Now the figure approached and put a tray with a sandwich and a cup of water on the edge of the futon.
“You’re being good?”
The boy nodded slowly.
“What do you want?”
“I want to go home,” he said with a whimper.
“No. You want to stay here. If you do, I’ll get you all the toys you want. Would you like that?”
He’d been asked this a few times. The first time, he’d said no, he didn’t want to stay here, and after he’d said that, no food came. The second time the question was asked, he’d said yes, he wanted to stay. But now he was tired, and he wanted his mom and dad.
“You want to stay here, don’t you?”
He stared at the floor. He didn’t know what to say. His stomach growled. He wanted desperately to reach out for the sandwich and the cup of water, but he didn’t know what would happen if he did.
“Tell me you want to stay here.”
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.”
