Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Two

Exactly how should a homicide detective walk off of a crime scene he's just been thrown out of? Too fast, stomping off like a runway model, would shout an unmistakable, "My pride is injured and I shit on you all," to any lingering bosses—and the brass were lingering, no doubt about it. Too slow, head down like a whipped dog, said, "I deserve every bit of the profound humiliation you've just given me." John had no desire to telegraph that, either.

He opted to pretend he'd forgotten something in the car, and made himself unclench his teeth and saunter on past, as if his pen really had run out of ink or he really did need a clean pair of rubber gloves, and his chance to solve a very important case—and pay his debt to the man who had put him in the position to do so in the first place—hadn't just been taken away by none other than the Richmond City Chief of Police.

The scene around him crawled with yet more police. With all the dark blue uniforms and dark suits, his formerly quiet little clearing on the shore was starting to resemble a kicked anthill.

Six fresh patrol officers thundered down the path, slowing to cross its rocky shoulder. John glimpsed his old patrol sergeant, who glanced at him and cut his eyes away. Voices shouted over voices as Sarge directed patrol where to string up more yellow tape, and where to move four other newsmen with notepads who'd materialized out of the gloom.

"Can you tell us the identity of the victim?"

"Is there any suggestion of a motive?"

"Gentlemen, our media liaison will respond to all questions, if you all will follow us."

Ever since—while working as part of a street narcotics team—John had taken an evening course in homicide investigation that Pride had taught, he'd had his moments of fantasizing being the primary in a major, major  case like this. But his former daydreams of acing a case like this one, directing the investigation, making a reputation as good as Pride's, felt small now. Traitorous, even, when the victim was Pride.

The new bodies split into two rivers of uniformed ants, streaming in opposite directions, as John strode down the path. Two gleaming dark sedans stopped right in the middle of the path and disgorged two men each. One pair wore ATF jackets; the other wore the familiar yellow letters: FBI. They marched past John on their way to the brass as if he weren't there. The patrol officers surrounded their quarries and swept the four newspapermen up the hill like prized morsels back to the anthill. Up the path six more officers surrounded three news cameras and three TV reporters.

But John had worked one other case this big, and he knew that you didn't have to be the primary to crack it. You only had to dig deep enough in the right places. Phone records was a plum assignment, one that often outed a murderer. If John could get himself off the island.

Instead, he found himself wilting along with the uniformed recruits, sweltering in the Richmond humidity and the misty drizzle. The tinny whine of a mosquito right in his ear sent involuntary shivers down his back. At least he could send the recruits to climb the steep paths all the way to the hilly top of the island.

The path to the eastern end of the island wound out of the cool forest and left the rapids behind. It crossed a wide expanse of grass under the Lee Bridge, where people came down off the foot bridge and turned right to go to the river, then passed an outside john and the doggie rest area, buzzing with flies, to head into the woods on the other side of the Lee Bridge.

The path grew skinny, twisted, more sandy and veined with tree roots; it led through woods that grew taller and closer, until it emerged to a strange sight. On this side of the river, untouched marshland sent serpentine tree trunks and tall reeds and cattails out to meet the water. Geese honked and great blue herons flew overhead. The trail might have actually emerged centuries back, into those Civil War and Indian times the tourist placards told about.