"Not even in the slightest." He flashed his phone toward Sean, displaying the magazine cover.
"You realize the can of worms that opens up, right?" Sean placed his hands on his hips. His chest expanded before he blew an exasperated huff of air. "I need to call my Captain, who really doesn't like to talk to people at two in the morning, and your dad needs a heads up. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. The brass and the press will be crawling up your ass as soon as this breaks. Criminal Proctology 101, my friend.”
Great. Just what he needed—a media circus. Well, hopefully they could get the body processed and to the morgue before the vultures started circling. Bringing the medical examiner's van to the rear of the building was the right call. He dropped Treyson's wallet into an evidence bag. He sealed the bag with tamper resistant tape, attached the initial bare-bones inventory sheet, interrupted Sean to initial the tag as a witness, and initialed it himself to start the chain of custody. Covering his ass started now. He'd go over the inventory of the contents again when the property officer was available to witness the accounting. Carefully stepping away from the victim to an open area, Brock palmed his cell. His Lieutenant needed a heads up before he tapped his old man on the shoulder and whispered in his ear.
2
He’d bet his last paycheck that the fucking stairs were steeper today than yesterday. Pulling his dog-tired ass up the six flights of stairs to the corner of the building homicide had claimed as home, he yawned at the top of the stairs until his entire body shook. He’d passed fucking exhausted a couple days ago. Sleep and he weren’t on speaking terms on the best of days. He’d suffered from insomnia for years and had done everything to try to combat it except drugs and a consistent sleep hygiene regiment. His doctors insisted a routine that would signal his body it was time to shut down would help immensely. Only life as a homicide detective never ran nine to five, and this year, he could count on one hand the times he’d been home in time to watch the five o'clock evening news. So, he slept when he could, for as long as he could. The ever-present exhaustion was just a fact of his life that he managed.
Trudging up the stairs, his over-tired mind flicked through the events of the last four hours. Of course, once he'd made his notifications, the big boys had shown up on scene. Right on the brass' heels had come the press. So much for keeping things under wraps. The feeding frenzy was because of the last name of the man zipped in the body bag. This would guarantee a three-ring circus. What had Samuel Treyson been doing there?
A contingent of blue suits had kept the bastards at bay, while the crime scene techs had erected a visual barrier, also known as a tarp, which allowed everyone to finish their jobs. Thank God there was still a roof over this portion of the warehouse otherwise the helicopters he heard outside would have been able to get graphic photos.
The brass had held to the perimeter of the crime scene and talked among themselves. They didn't help, but at least they hadn't hindered the job either. It was important this case was handled correctly. He got that. As lead detective, he called all the shots and the powers-that-be had respected his authority over the scene.
The Treyson family owned half the city. He was actually surprised the case hadn’t been taken from him. It would make sense to transfer it to the homicide detectives assigned to the Briar Hill precinct. The brass would want the case where they could monitor it, and his dad’s office was in Briar Hill. He shoved open the stairwell door as he worried the specifics of the case like a dog gnawing on a steak bone. He kinda-sorta hoped the Briar Hill Precinct would take this one because he had a feeling dealing with the elite in Briar Hill was going to become a hemorrhoid of biblical proportions. Yep, a hemorrhoid. Big, ugly, irritating as fuck, and no way to make it go away. Besides, the two murders he was currently working were enough to keep both he and his partner busy. Let the Briar Hill detectives deal with the political nightmare. He'd be good with that… or at least that's what he kept telling himself. Damn it, what was Treyson doing in his district? Why in the hell was he in that abandoned warehouse? They hadn’t found any signs of struggle, even after they’d set up lighting when the crime scene tech arrived. Why were you there, Samuel? What were you involved with that got you killed? Why didn’t you fight?
Instead of heading straight to his desk, he hung a hard right into the break room. Coffee made up at least ninety percent of the liquid in his body, what would a few more gallons of caffeine matter? He grabbed his massive thermos mug from the shelf above the coffee pot and poured half the carafe into the insulated jug. Six heaping spoons of sugar and a couple of glugs of creamer later and he was in business.
“You’re going to die of diabetes, son.”
Brock chuckled as he brought his coffee mug to his lips. Nirvana. He chugged three burning gulps and turned to look at his father, the Commissioner of Hope City's Police Force. The job fit his old man as well as the three-piece suits he wore. Chauncey King was two inches shorter than the six feet, seven inches he’d given Brock, and he carried more muscle than his father ever had, but the resemblance between them was uncanny. His old man was still as strong as a team of mules, and the guy had a mustache Tom Selleck would envy, plus a smile that could disarm a small army, or a seething handful of Hope City politicos.
“If I die of diabetes, at least I won’t have to suffer through this case.” Brock rolled his head and popped his neck. "Did you see the swarm outside or were you able to avoid them?"
"Dealing with the press is in my job description." His father gave him a quick smile. "Did you make it through the crush unscathed?"
"I kept my head down and said nothing. I mean, hello, we just caught this case. Do I have any suspects? Ah… yeah, the entire city at this fucking point. What a shit storm." He shook his head and examined his cup. "Dad, I gotta ask, why didn’t you pull it from me and put someone from the Briar Hill district on the case? With you being the Commissioner of Police and I your son, the press is going to make something of me being the lead detective. Hell, I don't have the Briar Hill detectives’ connections or their… tact, to handle the fake ass people over on your side of town."
His father looked over his shoulder and nudged the door shut with his foot. “Fisher and Jeremiah will be available to you should you need their assistance, but this is your case. It was your call. It's your case; you follow it through to the end. Besides, it’ll be good for you. You can play nice; I know you can.” There was determination in his father’s eyes.
When his old man accepted the job as police commissioner, the entire force had been riddled with corruption. When the press realized that both he and his brother Brody were on the force too, the headlines read, 'Corruption Sweep Nets Nepotism Boon.'
“I’m gonna ruffle feathers, Pops. Hell, I might end up killing a golden goose or two in the process.” Brock took another gulp of his life sustaining hot bean juice. God did a good thing the day he poofed the coffee bean into existence.
“I have a feeling there are one or two geese over in Briar Hill this city could do without. Just make sure you color within the lines. I need you to sort this case as quickly as possible. Pressure is coming from way up. I've had seventeen calls already this morning from the governor on down. You and Jordan are a formidable team. If you need to sluff off the other case files on your desk, do it. Lieutenant Davidson already knows this one has priority.” His father walked across the room to the coffee pot and poured himself a Styrofoam cup full.