Read Online Bodies in Winter by Robert Knightly - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Knightly
Ads: Link
of the locker room and stood by the edge of an empty pool fourteen hours after the murder of David Lodge. The air around me, cool enough to produce goose bumps, was saturated with humidity and the odor of chlorine. Though itâd been years since Iâd loosened up before a workout, I hesitated long enough to draw a few deep breaths, gradually expanding my lungs. Then I dove into the water and began to swim.
For the first few laps, as the muscles of my shoulders and back gradually stretched out, I didnât think about much of anything. The water flowed over my face and body, holding me in an embrace at once tender and distinctly sexual. The sensations were luxurious, as always, and I basked in them, knowing they came with no strings attached. This was purely for me, purely about me. This was mine.
Still, I knew where my thoughts were headed once I settled into a steady grind. In the army, Iâd learned to smell trouble coming, to avoid it. No confrontations, especially with officers, that was the name of the game. And that meant no black-market bullshit, no cigarettes smuggled off the base, no drunken brawls, no pregnant frauleins .
When I became a cop, it was more of the same. Be where youâre supposed to be and donât jam up the sergeant. Write your traffic tickets, twenty-five parkers and five movers, every month without fail. Make certain that your monthly activity reports are complete and current.
Bottom line: not being a pain in the ass to my superiors on the chain of command worked for me. I pretty much had the ordinary life I wanted. Maybe it was a bachelorâs life, untrusting and sometimes lonely, but half the kids I hung with in my adolescence had been to prison, and not a few of them were dead. So if my glass was a few inches short of full, I wasnât complaining.
The red stripe beneath me never shifted when I got down to business. The pull of the right and left sides of my body remained in sync even as I admitted that a new element had entered my ordinary life. I needed to examine that element and I decided that I would. As soon as I figured out what it was.
But I was sure about one thing. Lodgeâs face had been plastered all over the evening news and wasnât likely to disappear anytime soon. The press would be watching the investigation; the bosses, too. When it comes to protecting the job, the big dogs at the Puzzle Palace are all white knights. And all willing to sacrifice a peasant or two, if thatâs what it takes.
I rechecked my position as I kicked out of a turn. By then, I was at the peak of my strength, in a swimmerâs high, my body running on full automatic. When my hands cut the water, I felt as if I was about to yank the other side of the pool toward me. An illusion, naturally, like the powerful sense that I could go on forever. Iâd get tired soon enough, at which point the far end of the pool would shift into full retreat, growing more distant with every turn.
Methodically, I reviewed the dayâs events, evoking a series of images beginning with the body of David Lodge sprawled on the frozen ground and finishing with Detective Linus Potterâs nasty smile when he told me that Tony Szarek, the Broom, was dead. It was all so convenient: the ski masks, the river of brass, the carefully aimed coup de grace , the double-parked Toyota, the forbidding TEC-9, the widowâs evasive answers. Every element led toward DuWayne Spott.
Iâd come up against staged murder scenes a few times in the past. In each of those cases, the staging was an afterthought, a coda to a rage-motivated attack. The Lodge scene was a lot more elaborate. Clearly the scenario had been planned in advance. Just as clearly, it hadnât been planned by DuWayne Spott. The purpose of staging is to lead investigators away from the guilty party or parties, not toward them.
So what did all this mean to me? I was climbing out of the pool, a half-hour later, when I finally decided
For the first few laps, as the muscles of my shoulders and back gradually stretched out, I didnât think about much of anything. The water flowed over my face and body, holding me in an embrace at once tender and distinctly sexual. The sensations were luxurious, as always, and I basked in them, knowing they came with no strings attached. This was purely for me, purely about me. This was mine.
Still, I knew where my thoughts were headed once I settled into a steady grind. In the army, Iâd learned to smell trouble coming, to avoid it. No confrontations, especially with officers, that was the name of the game. And that meant no black-market bullshit, no cigarettes smuggled off the base, no drunken brawls, no pregnant frauleins .
When I became a cop, it was more of the same. Be where youâre supposed to be and donât jam up the sergeant. Write your traffic tickets, twenty-five parkers and five movers, every month without fail. Make certain that your monthly activity reports are complete and current.
Bottom line: not being a pain in the ass to my superiors on the chain of command worked for me. I pretty much had the ordinary life I wanted. Maybe it was a bachelorâs life, untrusting and sometimes lonely, but half the kids I hung with in my adolescence had been to prison, and not a few of them were dead. So if my glass was a few inches short of full, I wasnât complaining.
The red stripe beneath me never shifted when I got down to business. The pull of the right and left sides of my body remained in sync even as I admitted that a new element had entered my ordinary life. I needed to examine that element and I decided that I would. As soon as I figured out what it was.
But I was sure about one thing. Lodgeâs face had been plastered all over the evening news and wasnât likely to disappear anytime soon. The press would be watching the investigation; the bosses, too. When it comes to protecting the job, the big dogs at the Puzzle Palace are all white knights. And all willing to sacrifice a peasant or two, if thatâs what it takes.
I rechecked my position as I kicked out of a turn. By then, I was at the peak of my strength, in a swimmerâs high, my body running on full automatic. When my hands cut the water, I felt as if I was about to yank the other side of the pool toward me. An illusion, naturally, like the powerful sense that I could go on forever. Iâd get tired soon enough, at which point the far end of the pool would shift into full retreat, growing more distant with every turn.
Methodically, I reviewed the dayâs events, evoking a series of images beginning with the body of David Lodge sprawled on the frozen ground and finishing with Detective Linus Potterâs nasty smile when he told me that Tony Szarek, the Broom, was dead. It was all so convenient: the ski masks, the river of brass, the carefully aimed coup de grace , the double-parked Toyota, the forbidding TEC-9, the widowâs evasive answers. Every element led toward DuWayne Spott.
Iâd come up against staged murder scenes a few times in the past. In each of those cases, the staging was an afterthought, a coda to a rage-motivated attack. The Lodge scene was a lot more elaborate. Clearly the scenario had been planned in advance. Just as clearly, it hadnât been planned by DuWayne Spott. The purpose of staging is to lead investigators away from the guilty party or parties, not toward them.
So what did all this mean to me? I was climbing out of the pool, a half-hour later, when I finally decided
Similar Books
