Free Samurai Code by Don Easton Page A

the thigh … staggering … unable to gasp for air through your mouth … shot in the back … face down in the dirt … feel the gun on the back of your head —
    “And here,” said Dallas, waving his flashlight beam over a spray of dark red blood in a contrasting splatter against the bright green leaves on a bush beside the trail, “is where he took one to the back. See where the blood from his leg changed direction? He spun around, staggered, and went down.”
    CC looked at the man lying face down along a short embankment beside a small creek.
    “The killer then put the last shot into the back of his skull,” continued Dallas.
    CC paused and looked around. She knew that Dallas thought she was searching for clues. In reality she was trying once more to grasp the inhumanity of the human race. She sighed and looked at Dallas and said, “Guess it leaves us with who and why. Also, who is the victim? You said you checked for a wallet?”
    “I only patted his front and back pockets. Nothing. Maybe he has it in his jacket. I didn’t want to move anything until the Forensic Identification Section does their thing.”
    “I want to identify this guy. I’m not going to wait for FIS,” said CC. “I’ll be discreet. The sooner we can ID him the better.” She bent over the victim and gently started to roll the body over on the side, but her attention was diverted to a shadow cast by a fern growing out from the side embankment on the other side of the body. “Dallas, over there!” said CC. “Under the fern … see it? In the shadow. There’s something there.”
    Dallas pushed the fern aside and shone his light. “Bingo! We’ve got a footprint.” Dallas squatted and examined it closer. “Too smudged to match, but gives us an idea of size.”
    “Maybe the couple who found him,” suggested CC.
    “They said they didn’t come down off the trail. Plus she was wearing short heels and he is big. I’m betting size ten-to-twelve range. This is much smaller. Not the vic’s. Maybe a woman?”
    “Pretty wide for a woman,” commented CC, turning her attention back to the body. “Hang on, hand me your light.”
    Dallas passed CC his flashlight and saw her direct the beam through the front of the clear plastic bag that was still covering the head and upper torso. She then squinted, peering closer through the bloodied plastic and reached her hand inside and took out a prescription pill bottle from the victim’s shirt pocket.
    “Son of a bitch,” she muttered.
    “What is it? Got something?”
    “Yeah, we got something all right. Do you know Corporal Jack Taggart from the Intelligence Unit?”
    “No,” replied Dallas, bending over for a closer look at the pill bottle.
    “His wife is Doctor Natasha Taggart,” replied CC, covering her eyes with one hand as she unconsciously massaged the sides of her temples.
    Dallas paused for a moment, glancing at CC. “Do you want me to call her?” he asked.
    Connie sighed and said, “No, I will.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “I don’t know,” replied Connie, “but with Jack, there is guaranteed to be one.”

9
    It was 3:30 in the morning when Jack awoke and answered his phone. He listened as Connie briefly gave him the details of the murder.
    “And no identification?” said Jack.
    “Nothing except a prescription pill bottle listing Natasha as the prescribing physician. It’s soaked in blood. The last name looks like Montgomery.”
    “Hang on, I’ll wake her,” said Jack.
    “I’m already awake,” said Natasha. “Overdose?” she asked, taking the phone from Jack who shook his head in response.
    Natasha listened in shock and disbelief, her ears hearing the words, but her mind acting fuzzy and numb. She heard herself speak. She sounded professional, but it was as if someone else were saying the words … putting her brain on hold for the real flood of emotion that would follow moments later. She passed the phone back to Jack.
    “Natasha thinks he lives in an