totally unexpected?
He thought he needed time to think, but then realized that he was walking across the courtyard, following the young patrolman, heading toward the entrance to Sophie Millstein’s apartment. He walked past the trumpeting cherub. The figurine was hit every few seconds with a shaft of red light, so that it appeared to be bathed in blood. He paused at the doorway, staring inside at the activity that seemed to energize the interior. He saw a man with a fingerprint case working the kitchen. Another was taking carpet samples. The young patrolman walked up to a wiry black man who was loosening his tie against the building, thick humidity of the room, gesturing toward Simon Winter. The old detective paused, waiting for the younger man to approach him. He studied the activity within the apartment. He clamped down hard on emotions that seemed to dash about headlessly within him, trying to concentrate, steadying himself with memory. You have been here many times before, he told himself. Process the scene. It will tell you everything, if only you take your time and let it converse in its own way, in its own voice, speaking in the ancient language of violent death.
For a moment he watched Simon Winter, and saw the way his eyes scoured the room. He mistook this attentiveness for nervousness. Walter Robinson turned to the uniformed officer who’d escorted the old man into the apartment.
‘So, what’s the geezer’s story?’ he asked.
‘Name is Winter, lives across the courtyard. Says he saw the deceased this evening. Probably the last person to see her before the breakin. Heard her lock herself into the
place. Thought you might want a statement.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Robinson replied. ‘Yeah. You take it.’
The patrolman nodded. ‘Maybe he could do the ID for us?’
Robinson considered this, and thought: why not?
‘Good idea.’ Making a short gesture, he and the patrolman walked over to Simon Winter. Walter Robinson quickly introduced himself as the detective in charge.
‘We’d like this patrolman to take your statement,’ he said to the old man. ‘And, if you’re willing, we’d like to have you make a tentative identification for us. If you’re up for it, of course. Just for paperwork, you know. And we like to be completely certain before we call the next of kin. But only if you’re willing. It’s not pretty…’
Simon Winter kept his eyes darting about, then finally turned and fixed them on the detective.
‘I’ve seen it all before,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’
‘I’ve seen it. Twenty-two years with the City of Miami Police Department. The last fifteen in homicide.’
‘You were a cop?’
‘That’s right. Retired. It’s been a while since I was at a crime scene. At least a dozen years.’
‘You’re not missing much,’ Robinson said.
‘That’s right,’ Winter said quietly. ‘I don’t miss much.’
Robinson ignored the double entendre, extended a hand, and they shook. The younger man did this out of a professional courtesy. ‘Things must have been different back then,’ he said.
‘No,’ Winter replied. ‘People die in much the same fashion. What was different was the science. We didn’t have a lot of the stuff you young guys have today. Scientific profiles. DNA testing. Computers. We didn’t have computers. Are you good with computers, Detective?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Think they can solve this crime?’
Robinson shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ Then, after thinking for an instant, he added, ‘More than likely.’
For a moment he watched Winter, whose eyes had once again started to sweep the crime scene, absorbing what he saw there. The young detective had two quick thoughts. First, that he wasn’t sure he liked Simon Winter, and second, that he was sure he didn’t want to end up an abrasive old man, retired to the Beach, existing on memories of years on the force. Dozens of killings, rapes, and assaults remembered in advanced age as the good old days. His mind
He thought he needed time to think, but then realized that he was walking across the courtyard, following the young patrolman, heading toward the entrance to Sophie Millstein’s apartment. He walked past the trumpeting cherub. The figurine was hit every few seconds with a shaft of red light, so that it appeared to be bathed in blood. He paused at the doorway, staring inside at the activity that seemed to energize the interior. He saw a man with a fingerprint case working the kitchen. Another was taking carpet samples. The young patrolman walked up to a wiry black man who was loosening his tie against the building, thick humidity of the room, gesturing toward Simon Winter. The old detective paused, waiting for the younger man to approach him. He studied the activity within the apartment. He clamped down hard on emotions that seemed to dash about headlessly within him, trying to concentrate, steadying himself with memory. You have been here many times before, he told himself. Process the scene. It will tell you everything, if only you take your time and let it converse in its own way, in its own voice, speaking in the ancient language of violent death.
For a moment he watched Simon Winter, and saw the way his eyes scoured the room. He mistook this attentiveness for nervousness. Walter Robinson turned to the uniformed officer who’d escorted the old man into the apartment.
‘So, what’s the geezer’s story?’ he asked.
‘Name is Winter, lives across the courtyard. Says he saw the deceased this evening. Probably the last person to see her before the breakin. Heard her lock herself into the
place. Thought you might want a statement.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Robinson replied. ‘Yeah. You take it.’
The patrolman nodded. ‘Maybe he could do the ID for us?’
Robinson considered this, and thought: why not?
‘Good idea.’ Making a short gesture, he and the patrolman walked over to Simon Winter. Walter Robinson quickly introduced himself as the detective in charge.
‘We’d like this patrolman to take your statement,’ he said to the old man. ‘And, if you’re willing, we’d like to have you make a tentative identification for us. If you’re up for it, of course. Just for paperwork, you know. And we like to be completely certain before we call the next of kin. But only if you’re willing. It’s not pretty…’
Simon Winter kept his eyes darting about, then finally turned and fixed them on the detective.
‘I’ve seen it all before,’ he said quietly.
‘What?’
‘I’ve seen it. Twenty-two years with the City of Miami Police Department. The last fifteen in homicide.’
‘You were a cop?’
‘That’s right. Retired. It’s been a while since I was at a crime scene. At least a dozen years.’
‘You’re not missing much,’ Robinson said.
‘That’s right,’ Winter said quietly. ‘I don’t miss much.’
Robinson ignored the double entendre, extended a hand, and they shook. The younger man did this out of a professional courtesy. ‘Things must have been different back then,’ he said.
‘No,’ Winter replied. ‘People die in much the same fashion. What was different was the science. We didn’t have a lot of the stuff you young guys have today. Scientific profiles. DNA testing. Computers. We didn’t have computers. Are you good with computers, Detective?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Think they can solve this crime?’
Robinson shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ Then, after thinking for an instant, he added, ‘More than likely.’
For a moment he watched Winter, whose eyes had once again started to sweep the crime scene, absorbing what he saw there. The young detective had two quick thoughts. First, that he wasn’t sure he liked Simon Winter, and second, that he was sure he didn’t want to end up an abrasive old man, retired to the Beach, existing on memories of years on the force. Dozens of killings, rapes, and assaults remembered in advanced age as the good old days. His mind
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