taken notice of new money and had bumped up the crime rates for his district.
His attention centered on the shadowy images of old, vacant warehouses that lay further from the smoldering ruins where he now stood. His job had taken him there in the past. A large homeless population had settled just beyond those warehouses. They lived scattered among the desolation and decay of better times.
A strong wind blew, lifting his father's old, green field jacket away from his body. Fall was slipping into winter. Brock closed his eyes. The annual coat and blanket drive organized by the Hope City Humanitarian Alliance should be wrapping up. He prayed the organization got enough donations this year. Far too many died last year due to exposure to the cold. There weren’t enough shelters to hold all the people who had nowhere to go. Life on his side of the city was brutal.
He turned away from his thoughts and faced the charred walls of the warehouse. The yellow crime scene tape flickered and snapped in the brisk, cold wind. Careful to avoid any of the debris surrounding the building, he picked his way through the rubble that littered his path.
Carrying the duffle that held his crime scene kit, he rounded the corner, entered the warehouse, and stopped short. A small smile spread across his face. “Well, if you’re here, why the fuck am I? Someone said this was a homicide.”
Sean McBride’s head snapped up. “About time you showed up, King.” His best friend of damn near thirty years stood and carefully backed away from whatever he studied on the wall. The latex gloves Sean wore snapped off and Brock was enveloped in a hug a heartbeat later. “How have you been, man?”
“Not bad. How’re your mom and dad?” He slapped Sean’s back a couple times before they broke apart. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, feeling more than a little guilty about not going home lately. He hadn’t been by to see his parents or Colm and Sharon McBride in far too long. Life had a way of becoming complicated, busy, and downright unpleasant. It was the unpleasant he tried to keep from his family and friends, though they were well acquainted with life in law enforcement.
“They’re good. Hey, did you hear Rory and Erin are getting out of the military?” Sean mimicked Brock’s position as they stared at the dead body.
Neighbors their entire life, the King and McBride clans were practically family. Erin and Rory were Sean’s younger brother and sister. Twins. It seemed to be a rite of passage in both families that almost all the children had served in the armed forces. “No. I hadn't heard. Are they coming home, or are they spreading their wings and conquering the world outside of Hope City?”
“Not sure yet. Mom just told me Erin had put in her paperwork. We knew about Rory getting out last month. We need to have dinner and drinks and catch up—” Sean motioned to the dead body not more than fifteen feet from them “—but I think both of us may be busy for the foreseeable future.”
The dead body they stared at was the reason he’d been called from his warm, seldom used bed. The victim wasn’t the toasted remnants of a homeless person trying to stay warm. The man in front of them wore designer clothes. Barely a scratch marred the soles of his shoes, although there were a few tiny scuffs on the toes. His hair was styled with product. The slacks he wore were obviously expensive. The fall of blood from the man’s severed neck coated the front of the man's chest, a stark difference from the pristine white of the shirt's sleeves and cuffs. That material shimmered in the headlights of the patrol cars and the temporary lighting Sean had set up by the scorched wall.
Brock took out the pair of latex gloves he carried in his jacket pocket. He set his duffle down and filled his jacket pockets with what he would need before he snapped the latex barrier over his hands. He bent down to get at eye level with his victim. A gaping wound, deep with straight edges. Powerful person... unless they were hopped up on drugs, or hell, in a fit of rage, but he’d state with confidence this wasn't a tentative hack job. The angle of the cut was hauntingly familiar. He'd seen several of these types of wounds during his deployments overseas when his team