left the room. The door locked with a loud click.

The boy got up and rubbed his head with a shaking hand. He stared at the door, thinking I don’t want to stay here. He didn’t know what was going to happen here, had no understanding about any of it. He knew it would be bad, though. Panic set in, and he ran across the room and flipped on the light, then dashed back to the futon. He snatched up the tray. The sandwich and cup fell to the floor. He ignored that and climbed onto the arm of the futon. He slammed the corner of the tray against the window, once, then again. The noise was loud, yet in his panic, he didn’t notice. The glass broke, and he reached up to pull some of it away. Then he heard the doorknob rattle, and the voice called out for him to turn off the light. He ignored it and hit the glass with the tray again. Then the door flew open.

The boy glanced over his shoulder. “No!” he screamed.

He grabbed the sill, oblivious to the glass that cut into his hands. He jumped and was able to get his arms partway through the window.

“Come back!”

Arms grabbed him and pulled him from the window. A shard of glass slashed his arm, and he cried out in pain. Blood poured from his sliced wrist. He fought, but the arms were too strong and he was only a boy. The cut was like fire on his arm, and he felt woozy. Then he felt hands pressing hard around his wrist, trying to stop the bleeding. But the boy fell to the floor, his eyes toward the door. His breath slowed, and darkness enveloped him.

CHAPTER ONE

The mood was somber as I approached the crime-scene tape. I nodded at the uniformed officer standing guard, and he barely gave me a glance. Death always has a way of sobering people, but this was different.

“You the one who called this in?” I asked. His nameplate read “Rivera.”

He nodded and drew in a stilted breath. “Yeah, we got a call, said a guy was taking out his trash, and he saw an arm in the dumpster. He grabbed his cell and called us. When we–my partner, Flatt–and I got here, we looked in the dumpster and saw the arm, just like he said. I went into the dumpster, but …” He shook his head. “There wasn’t any chance he was alive.” Rivera was being careful not to look toward the dumpster. He ran a hand over his closely cropped hair. He looked to be just out of college, green around the gills in every way, including death encounters. “We called it in, got the guy who found him out of the way, and secured the area. The coroner’s here.”

I pointed past him. “So the scene has been disturbed?”

He shrugged. “I can’t say what the guy who found the body did, but no one’s been near the dumpster since Flatt and I got here.”

My gaze darted behind him. A gray-haired man in shorts, a yellow short-sleeved shirt, and sandals stood near the corner of a house, outside the crime-scene tape. He glanced at Rivera and me nervously.

“Is that the guy?” I asked.

Rivera was still avoiding the dumpster. “Yeah. His name is Clark Leblanc. He knows you’ll want to talk to him, so he’s been waiting around.”

I nodded. “Have you seen anything suspicious?”

Rivera shook his head. “Gawkers have been coming and going, but nothing unusual to note. Flatt’s been talking to them.”

I didn’t say anything else to him, but ducked under the tape as Rivera noted in his log that I was entering the crime-scene area. I walked toward the dumpster. It was a behemoth of a thing, dark blue, beat-up, positioned between two red-brick houses. A full white trash bag leaned against the front of the dumpster. Canvassing the ground in the crime-scene area were two men and a woman. Standing next to the dumpster in dark pants and a white shirt was Jack Jamison, the Denver Police Department’s coroner. A slight breeze fluffed his steel-gray hair. He was peering into the dumpster, and he turned when he heard me approach.

“Spillman, how you doing?” His lips were pressed into a grim line.

“Bad?” I asked.

He nodded slowly, his blue eyes impassive. “Take a look.” He gestured toward the top of the dumpster.

I stepped up and looked inside. A few flies buzzed around, and the pungent odor of rubbish was strong in the air, but underneath it, I smelled death. More than ten years as a homicide detective did that to you. A small figure lay sideways amongst trash and black plastic bags. His brown hair was tussled, and he wore a dark T-shirt. I resisted rubbing a hand over my face, but I wanted to. Seeing death is always hard, but when it’s one so young, it’s even harder. I breathed out of my mouth as I shifted, trying to get a better view of the body.

“Looks like his wrist was cut,” I said.

Jack nodded. “He’s got a severe slash on his left wrist. Likely that it cut the radial artery, and he probably bled out in minutes.”

I glanced at the CSI crew working the crime scene. “They’ve taken pictures, right?”

“Yes.”

I shifted again. “Look at all the dried blood on his arm.” The morning sun beat down on us. I squinted at the sky. It was going to be a hot May day. “Any idea how long the body’s been in there?”

He shook his head. “With the sun, and the heat in the dumpster, who knows?” I gave him a look that prompted him to give me more. “He was probably put here sometime overnight.”

I moved to the corner of the dumpster so I could look at the body from a different angle. “I don’t see any other blood around. Think he bled out somewhere else and was moved here?”

“That would be my guess.”

I gazed around the side of the dumpster and in back, but there wasn’t any sign of blood anywhere. I figured as much, but I had to check. “There’s no way he crawled in here and died.”

Jack shook his head again. “I don’t see how.”

“Let me get a better look at the body.”

“Be careful.”

I hefted myself up on the edge of the dumpster and gingerly shifted the body so I could see the boy’s face. His mouth was partially open, his brown eyes wide, as if his last moments were filled with terror. Smudges of dirt dotted his face, and dried blood streaked down his cheek and caked his clothes. He was so cute he could’ve been on TV. Then it hit me. I swore.

“What?” Jack asked.

I dropped to the ground. I had smudges on my blue blouse that I swiped at, then wiped my hands together, trying to get rid of not only the grime, but the traces of death. “That’s Logan Pickett.”

“The kid who’s been missing for a few days?” Jack scratched his jaw. “I thought he looked familiar.”

“He should. He’s been in the news the last couple of nights.”

“I’m too damn busy to watch the news.” He pointed at the dumpster again. “You need anything more here?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Okay, we’ll be taking the body out soon.”

“When will you get to the autopsy?”

He angled his head, daring me to push him. “Geez, Spillman, I haven’t even moved the kid yet. How should I know?” I dared with a glare, and he backed down. “I don’t know, this afternoon? Tomorrow morning? I know you want it fast. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks.” I stepped back from the dumpster and turned to the CSI team. “Hey, Dale,” I said to a short, stocky man. “You have anything for me?”

He shook his head. “Nothing so far. We’re getting pictures and video.” He shrugged. He’s about thirty, but looks ten years younger. He’s good at his job, though, and he’d alert me if he found anything significant.