Free Occam's Razor by Archer Mayor Page A

growing crowd. I was happy things had been so quickly contained.
    A young woman detached herself from the pack as I approached—Alice Simms, the cops-’n’-courts reporter for the
Reformer
.
    “Joe, any idea what happened?”
    I smiled and shook my head. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll issue a statement later.”
    I passed by her, ignored the others—an assemblage of off-duty cops, firefighters, rescue personnel, and neighborhood gawkers—and ducked under the tape.
    Ahead of me the narrow street led straight to the cemetery’s closed chain-link gate. One squad car and a second ambulance were parked opposite a small, dark green one-story house, sagging and stained, with a haphazard collection of junk littering its scrappy front yard. There were probably twenty thousand houses just like this one scattered all across the state.
    Ward Washburn, one of our veteran patrolmen, met me on the porch.
    “Who’s inside?” I asked him.
    “Ron, a two-woman team from Rescue, Inc., and Dave Raymo. He was first on scene.” He pointed over my shoulder. “Here come Willy and Tyler.”
    I glanced in their direction. “Good. They do a lot of tramping around in there?”
    “Not sure. I heard Ron telling ’em all to keep to a narrow path, and they’re all wearing gloves.”
    “Okay. Make sure you get someone guarding the back, and seal the place up tight. I don’t want anyone messing this up.”
    “What about the ME and whoever the SA sends over?”
    “They should put on containment suits. By the way, you string up that police line?”
    Washburn’s thin, lined face allowed a faint smile. “Yeah.”
    “Nice job. Fast thinking.”
    I climbed back down the steps to greet J.P.
    “Been inside yet?” he asked before I could open my mouth.
    I shook my head. “I was waiting for those.” I pointed at the new bag he was carrying, full of the thin white overalls, booties, and caps he was hoping we’d start wearing to keep crime scenes pristine. This was the first chance we’d had to try them out—there hadn’t been any point at the railroad tracks.
    He dropped the bag onto the frozen grass as I keyed the mike to my radio, simultaneously reaching for a suit. “Ron, it’s Joe—why don’t you get everyone out here so we can seal the scene.”
    Moments later, the front door squealed open and four people stepped out—two women wearing dark blue jump suits and carrying bulky medical kits, followed by Dave Raymo and Klesczewski.
    Ron indicated the two women as he approached. “Joe, this is Cindy Berger and Melissa Snow of Rescue, Inc. Melissa’s a paramedic and the crew chief.”
    I shook hands and addressed Melissa Snow. “How did this go down?”
    Dave Raymo interrupted. “I called ’em.”
    I didn’t like Raymo much. He was more interested in the trappings of being a cop than the job itself. He had a special grip on his pistol, a fetish for tight-fitting leather gloves, a goofy haircut somewhere between a flat top and a Mohawk, and a swagger I thought grotesque for a public servant. He’d come to us from Massachusetts a half year ago, and I suspected he’d be moving on before another year went by.
    “I got a call to check out a missing person complaint,” he continued. “Some old lady said her daughter wasn’t answering the door or the phone or anything else, and she was worried something had happened. When I got here, I looked through the windows, saw the body on the floor, called for backup and Rescue, and then we entered the premises. When the ambulance got here, I already knew they wouldn’t be needed, but I thought what the hey, and had ’em check both bodies out. CYA, you know?”
    There was a breeziness about his manner that made me doubt his story. “So you also found the child?” I asked, clumsily pulling the overalls on over my coat.
    Raymo hesitated and finally blurted. “Yeah, I saw the crib.”
    Melissa Snow explained further. “I found him in the back bedroom. I noticed some toys lying around