Read Online Falling On the Sword by Alex Ankrom - Free Book Online

ONE
    Detective Gabriel Carter finished smoking his cigarette as he watched a fat wharf rat scurry across the sidewalk in front of him. He burnt the cherry down so close to the filter that it started to singe his fingertips. He flicked the butt at the vermin; it glanced off the rodent’s large body. The animal shook the ash from its fur and got up on its hind legs. It stared at Carter and chattered at him.
    He shook his head. “Yeah, fuck you too.”
    He was about a block away from the scene of the crime. He had a clear view of the pandemonium. News vans from all the local major networks were butted against black and white Philadelphia PD cruisers. Reporters and cameramen were held back from the apartment building by a long, thin wisp of yellow police tape. A larger group, resembling a mosh-pit, jammed in behind them. They all pushed and pulled and got on their tip-toes, trying to get a better view of the meat-wagon resting next to the patrol cars with its rear door open. This wasn’t the normal sight at a murder especially in a city that had seen as much blood as Philadelphia had. This was something bigger, and already Carter felt the headache forming behind his eyes. It was going to be a long night.
    Carter slid the hood of his black sweatshirt over his bald head as he walked toward the massive group of civilians, looking at the ground, scanning for any kind of evidence that the officers wouldn’t even think to look for, but nothing jumped out at him. When he reached the edge of the war zone, he pushed his way through the rubber-neckers and ducked under the wavering strip. The news-people didn’t bother to shout questions at him, even as he headed toward the front entrance.
    A black patrolman named Watson nodded his head. “Hey, Carter.”
    “ Yo.” Carter changed direction and walked toward him.
    “ You got a light?” He held up a pack, shook one free, and clinched it in his teeth.
    Carter fished through his right hip pocket, until he felt the cool, metallic Zippo. He pulled it out and tossed it to him.
    “ Thanks,” Watson said as he caught it in both hands. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped open the hood, sparked a flame, and dipped the cigarette’s tip into it. He took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke high over his head. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”
    “ Phone was playing my song.” Carter shrugged. “Locke left a message. Said she picked up a call. Though I told her not to. Same shit different day, huh? Just another day in Killadelphia.”
    Watson cocked his head to the left and furrowed his brow.
    “ Yeah, I know. Back when I was walking the beat. My TO showed me this tag on the Commodore Barry Bridge: ‘Welcome to Killadelphia. Good Luck.’”
    “ That’s a little clever.”
    “ Yeah, the fucking hoppers have their moments. So, no bullshit, what kind of cluster fuck do I got waiting for me in there?”
    “ Well, we got a call of shots-fired at around eighty-thirty. But guy was ten-seven when I got here.”
    Carter arched an eyebrow and shook his head. Ten-seven referred to police radio code for unit out of service, or a disrespectful way refer to a dead body. Carter scanned the crowd from his new vantage point. The flashing blue lights reflecting off their faces made them look as though they were overgrown Smurfs. The uniforms did what they could to hold them back, while reporters tried to coax any sort of sound bite. One of the prettier television anchors with a multi-cultural-hyphenated-last-name flirted with an officer too green to know better.
    “ Shit man, I’m sorry. I know you don’t like hearing that.”
    “ It’s okay. Whatever helps you through the day, right? Just don’t let one of those reporters hear you say it. This a big one?”
    “ Yeah.”
    “ You the first on the scene?”
    “ Naw man, that was Kramer. He’s still up there, holding down the scene.”
    “ Any witnesses?”
    “ No,” Watson said. “But we got two suspects stewing