Free Gospel by Sydney Bauer Page B

income tax fraud investigator for the IRS. Works out of the Burbank office. He lives at Redondo Beach and he’s married,’ Kirk pointed to the bunch of white roses which lay soaking in blood, ‘with one kid.’
    Croker stood up and looked around. Freckles took the cue to continue. ‘There were no signs of struggle, and no sign of the murder weapon. But the ME,’ he said, pointing to a woman in a Los Angeles Medical Examiner’s Office windbreaker at the far end of the alley, ‘. . . she says it was most likely a double-edged hunting knife, sharp enough to slice through the carotid artery and long enough to sever the spinal cord.’
    â€˜So what’s your take on this, Kirk?’ asked Croker who never underestimated the eyes of the first on the scene.
    â€˜Who knows,’ said Kirk. ‘Looks like another case of random street violence. Walker’s watch was missing, his wallet had been emptied, but if robbery was the motive they weren’t very thorough – missed the chunk of spare change in his pocket.’
    â€˜And that’s unusual down here?’
    â€˜Unusual?’ said Kirk. ‘Detective, down here there is no unusual, the gangs around here have murdered for a lot less than a decent timepiece and a coupla credit cards. Hell, they once killed a woman for a packet of cigarettes, and then there was that time when a kid lost his arm for not handing over a half-eaten ju ju fruit. It’s called capitalism, Detective, supply and demand and in the case of this victim, a poor choice of thoroughfare on his way home from work.’
    â€˜But you said the guy works up in Burbank.’
    â€˜And investigates suspect returns all over the city.’
    â€˜Has the wife been informed?’ asked Croker.
    â€˜Not yet. We kinda figured, you might wanna . . .’
    â€˜I got it,’ said Croker, looking upwards to note the sun was already on the rise. ‘You’ll copy me in on your report?’
    Kirk nodded.
    â€˜And I’ll want to speak to the scientific guys when they’re done processing the scene, and the ME after the autopsy.’
    â€˜You got it.’
    â€˜Anything else, Kirk?’
    â€˜Nah,’ said the young officer, looking back at the victim’s twisted body. ‘Kinda frustrating though. I mean, you’d think a guy like this would know better than to trawl the back streets of gang-infected South Central. But stranger things have happened and in the end he was probably just unlucky.’
    Kirk shook his head before leading Croker back down the littered passageway towards his car.
    â€˜Frustrating thing is, the guy’d probably never even seen a bona fide weapon in his whole entire life. Most likely figured he’d die from eating too much takeout. Most of the time these gang members are happy with just killing each other, but not always – this guy looks quiet, meek, mild . . . you know what I mean?’
    And Croker did.
    His wife, however, was another story.
    Detective Sam Croker had been a cop for twenty-five years and, as such, had met all types. He had, however, never encountered a woman like Rita Walker – nor seen anyone respond to a ‘death knock’ as Rita Walker did.
    Croker and his partner Gloria Sanchez had barely knocked on the door when Rita appeared, saw the two badges and proceeded to run from one end of her ornately decorated home to the other, smashing a myriad of china figurines, vases, pottery and one very large porcelain Dalmatian on her way. The profanities that came from her mouth were enough to make a trucker blush. They were loud and bawdy and full of contempt. And all this before the two detectives had a chance to say a single word.
    The woman was expecting us
, thought Croker.
We’re not so much a surprise as a foregone conclusion
.
    One hour, three vodkas and two Valium later, Rita Walker was still highly agitated and, despite the best efforts of