CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ray flashed his badge to the uniformed cop directing traffic around the detoured street. She moved the barricade for him and he smiled his thanks. Ahead on the right, he saw several marked units, the Lieutenant's car, and the meat wagon double-parked in front of Foresta's mini-mart. The adjoining alley was also barricaded, and two more uniforms were directing the foot traffic and the rubberneckers to move along.

Esther Pearson, his favorite blonde medical examiner, was kneeling next to a corpse, her crime scene kit open beside her. Welsh peered over her shoulder. He looked up at Ray's approach.

"Vecchio," he called, "good of you to join us."

"Sorry, sir. I was on the other side of town when I got the squeal." He crouched across from Pearson. "What have we got?"

"Hold your horses, Detective. I just got here, too," she said, drily. "All I can tell you is white male, in his early twenties, single gunshot wound to the back of the head, apparently while he was kneeling down between these dumpsters."

"Time of death?"

"Not long ago," She shrugged. "Can't tell you more till I run some tests. It's so cold today, body temp isn't much of a help."

Welsh spoke up. "The store clerk who found the body says it wasn't here two hours ago."

Ray pulled on a pair of latex gloves. While Pearson did her clinical tasks, he carefully went over the body, without disturbing its position. His search yielded a worn leather wallet from the back pocket of the vic's jeans. He flipped it open and pulled out a driver's license. He read aloud. "Albert Martin Ames. Date of birth: May 1, ****. Shame. Just a few months shy of legal drinking age." He read off an address. North side. Not this neighborhood. He riffled through the cash. "There's a coupla hundred here, sir." He looked at the left wrist. "Expensive watch." He looked up at his commander. "I'll go out on a limb, sir, and say this was probably not a robbery."

Welsh rolled his eyes.

Ray peered at the back of Albert Martin Ames' head. Small entry wound, little blood.

".22?" He put the question to Pearson. "No exit wound?"

"Looks like it, but don't hold me to it until you get my report."

Ray looked back to the Lieutenant. "Shot in broad daylight, body left to be found quickly and i.d.'d fast, small caliber to the back of the head of a vic on his knees, no robbery. This is a hit, sir."

He nodded, grimly. "The wise guys are getting younger and younger."

Ray grimaced, "Everybody's younger to me these days. My new doctor looks like Doogie Howser."

"Wait'll you're my age," Welsh grumbled. He pulled him aside. "I want you to coordinate with Huey and Louie on this one, Vecchio.

"The Duck Boys? Why?"

"This morning, they got the call on a twenty-four year old white male, shot in the back of the head, small caliber bullet, conspicuous disposal of the body." He raised an eyebrow. "Coincidence? I think not." Welsh stepped back to Esther and laid a hand on her shoulder. She smiled up at him. "Pick you up at eight?"

"I'm looking forward to it," she said, then turned back to the dead man. Welsh climbed into his car and left the scene.

Ray interviewed the young mini-mart clerk who found the body. Since the discovery, he had been kept sequestered by the uniform who had taken his initial statement. When Ray approached them, the kid was ready to bounce off the walls. He took him outside so he could smoke, but away from a view of the body.

He confirmed the details of the discovery. It was his habit to take out the garbage every two hours and catch a smoke at the same time. Today, he had sheltered from the wind between the dumpsters at noon. There was no body. He had seen nothing suspicious. Two hours later, he had nearly stepped on the stiff. He pointed out the two trash bags he had been carrying which he had dropped in shock. One bag had split open. That was the sum total of his knowledge. Ray believed him. No one else who worked at the store had seen anything. Ditto a few customers who had been detained by the officers on the scene. The alley was shared by Frieda's Waffle Shop. No one there had seen or heard anything. Ray let them all go.

He dialed the division number on his mobile.

"Elaine. It's me. I need a criminal history check on one Albert Martin Ames." He read off the dob and address from the driver's license. She repeated them. "Yeah, that's right. Meantime, patch me through to Guardino or Huey." She clicked off.

Huey picked up. "Yeah, Vecchio?"

"Tell me about this morning's vic, the guy with the gsw to the back of the head.

He went on the defensive. "What's it to you?"

"Knock it off, Jack. I caught a similar squeal just now. The Lieutenant wants us to coordinate."

"Oh, great. I just love to co-or-di-nate," he said, sarcastically. "OK. Brian Philip Mosely, white male, 24, shot in the back of the head with a small caliber weapon at close range. The shooter was probably sitting in the back seat of the Camaro when he pulled the trigger."

"The Camaro? Is that the car Guardino wants?"

"Yeah, it's a sweet ride." He paused. "Except, you know, for the bloodstains."

"What else have you got?"

Huey filled him in on a few details. Mosely's address was also on the North Side. A record of small crimes, nothing major. Nothing else seemed relevant at this juncture, until they had more info on the newest victim and they could see what these two young men had in common. Besides, the depressing fact of being too young to be dead.

"Elaine wants to talk to you," Huey said, when they had finished. He transferred the call.

"Ray?"

"Yeah, Elaine?"

"Your guy has a record, but it's petty stuff. There's some juvey cases, but, of course, that's sealed. Since he turned eighteen, breaking into cars and boosting tape decks and radios, shoplifting, stuff like that."

"Any mob connection?"

"Nothing that I could see. No family relationships or known associates." Elaine sounded puzzled. "Albert Martin Ames wasn't even twenty-one. I thought the mob doesn't rob the cradle, as a rule?"

"He doesn't need to be actually in the mob to get hit like this." Ray was more or less thinking out loud. "Maybe, he crossed somebody."

She sighed. "It's a shame."

"Yeah," he agreed, then hung up. A crime scene tech approached. "Detective, we've finished pictures and prints. We're ready to bag him."

Ray nodded. He stood back as the techs put Albert Martin Ames into a body bag and zipped it up. He was hoisted on to a stretcher and wheeled away. The rest of the tech crew finished up and left. Ray stood there alone, looking down at the spot where the body had lain. There was nothing here to mark the passing of a human being. Not even blood. Just a couple of garbage bags. He sighed and turned away.

Ray had only taken a few steps, when he turned back. He looked around furtively. No one was watching. He retraced his steps and reached for the garbage bags. One more thing that irritated him about Fraser, if he ever made a list. Which, if he did, would be a very, very long list, indeed. Before he met the Mountie, it would never have occurred to Ray to pick up the garbage himself. But now? Now, he knew if he walked away, it would bother him that he had left it. And this wasn't an isolated incident. Last Friday, he had found himself holding the door open at his bank for a parade of people. On Tuesday, he had let an old man ahead of him in the grocery store express lane, even though he had more than ten items. What next? Walking little old ladies across the street? If that happened, it would be the end of life as he knew it. He might as well defect to Canada.

Shaking his head, he tossed the intact bag into the dumpster. Then, he knelt and gathered the contents of the split bag. It was all fruit and vegetable waste except for one small glass jar containing a brown liquid. He bundled the produce into the remains of the bag and put it in the dumpster, then picked up the jar. He pulled his arm back to throw it in, then stopped. Funny, that the plastic bag would split, but a glass jar wouldn't break. He looked at it. No labels or identifiers on the clear glass. None at all.

"Goddam it, Fraser," he muttered, as he unscrewed the lid and took a very tentative sniff, then a deeper one. It smelled like maple syrup. There was no way - no way - he was tasting it to be sure. He put the lid back on, turned and looked up at the sign for Frieda's Waffle Shop. Then, back at the ground where the body had fallen. And where the store clerk had dropped his garbage bags, accidentally covering the jar that had rolled out of Albert Martin Ames' hand when he died. He'd bet his beloved Riviera that the dead boy went by the nickname of "Al" and that Ray was holding his salesman's sample in his hand.

He tucked the jar in the pocket of his overcoat. His heart hammered in his chest, his mouth was dry, his breathing rapid. Why? He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on what his instincts were screaming at him. Maple syrup. The Coast Guard patch. A Camaro nearly running Fraser down in another alley. "Al," who had tried to shoot Dief first, then Fraser. Guardino's bloodstained Camaro with Brian Mosely dead in the driver's seat. "Dave" of the torn jacket. David Everett!

"Omigod, Fraser!" He raced to his car, and grabbed the radio. He identified himself to Dispatch. "Send a unit to the parking lot at Oak Park Beach, the south entrance. Extreme caution. Possible 187 in progress. Officer in peril. I'm on my way!"

"Roger that, Detective."

Ray started the engine, flipped the switch for the lights and siren and peeled away from the curb.