Price of Making a Difference: Prologue

The fog lingers just out of reach of the surrounding wood covering the field, heavy, thick, like something out of a Universal Pictures horror movie. If Shannon Price was a superstition man he would consider the fog a prelude of bad things to come. Luckily, Price is not the knock on wood, throw salt over the shoulder type. The only thing the fog accomplishes for him is to make him remember how long it’s been since his last cigarette.

His partner on the other hand can’t seem to shut up about the fog and the foreboding feeling that has gripped him by the short and curlies.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this. It’s not good man, I’m telling you.”

Detective Junior Grade Milton Anders has worn his Detective Badge for a grand total of 76 working hours. He’s fresh off the beat and assigned to Shannon Price as his newest partner. Despite, the reassurance from his Captain that being saddled with Anders is not, in any way a punishment, Price knows better, the Captain knows better, yet they both play their roles and pretend they don’t know better. Such is the political life in the Homicide and Robbery Division.

Price pulls the car up behind the other vehicles already on the scene. Snatching his keys he exits the car and makes his way across the field, counting the cooling ticks of the car’s engine to ignore the rambling of his partner. Rubbing the fingertips of his left hand together as he walks, his legs cutting through and peeling back the fog, he wishes he had a cigarette, right here, right now.

The others turn with torturous smiles on their faces as Price reaches them.

“Well, lookie here. Looks like I lost the bet. I said we would have to wait a few hours for you, Price. I mean, I’m sure it’s happy hour somewhere.”

Price ignores his heckler as he kneels down to examine the body. Turning his flashlight on he leans forward, balancing on the tips of his toes. Bruises have started to form around the body’s neck and face. Small blood patterns on the shirt lead Price to believe that the same bruising will be appearing on the body’s ribs and chest.

Switching off the light, he stands and turns to face the two patrolmen who found the body.

“Who found the body?” Price asks as he slips a piece of chewing gum into his mouth. It’s a poor replacement for a cigarette, he thinks, but it will have to do.

The heckler is the first to answer, “The wetback in the unit found the body. My partner is back there with her now.”

“Details,” Price asks ignoring the racist comment.

“She claims that she was taking a shortcut through the field toward the grocery store and she tripped over the body. She ran out and called the ‘policia’ like a good little citizen.”

“No one has touched the body, other than the girl who tripped over him?”

It’s one of the other patrolmen who speak up this time, “To the best of our knowledge, she’s the only one to touch him.”

Without another word, Price turns back toward the body and slips on a pair of plastic gloves. Pulling a pen from his pocket he kneels back toward the body again. He tenses as he feels his partner move toward him and bend close.

“Should I have brought some gloves with me?”

With a shake of his head, Price ignores his partner and using the pen he pushes against the pockets on the body’s jacket, and pants. Mentally, he takes an inventory of what he feels with the pen. Change in the right pocket, keys in the left; making the odds of him being right handed pretty good. Cell phone in right jacket pocket, backs the right hand theory a bit. Whistling quietly he pulls a plastic bag from his pocket and lays it near the body. Using the pen and two fingers of his right hand he manages to retrieve the phone from the pocket. After some tricky maneuvering he manages to open the phone, speed dials the first number and hits speaker.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I found this phone, could you tell me who it belongs to?”

“It’s my boyfriend, Michael Boykins.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey wait….”

With a flick of his pen, Price ends the call. Lifting the phone carefully he places it in the plastic bag, closes it and stands to face his partner. Pulling out his own cell phone he makes a call.

“See what you can find out on a Michael Boykins, approximate age, 26 to 30. Five foot, eight. Red Hair.”

Anders is just looking at him, with a hero worshiping look on his face. Price shakes his head once again at his new partner and walks past him.

“Is it our guy? The bruising and markings look like our guy did it, but he usually does this in the city, not out in the middle of a field somewhere. Is it our copycat? He left bodies in the field, but the bruising patterns aren’t the same.”

“Yes.” Price answers as he keeps walking. “Tell the ME they can come take the body now.”

Anders looks dumbfounded, “Which one is yes?”

“Both. Our boy did it, and the body is the copycat.”

“What?”

Price hands a piece of paper over his shoulder. Anders takes it and finds himself looking at a sketch of the copycat’s face. It matches the body they just left.

“Looks like our boy doesn’t like having any competition. Go back and take some scene photos, before the ME gets here. I’ll be taking a nap in the car.”

Price walks the rest of the way to the car rubbing the fingers of his left hand together, wishing he had a cigarette, and enjoying the quiet.