“According to the missing persons report, when Terrance didn’t come home on Sunday night, his grandmother got worried and went looking for him. She visited his regular haunts, including the Quick Mart on Route 1. The manager told her he saw Terrance about nine p.m. getting into a fancy white Lexus.”
His gaze remained on the kid as he absorbed details: faint thin whiskers on a smooth chin, a small diamond stud in his left ear, a shiny high school class ring on his right ring finger. “Did he get in willingly?”
“Manager told the grandmother the kid was grinning when he opened the car’s front passenger door.”
“Has anyone been to the store to get surveillance footage?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Sharp squatted by the boy’s body. The creek’s waters lapped against the victim’s shoes.
A sensible man avoided this kind of violence and death. The horror was too much to process for the rational mind. But he had a knack for dealing with it. His ability to lock his feelings away into a box allowed him to narrow his focus to the target or objective. Later, sometimes weeks after a grim death scene, the emotions might stir. They wanted to be acknowledged. But he never let them loose. When it became too much, he went to the gym and pounded on a punching bag until his body was drenched in sweat and he was huffing for air.
Fellow officers said he was made of ice. They called it a blessing. The shrinks called it compartmentalization. The second term warned of consequences, but good or bad, he couldn’t turn off this innate skill, which at times he considered a curse.
Sharp thought about the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He’d light up after he left the crime scene. “Who’s doing the forensic work-up?”
“Martin Thompson.”
“Good. Where is he?”
She glanced around and pointed. “Shooting pictures.” She raised her hand and caught Martin’s attention. “He’s headed this way.”
The victim’s hair looked as if it’d been cut recently. The jeans were new. The kid’s clothing suggested he’d taken time with his appearance, as if he’d expected to be out with friends or maybe on a date.
“Why the hell did he get in the car?” he asked, more to himself.
Riley shook her head. “Why do teenagers do half the stupid-ass things they do? Your guess is as good as mine.”
He’d been one hell of a daredevil as a teenager and at times run wild. If fate had shifted a fraction, maybe he’d have died young like this kid. But by some miracle he’d lived long enough for the marines to get ahold of him and channel his energy. Fortune had cut him a break, but it had cheated Kara and this kid.
“I preach to Hanna all the time about danger,” Riley said. “Her time on the streets and kidnapping taught her how bad it can be, so she thinks she has all the answers. I know she’s tuning me out when I’m on one of my rants about safety.”
He’d always figured Kara for smart. “Just keep reminding Hanna. You can’t do it enough.”
Sharp studied the fingers on the boy’s hand and noted the nails were crusted with dirt. His date-night-like attire didn’t fit with dirty nails. “When is the medical examiner’s office coming?”
“Soon. They’re short staffed,” Riley said.
“Aren’t we all?” The rejoinder came from Martin Thompson as he stepped forward. In his midforties, Martin was a slim man who wore a blue Windbreaker that read “State Police” on the back, khakis, and black boots. Martin ran the police forensic team in this part of the state.
“Can I inspect the body?” Sharp asked. “I want to look at the wound.”
“Sure, I’ve processed the evidence,” Martin said.
Sharp laid his hand on one of the victim’s before he lifted the folds of the jacket and searched the pockets. He found a rumpled bill, fifty-two cents in change, and a receipt from a convenience store. He also noted the blood staining the boy’s fingers. “Martin, do you have an approximate time of death?”
“Hard to say. It was thirty-one degrees the last two nights, so rigor mortis would have taken longer. If I had to give a rough guess, I’d say thirty-six hours at most.”
Sharp pushed up the bloodied T-shirt and inspected the knife wound cutting directly into the midsection. The wound was small, clean, and made with one neat jab. Judging by the injury and the dark blood, the blade had damaged the liver. There appeared to be no other marks or bruises on the kid.
He noticed the kid’s belt buckle had been dusted with black fingerprint powder. “Martin, you pulled the print?”
“It was only a partial, but it’s something.”
Sharp pushed up the sleeves but didn’t see signs of needle marks, and a check of the teeth found no signs of meth use.
“And the wallet was found on the body?”
“It was under the hands lying across his chest,” Riley said. “Makes me think the killer wanted the kid identified easily.”
“Any money in the wallet?”
“One dollar. According to the missing persons report, he’d received twenty dollars from his grandmother for his birthday,” Riley said. “He must have spent the rest before he died, but I’ve seen people killed for less.”
What the hell did you do, kid?
Sharp rolled the body on its side. “There’s no blood under or around the body.”
“He definitely wasn’t stabbed here,” Martin said. “If he had been, the bank and the surrounding soil would have been stained with his blood. He was dumped here.”
“Not dumped, but placed near water,” Sharp said more to himself.
“That’s my theory,” Martin said. “Wherever he was stabbed, he bled out and died within a minute. There’s a crime scene out there somewhere soaked in blood and hard to miss.”
“I’ve walked the area with Cooper, and we didn’t find anything associated with the victim,” Riley said. “He wasn’t stabbed in the immediate area.”
“What about tire tracks near the road?” Sharp asked.
“I found two that I’ve marked,” Martin said. “There are traces of blood near the tire marks. They’ve been flagged and photographed and are ready for casting.”
“Good.”
The sun inched farther above the horizon, casting a brighter orange-red light on the creek. If the killer had tossed anything in the water, it could be miles from here by now.
His jaw tightened. “Thanks, Martin. Riley.”
“Glad to be of service,” Martin said.
“Cooper and I can make another pass in the area,” Riley offered.
“No, you clock out. Go home. See your daughter off to school.” Sharp searched the boy’s pockets a second time. Double-checking behind his comrades and himself had been a habit he’d developed in the marines. He found nothing new. “If I need you and the dog, I know where to find you.”
“I’ve the next three days off, but that’s never stopped me from working a case,” she said. “You have my cell.”
Martin shook his head as he tucked a pencil in his pocket. “You two are workaholics. Do you ever stop and smell the roses?”