Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) Brian Shea (black authors fiction txt) 📖

read Kelly's body language and was calling him out on it. There were two takeaways from that comment. Langston could read people, a sign of an excellent investigator. And he spoke his mind, which meant he was not a politician. Kelly dismissed the agent's chiding. "Not really."

"Detectives, why don't you get back to work?" Halstead said.

Acevedo stepped away from the group. "Detective Kelly, can I see you for a moment?"

Kelly followed the senior officer out of earshot of the others.

"What the hell was that back there?" Acevedo demanded.

"I don't know. I don't want to get sidelined on this one."

"Look, everything can't be personal to you. You understand me? They're here doing their job. I'd rather have our guys handling this too, but you know that's not the way these things work. Plus, we're going to need to throw every resource at this thing if we're planning on catching whoever's responsible. The FBI brings a lot to the table in that regard. You've been doing this job long enough to know better. Consider this your only warning."

Acevedo leaned in closer to Kelly. He could smell the coffee on his breath. "Get your head out of your ass, Kelly. Now get to work. And don't let me have this conversation with you again or you will find yourself banging parking tickets at Fenway."

Kelly took the tongue-lashing in stride. Acevedo turned to walk away and then said over his shoulder, "I meant what I said earlier. You and Barnes did a hell of a job today."

Kelly headed off toward the crime scene truck parked on the far side of the scene. As he neared the barricade separating the onlookers from the scene, he saw Hutchins’s familiar face. He looked as ragged as the rest of the first responders. His smile, normally etched across his face, was completely gone.

"Mikey, how are you holding up, buddy?"

"Been better."

"Me too. Hey, do you know who put that tourniquet on that guy who lost his leg?"

"It was me. Why?"

"He came to at the hospital for a moment and was asking. He wanted to thank you."

Kelly wasn't looking for any accolades. He was just happy the guy was still alive.

"Do you know who that guy was?"

"No idea."

"Clem Winslow."

"Is that name supposed to mean something to me? Who's Clem Winslow?"

"You never heard of him? He's big, like huge in the world of country music."

"No kidding."

"I was talking with one of the EMTs. Apparently, he was in town for a concert this weekend at The Garden.” The Boston Garden had changed hands several times since the original venue had been demolished in '95.

"Small world. Is he going to make it?"

"Looks that way. Thanks to you. Maybe he'll write a song about you?" Hutch's attempt at levity fell flat. "He told the docs at the hospital that he wants to thank you personally."

"That's going to have to wait." Kelly continued on to where Senior BPD Crime Scene Technician Raymond Charles's truck was parked. Charles was in the back, reloading his gear bag, when Kelly approached. "This is a mess, Ray."

"Tell me about it."

Charles's radio squawked. "Ray, we've got something." Kelly recognized the voice on the other end. It was Trent Dawes, Charles's protégé who'd earned the nickname “Freckles” from Mainelli a while back.

"What do you got?"

"Looks like part of the device."

"Okay. I'll be there in a second. Where'd you find it?" Charles asked into the radio.

"I didn't. Some lady with the ATF did."

6

After the evidence was collected and the scene released, Kelly and Barnes went back to her apartment to change out of their bloody clothes. Kelly opted to forgo the wash and threw his outer layer in the trash bin. Continuing from their short detour, they rode together to the warehouse on Boston Street where the crime scene was being recreated.

The gaudy blue building stuck out like a sore thumb in the South Boston business center at Andrew Square, a one-minute walk from Andrew Station, which was two stops away from the bomb site. FBI agents and technicians, supplemented by members of the Boston PD, scurried about like ants delivering bits of evidence.

The seven thousand square feet of open warehouse space was now littered with crime-scene debris. Tape was laid out in ten-by-ten squares, converting the floor into oversized grid paper that stretched in all directions. Evidence was placed in each of the assigned boxes. A frumpy woman with dark-rimmed glasses was overseeing the scene, barking orders to the technicians. If they were worker ants, she was the queen.

Care was taken to properly place the sealed evidence bags in the spot where they had been located on scene. It was an enormous undertaking. A technician was assigned to each marked ten-foot square to assist in the coordination. Each piece of evidence collected from the original scene was placed in its respective position corresponding to mapped distance from the recreated blast epicenter. The FBI had used aerial photography provided by a drone to support the recreation of the debris field.

Kelly stared at the replica, which was almost complete. Only the blood was missing. Even with the hot shower and change of clothes, he still felt it on him. Dried blood was caked into the creases of his hands. He absently picked a flake from the edge of his fingernail. Though he had scrubbed and scoured himself with a bristle brush, he still felt the remnants of the carnage, and knew he always would. Traumatic events, regardless of circumstance, left their mark. In Kelly's lifetime he had built up a thick layer of the invisible taint. He referred to it as mental plaque, the decay coating the mind after enduring a traumatic event. The weight of this morning's events added to his buildup. Layered on too thick, and over too long a period of time, it rotted the brain completely, like a cavity.

He'd seen good cops go bad. He'd seen them take their lives. The life expectancy for some cops was greatly diminished by exposure to multiple traumas. Suicide and other health