Sin City Homicide

22

Alma Parr’s Mustang screeched to a stop outside the home with the police tape around the front door. The normally quiet neighborhood was filled with families, couples, and single men and women from the middle class, looking to get away from the glitz of the strip and the casinos. Of all the filthy places in this town where this could have happened, it had to happen here.

He got out of the car, made his way past three cruisers, and ducked underneath the police tape to get into the house. He glanced back once to see if anybody was watching. He saw only a handful of people out on their patios. The house was filled with uniforms. Some were actually working, but most were chatting, laughing, and talking about unrelated things. They made him sick.

He walked into a crowd of six or so officers and barked, “Get to work or get the fuck outta this house.”

They dispersed, and he found the stairs leading to the basement. The atmosphere was much calmer downstairs, where forensics techs were already dusting for latent prints. One of the techs, whom Parr knew as a fiber expert, was on his hands and knees, brushing through the carpet with a little comb. When he found something of interest, he pulled out a little plastic baggie, placed his specimen inside, and went back to brushing.

There was also someone else Parr didn’t recognize; he had no uniform or badge.

“Can I help you?” Parr asked him.

“Oh, hi. I’m Preston Holbrook from the Sun.”

“Well, Preston Holbrook from the Sun, you’re in my fucking crime scene.” He looked around. “Who let a fucking reporter into my crime scene?” he shouted.

The room went quiet. No one dared to speak or look around. Everyone pretended to be busy. Parr turned back to Holbrook.

“I know you fuckers got people inside my department. They give you the hot tips, and you get ’em some cash or hookers or basketball tickets. You corrupt good men, trying to get by with the promise of money and pussy. Am I right?” he said with a smile.

The reporter, seemingly uncertain if Parr was joking or serious, just smiled awkwardly. “Um, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Parr placed his hand on the back of Holbrook’s neck, the smile still on his face. He squeezed tightly and pulled him near. “You’re gonna tell me who your source was.”

“You’re kidding, right? There’s no way I’m saying anything. And get your fucking hands off me, or you’ll be getting a call from my lawyer.”

Smiling, Parr nodded and slammed his elbow into Holbrook’s face. The reporter flew off his feet and onto his back. “You guys see him assault me?” Parr said. “I think he’s drunk. Better take him to the tank and let him sleep it off. Don’t let him out until I come see him tomorrow.”

A couple of the uniforms glanced at each other, helped Holbrook to his feet, and led him up the stairs.

“He’s over here, Captain.”

Parr turned towards the voice and spotted Javier and Jay. They were standing off to the side in a bedroom. The room was empty except for a large chest, a bed, and a dresser. Parr walked in and stood in front of the chest.

“We didn’t want to bag him until you got here.”

Parr slipped on latex gloves. One of the forensic techs in the room looked about to say something but caught himself. Parr glanced back at him. He averted his gaze and walked out of the room. The nerds bugged Parr. They weren’t cops, and they never had to deal with victims or the late-night hospital and morgue visits, but ever since that damned TV show, they acted as if they ran the police force.

Parr lifted the lid of the chest. Inside, a body was curled into a ball. The wound on the back of the man’s head looked like a gunshot wound, but there was too much hair in the way to see for sure. Parr knew who it was and didn’t have to check, but he did anyway. He tilted the head to get a clear look. It was Marty Scheffield.

“What the fuck happened?” he said, to no one in particular.

“We don’t know,” Javier replied. “The assistant from the ME’s office thinks he’s been dead for two days but only recently stuffed in there. They’re not sure yet. They gotta do the autopsy.”

Parr stood up. “Why would anybody do this to him? He had no enemies. He never hurt nobody.”

Jay said, “I know. I’m sorry. I know you liked him.”

Parr gazed off into space for a few moments then said, “Did we find Stanton?”

“No, but a neighbor in the back reported seeing two men earlier in the day. One wearing a ski mask and the other chasing after him. Description of the pursuer matches Stanton.”

“And the neighbor didn’t call it in?”

“No. They said they didn’t want to get involved.”

“Oh, they’re fucking involved now. Get their asses to the station. If they resist, tell them they’re suspects and it’s better they cooperate. Arrest ’em if they still cause a fuss.”

“I’m on it.”

“And, Jay, better cancel that trip to San Diego. I need you here.”

“You got it.”

Parr turned back to the chest. He had known Marty more than a decade. Marty had helped bring him onto the force. He’d been Parr’s sergeant when he’d first started. Marty had come to his house when his wife left him, since he had nowhere else to go. Parr had helped Marty relearn how to read and write after his accident.

Parr decided he wasn’t giving the killer the chance to get away with it. If Jon Stanton was in any way responsible for this, he would not be leaving Las Vegas alive.