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.
He turned away, and I noticed a dark-haired man with broad shoulders enter the crime scene. He walked over and fixed coal-black eyes on me. Chief Inspector Calvin Rizzo.
“Do you have an update for me?” he asked, his voice smooth and commanding. Rizzo doesn’t waste time or words, but is all business, all the time. He’s hard-nosed and detailed. At times he rubs me the wrong way, probably because we’re alike in many respects, and I’ve learned to work with him, hold my tongue at times, and speak up when I feel the need.
“The boy is Logan Pickett.” Rizzo is three inches taller than my five-foot-eight, and I always feel the need to stand tall so I can come close to looking him in the eye.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Okay, you’ll have to talk to the parents.”
“From what I remember from the news, they’re divorced. I’ll see who I can reach first.” He waited, and I went on. “One of the responding officers has been interviewing the neighbors to see if anyone heard or saw anything.”
“Good. Spats and Moore can talk to anyone with information.” Roland “Spats” Youngfield and Ernie Moore are my partners. I was expecting them to show anytime.
Rizzo gestured at the CSI team. “Have they found anything that will help us?”
“Not yet.”
“All right. Keep me posted.” With that, he turned and walked toward the crime-scene tape. As he went under it, two men approached. He spoke to them briefly, then held the tape up for them. They ducked under it and walked toward me.
“Rizzo says it’s a missing boy?” Ernie Moore asked in a deep voice.
“Yeah, it’s Logan Pickett,” I said.
“Ah, hell,” he said. He hefted his pants up over his gut. He’s generally one to crack jokes, but not now. Not with the death of a child.
“What do you have so far?” Spats asked. He wore a tailored suit and black shoes so shiny the sun glinted off them. I’d heard he’d gotten his nickname from an old partner who said Youngfield reminded him of a gangster from the old days, the men who wore spats on their shoes. I’d never seen Spats wear them, but the nickname had stuck.
I filled them in. Both nodded as they listened and looked around.
“So not much,” Spats answered his own question when I finished.
“Right,” I said. “We need to talk to the officers who’ve been canvassing the neighborhood.”
“I saw another officer nearby. I’ll get him,” Ernie said. He walked off in search of the other responding officer.
“Hold on, Speelmahn,” Spats said. For some reason, he gives my name a Jamaican flair, even though he’s from Harlem. He went over to the dumpster, and when he returned, his face was pinched. “He was killed somewhere else and moved here.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
Ernie returned with Officer Flatt.
