And down at the station, with Carlos, he’d seen videos more horrible than anything ever concocted by the minds of filmmakers. Photos taken after traffic fatalities. Most of them accidents caused by alcohol.
In the process of it all, he met others Carlos could have arrested and sent to prison for long years of their lives but hadn’t.
He’d gambled.
And his bet had paid off.
Jake had been about to leave, having earned the grades good enough to get him into almost any college in the country. He’d been accepted to his father’s alma mater, Harvard.
He hadn’t gone.
Once again, his mother had cried and his father had yelled. But he’d loved his parents, and they’d loved him. In the end, they’d accepted his decision to stay home, take criminology at the local college and apply to the force.
He’d never regretted it, not once. And even his father had been proud of him. No one had been more congratulatory when he had been promoted to detective. He’d known he’d wanted to work homicide because of Carlos. Not because Carlos had worked homicide, but because, while still in college, he’d been with Carlos one day when he had suddenly veered over to the side of the road. He’d spotted a body in a field.
“Shouldn’t you call it in?” Jake had asked. “You’re off duty.”
“I’ll be calling it in, as soon as I know what we’ve got, and as soon as I’ve secured the scene. And a cop is never really off duty, Jake. You know that.”
Carlos was pretty damned amazing, and that was something Jake did know. He wouldn’t ever have noticed the prone figure, inert and shielded by long grass and carelessly tossed garbage, soda cans and beer bottles.
Carlos had an eye. He assured Jake that, with a little experience, he would have that eye himself.
That afternoon, Carlos had called in the information as soon as he had determined that the victim was stone cold, beyond help.
The guy had looked like an old itinerant or a drunk. At the time, Jake had seen nothing to suggest foul play. Of course, he’d kept his distance, too, because Carlos hadn’t been about to let anyone taint what might be a crime scene.
Later, when the detectives and crime scene people had arrived, Jake and Carlos watched them work. Carlos had remarked quietly then that he’d been certain right away—gut instinct—that the man had met with foul play. He was dead, silenced, no longer able to speak for himself. And yet, always, the dead, in that terrible silence, cried out for justice. Their fellow men owed them that justice. The cops and the medical examiners were all they had left. And even if the victim had been an old drunk, he deserved the same attention as any other human being.
It turned out that he had been a migrant worker and that he had been murdered. The detective on the case had it solved within a matter of weeks—mainly because Carlos had been so careful at the scene of the crime. His yellow tape had preserved footprints that had led to the arrest of a middle-aged thug who had killed the old man for the fifty dollars in his pockets.
Since that day, Jake had wanted to be in homicide. It had seemed like an important role in life—being the champion of the dead.
His decision, and his effort to reach his goal, had drawn him closer than ever to his father, who had always played the devil’s advocate, telling him how a good attorney could make mincemeat out of evidence if it wasn’t collected properly.
There had been more to the idea of moving into homicide. Not just to weep for the dead, or even to be their spokesman. With every year of experience, he realized that his most important role was to stop a killer before he or she could claim more victims. He and his fellow officers worked many cases that turned out to be domestic—husbands, ex-husbands, wives, lovers, killing in passion. Guns and knives were the prevalent weapons in cases like that. Then, of course, there were the little ones, kids brutalized by their parents or trusted caregivers. Those were hard to deal with. He’d never met a cop who could just blink and call it business when he or she was called to handle the death of a child.
But there were also cases that weren’t crimes of passion, anger or jealousy. There were psychopaths in the world who killed because it gave them a rush. And there were also those who killed because they thought themselves superior, who appeared to be totally sane, to whom murder was a calculated risk. There were those who killed for pleasure, for sport and for personal gain.
He had handled many of those, as well. He’d done so professionally, not letting anger, pain, pity or disgust get in the way of his sworn duty.
This particular case, though, was so damned acrid he could taste it on his tongue.
So damned painful and bitter.
He inhaled deeply, gaining control.
He knew damned well that he couldn’t let his emotions get out of control, nor could he visibly display them in any way—he would even have to be careful with Marty. He didn’t want to be pulled from this case.
“Did you finish up the paperwork on the Trena case?” Marty asked.