From what Kane could see, someone had taken their time hacking at the dead man’s body… a very angry, very determined someone with a jagged knife.
Kane took his phone and dialed Emergency as he kept watch on the dead man’s body and the closed door he assumed led to the warehouse.
“Hey, Dispatch? This is Inspector Kane Morgan out of Personal Crimes. I need you to send a couple of cars to….” He glanced out of the garage and read off the cross street to the cul-de-sac. “I’ve got a DB. Yeah, it’s a bad one. I need to check the residence. I’m going to do a welfare check on the guy that lives here.”
As if on cue, the door opened and the young man he yelled at a few days ago stepped into the garage. Splashes of water and bubbles turned his thin white T-shirt nearly transparent, and the man’s dark nipples peaked from the cold air when it hit the wet fabric. Coming around the car’s trunk towards the driver’s side, the young man seemed about to tear into Kane when he spotted the slaughter in the GTO’s interior and froze in shock.
“What did you do?” He gasped at Kane.
The sight of Kane’s gun seemed to shake him up, and he stumbled, still stricken with alarm. His fall was a graceful wreck, as if his body refused to respond as it should, and the young man tumbled, tangled into a broken heap on cold cement.
Kane’s gut twisted in response to the young man’s horrified mewl. Putting away his gun, he strode across the floor. He bent over the man to help him up, and the younger man flinched, drawing back from Kane’s hand. His hazel eyes darted from the dead man’s body up to Kane’s face, worry and fear flitting over his pretty features before falling away under a fierce glare.
“Did you… do that? Did you kill Shing?” His voice was thick, rough with emotion, as he accused Kane of murder.
“I was about to ask you the same question.” Kane held up his badge and offered his hand again. The man’s clothes were clean of blood splatter but that didn’t mean he didn’t change them before coming back outside. It was the horror on his face that partially convinced Kane of the young man’s innocence. That and the slightly green flush forming around his cheeks and mouth. To his knowledge, most killers didn’t spontaneously throw up when they spotted their handiwork again. “Inspector Kane Morgan, SFPD. Let’s get you on your feet. Do I need to call you a medic?”
The young man shook his head and tried standing up, but his right leg gave out and he flailed. Muttering to himself, he attempted it again with little result. “Shit. This is fucking… insane. I can’t—”
“Grab my hand,” Kane insisted. “We need to get you out of the garage. I called dispatch. You can’t be here while Forensics does its work.”
The man’s fingers were ice cold, more from shock than water, and he trembled as he wrapped his hand around Kane’s. Up close, he smelled of cloves and soap with a faint underlying hint of tea and chilies. Kane had thought he was too skinny before, and the light weight of the young man against his arm didn’t do anything to change his mind. The trapped, fearful look in the man’s wide eyes made Kane want to wrap him up in a blanket to tuck him away before any other cops arrived, but the feral hardness of his full mouth gave Kane pause. The man didn’t need protection, certainly not from anyone except maybe himself.
It’d taken him long enough, but Kane finally recognized the dog’s owner. The first time he’d seen the man, he’d been plastered up on one of his sister’s bedroom walls, wearing leather pants and a come-fuck-me snarl. Several of the man’s CDs were in Kane’s truck, and he sometimes popped them in when he needed a good kick of bluesy rock to keep him awake after a long night.
“Son of a bitch, you’re Miki St. John.” Kane whistled. “You’re the singer from Sinner’s Gin.”
From the expression on St. John’s face, someone would have thought Kane had kicked him in the balls. The man recoiled, sliding away from Kane. He slid along the wall, still unable to hold himself up on his right leg, but he didn’t appear to care. If anything, Kane recognizing him seemed to drive him back into the house.
Not the typical reaction Kane expected from a musician, even one who’d disappeared off the face of the earth. Then St. John turned violently green, and the man’s fears were the farthest thing from Kane’s mind.
“Don’t throw up in here,” Kane ordered. “Turn your head. Aim for inside the house if you’re going to do it.”
Shock bled the man’s skin to a deathly white, so the sickness taking him over was a quick wave of cold sweats and ashen pallor. Shaking, St. John bent over and heaved. Kane grabbed at him, trying to drag him out of the garage so he didn’t ruin any evidence, but it was too late. He retched, losing everything he had in his stomach.