vehicle to try and catch them.
“Let’s go!” he screamed. Whatever men were left alive loaded into the trucks, and they drove out of there. Spazo tore after the car ahead of him. As he drove down the street in the same direction as Mr. Y.’s men, he lost control and smashed his truck into a pole. He hadn’t seen the small car that was parked on the corner. He nearly ran over it. The truck hit a pole and was demolished. The other truck stopped and picked up Spazo and the remaining men.
“Fuck this shit!” Spazo said. “Go down that block; now make a right, now a left.” They were searching frantically but could not spot the car. He said, “Shit! Let’s head back to the lab.”
The police began to arrive as the men were leaving the area. Sirens wailed in the background. The local police had never experienced anything of this magnitude in their small town, so they had to call in the FBI. When they heard the address of where the incident had occurred, they automatically knew who lived there. There were bodies all over the lawn, big, blue barrels tipped over inside and outside of the house, and two bodies covered in flour in the bedroom.
“The Santoro family? Wow!” said Special Investigator Hunter. George Hunter was the kind of agent who didn’t say things twice, and if he had to tell a person something more than once, that person wished he hadn’t.
“Well, well,” he said. He was the head of the FBI’s organized-crime division. “I think we have a genuine war going on in our own backyard, agents. Listen up! I am Special Investigator George Hunter of the FBI,” he declared, holding his credentials high in the air. “Out here I see too many police officers. So I say this to you: if I don’t know your name, then you may be in the wrong area. Kindly remove yourself from here and stop fucking up my crime scene! You are fucking idiots.”
Everybody stopped for a minute and just looked. “Move!” he screamed and all the officers hurried and moved out of the way. His team loved the obedience. They just knew that he was going to do it.
Scene contamination happened at every scene and Hunter hated that. He continued. “Now that we got the dumbasses out of the way, let’s get to work. We all know what to do.”
The team spread out around the crime scene, from the lawn to the sidewalks, snapping pictures of the men and the scene.
Agent Hunter was an older gentleman and had a short, gray afro. He was a light-skin, smooth, older black man, and he was the best in the country at what he did. He would stand in the middle of the crime scene, light his cigar, and turn slowly. In his mind, he could see the whole scene play out.
He walked in the direction of the dead black gunmen. He looked down and saw the screech marks from the two large vehicles. He could see the men fall down across the lawn. It appeared as though they were caught off guard. Some of the men were struck in the back and sides. “Hmmm…” he said to himself.
Then he traveled across the lawn, where he saw several shots flying from every direction. “Wow!” he said. “It was a real, live war going on out here!”
Within a matter of seconds, he had all the information that he needed, but, as usual, he waited to see what extra evidence his team might come up with.
“Hey, Hunter,” one of the men called out. He held up the wrist of one of the dead men. It had the letter Y on it.
“Fuck!” he yelled upon seeing the mark on the man’s wrist.
After going over the scene for a couple of hours, the mobile offices arrived. They were setting up shop right there in the neighborhood.
When the local police saw the trailer that he had brought in, they were stunned. The inside of the trailer looked better than some of their houses did. It had everything from computers to a private office for Hunter, as well as a mini cafeteria, with a guy who was making lunch for them. They never really used the office, but with a case this big, they couldn’t
“Let’s go!” he screamed. Whatever men were left alive loaded into the trucks, and they drove out of there. Spazo tore after the car ahead of him. As he drove down the street in the same direction as Mr. Y.’s men, he lost control and smashed his truck into a pole. He hadn’t seen the small car that was parked on the corner. He nearly ran over it. The truck hit a pole and was demolished. The other truck stopped and picked up Spazo and the remaining men.
“Fuck this shit!” Spazo said. “Go down that block; now make a right, now a left.” They were searching frantically but could not spot the car. He said, “Shit! Let’s head back to the lab.”
The police began to arrive as the men were leaving the area. Sirens wailed in the background. The local police had never experienced anything of this magnitude in their small town, so they had to call in the FBI. When they heard the address of where the incident had occurred, they automatically knew who lived there. There were bodies all over the lawn, big, blue barrels tipped over inside and outside of the house, and two bodies covered in flour in the bedroom.
“The Santoro family? Wow!” said Special Investigator Hunter. George Hunter was the kind of agent who didn’t say things twice, and if he had to tell a person something more than once, that person wished he hadn’t.
“Well, well,” he said. He was the head of the FBI’s organized-crime division. “I think we have a genuine war going on in our own backyard, agents. Listen up! I am Special Investigator George Hunter of the FBI,” he declared, holding his credentials high in the air. “Out here I see too many police officers. So I say this to you: if I don’t know your name, then you may be in the wrong area. Kindly remove yourself from here and stop fucking up my crime scene! You are fucking idiots.”
Everybody stopped for a minute and just looked. “Move!” he screamed and all the officers hurried and moved out of the way. His team loved the obedience. They just knew that he was going to do it.
Scene contamination happened at every scene and Hunter hated that. He continued. “Now that we got the dumbasses out of the way, let’s get to work. We all know what to do.”
The team spread out around the crime scene, from the lawn to the sidewalks, snapping pictures of the men and the scene.
Agent Hunter was an older gentleman and had a short, gray afro. He was a light-skin, smooth, older black man, and he was the best in the country at what he did. He would stand in the middle of the crime scene, light his cigar, and turn slowly. In his mind, he could see the whole scene play out.
He walked in the direction of the dead black gunmen. He looked down and saw the screech marks from the two large vehicles. He could see the men fall down across the lawn. It appeared as though they were caught off guard. Some of the men were struck in the back and sides. “Hmmm…” he said to himself.
Then he traveled across the lawn, where he saw several shots flying from every direction. “Wow!” he said. “It was a real, live war going on out here!”
Within a matter of seconds, he had all the information that he needed, but, as usual, he waited to see what extra evidence his team might come up with.
“Hey, Hunter,” one of the men called out. He held up the wrist of one of the dead men. It had the letter Y on it.
“Fuck!” he yelled upon seeing the mark on the man’s wrist.
After going over the scene for a couple of hours, the mobile offices arrived. They were setting up shop right there in the neighborhood.
When the local police saw the trailer that he had brought in, they were stunned. The inside of the trailer looked better than some of their houses did. It had everything from computers to a private office for Hunter, as well as a mini cafeteria, with a guy who was making lunch for them. They never really used the office, but with a case this big, they couldn’t
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