Special Investigations owned that city block and would control it for as long as they pleased. Rook, who liked Montrose and knew how much the captain meant to Nikki, had wanted to come along for support, but she said no. She knew what it would be like. Immediates only. And she was right. Even Heat and Roach had to park outside the yellow tape and walk; that’s how tight that crime scene was. The press called Nikki’s name as she passed, but she kept her eyes front, ignoring them—especially Tam Svejda, who hopped sideways along the no-go line, shouldering her way between reporters and making desperate pleas for a comment.
There was a lull in the precipitation, but the afternoon sky hung low and sullen. The three detectives strode wordlessly, crunching over pellets of sidewalk salt toward the middle of 85th, where strobes were flashing in front of the rectory of Our Lady of the Innocents.
Nikki recognized the shooting suits from the castle. The pair clocked her as she approached, gave a nod, then went back to their business. Heat had never seen these two before in her life, and now here they were again, crossing paths the second time that same day.
Montrose’s Crown Victoria sat parked in front of a fire hydrant and was ringed by portable isolation barriers of white plastic sheeting stretched on aluminum frames. Nikki stopped on the sidewalk a car length away, not knowing if she had it in her to proceed. Cameras inside the barrier flashed like lightning punching against the gloom. “We can do this, if you’d rather,” said Ochoa. She turned and saw the sadness behind his cop mask. Beside him, the skin around his partner Raley’s lips was white from pressing them together so hard.
Nikki did what she had done so often on this job. She put on her armor. There was a switch inside her, the one that sealed off her vulnerability, like triggering a fire door in the Met. For the space of one long breath, which was all it took, she made the silent acknowledgment she always made to honor the victim she was about to meet, threw the switch, and she was ready. Detective Heat said, “Let’s go,” and entered the crime scene.
The first thing she took in was the quarter inch of ice and frozen slush coating the entire top of the car, notable because there was a clear circular patch about the size of a DVD on the roof above the driver’s seat. Raising herself up on her toes, she saw the dimple of the bullet’s exit point. She bent forward to look through the back window, but it was like trying to see through a shower door. Then the shooter from Forensics took another picture inside the car, and the slumped body formed a horror movie silhouette.
“Single head shot,” said the voice. Nikki rose up and turned from the rear window, and one of the suits, Neihaus, was on the curb with his pad.
“You have positive ID this is Captain Charles Montrose?” was the first thing she said. When he nodded, she asked Neihaus to say it. “You’re absolutely certain Charles Montrose is the victim?”
“Yes, I have matched him to his ID. But speaking of, you knew him, right?” He tilted his head toward the open passenger door, and she felt her stomach swim. “Going to need confirmation, you know that.”
“That’s him.” Detective Ochoa rose up from his crouch at the open car door and walked back toward them. He showed his palms to Nikki and shook his head slightly, signaling Don’t. And for the hundreds of victims she had seen in the hundreds of awful ways people can die and what it does to their bodies, and for the traumatic day she had had already, Nikki decided there was no point testing her armor.
“Thank you, Detective,” she said in a formal tone.
“No problem.” His face said anything but.