Chapter 15: Another high-risk occupation leads to death
This case now seemed entirely removed from Theodore's hands.
To protect him, Wenner had stripped him of his lead role in the investigation.
As quitting time approached, Theodore only caught a glimpse of a young man feigning composure as two disgruntled patrol officers escorted him inside, followed by a menacing middle-aged man and a noisy woman.
Wenner, Deputy Police Chief Jimmy Cahill, and West District Branch Chief Grant Widdek emerged to receive them, but the middle-aged man didn't offer them so much as a civil glance.
Jimmy Cahill, the "Deputy Police Chief," served as the West District Branch Chief's deputy, Bernie's former superior, head of the Patrol Department, and overseer of various branch affairs. It was he who had summoned Wenner and thoroughly dressed him down earlier.
The four men retreated to the Chief's office for a private discussion.
Theodore made an excuse to visit the archives and passed by the office, catching the middle-aged man's angry roar from within.
By quitting time, the police station entrance was packed with people wielding cameras, flashbulbs strobing constantly, their vehicles completely blocking the road in front of the station.
Every time someone emerged from the police station, a forest of microphones thrust toward them while voices shouted questions simultaneously.
"Why was Councilman Howard's son brought to the police station?"
"Is Councilman Howard's son connected to the murder of the Rose Street prostitute?"
"Councilman Howard's son..."
These reporters were remarkably well-informed—only two hours had passed, and they already knew exactly what had transpired.
......
Saturday's newspaper made for riveting reading.
Several local papers featured the case on their front pages, providing detailed firsthand accounts including evidence, testimonies, and information about the deceased. The articles vividly speculated about how Little Howard had murdered Jeanne.
At the end of each piece, the Deputy Police Chief's words were quoted: "No matter who he is, or who his father is, if he committed a crime, we will definitely arrest him!"
When Theodore read this, he could smell the acrid scent of a brewing power struggle.
In contrast to the proactive and publicity-seeking Deputy Police Chief, the Chief had made no public statements through any channels, and Wenner—who had seemed so certain from the beginning—was maintaining an unusually low profile.
The case had already captured widespread attention throughout Felton, and a strange tension seemed to permeate the police station.
Theodore set down the newspaper and glanced toward Wenner's office.
Ten minutes earlier, the Deputy Police Chief had personally visited the Homicide Team to demand custody of the suspect. Wenner had pulled him into the office for what was supposed to be a brief discussion, but it had stretched on far longer than expected.
"Julian, this is the Chief's decision." The office door suddenly opened, and the voice that leaked out immediately drew everyone's attention.
Cahill stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the doorknob, looking triumphant. "I didn't want to take this case either. You know my subordinates are all patrol officers—you Homicide Team members are the experts at handling murder cases."
"But you have a history with Councilman Howard, and the Chief is concerned that having the Homicide Team investigate might involve personal feelings. That's why..."
"I've already sent people to take him."
Cahill strutted away with small, victorious steps, walking past the glares of the Homicide Team detectives.
Behind him stood the furious Wenner, who had reached his boiling point.
After a moment of tense silence, someone quietly muttered, "Son of a bitch," and the office immediately erupted in angry voices.
Wenner didn't stop them. He seemed stunned by his rage, standing behind his desk while letting the commotion outside continue.
Soon, detectives from the Patrol Department arrived and escorted Little Howard away.
Seeing their smug expressions, the Homicide Team burned with righteous indignation but had no outlet for their frustration.
Only after the suspect was removed did Wenner speak, summoning Theodore and Bernie into his office. He closed the door, and most of the anger had drained from his face.
"The case has been transferred to the Patrol Department," Wenner said quietly, settling into his chair.
Bernie immediately shot to his feet. "Boss, we can't give it to them!"
He spoke with heated passion, "That son of a bitch Jimmy Cahill has always wanted to disband our Homicide Team and let his cronies take over murder cases. If we transfer this case to him, he'll have more ammunition to convince the Chief!"
Wenner tapped his desk. Bernie reluctantly sat back down. Wenner then turned to Theodore. "What do you think?"
Theodore was caught off guard. "About what?"
"Do you think that prostitute was killed by Little Howard?"
Theodore wasn't sure what Wenner was driving at. He shook his head. "No."
Wenner raised an eyebrow, pulled open a drawer, and tossed a folder across the desk.
"You two investigate this case."
Theodore opened the folder and examined the contents alongside Bernie.
Inside were only a police report and a list of addresses.
They looked at Wenner in confusion.
"Just came in this morning," Wenner said, pointing at Bernie. "The body is still at the scene. Go with the forensic team."
He instructed, "No public investigation—keep it quiet."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Go quickly."
Theodore and Bernie left in bewilderment, driving behind the hearse.
On the way, Bernie quietly shared his theory with Theodore. "This is the boss's counterattack. He wants to compete with that son of a bitch Cahill. Has to be."
Theodore felt that Wenner wasn't the type to treat a murder case as a political pawn, but given the power struggle at play, he couldn't be certain.
The crime scene was adjacent to Rose Street, but despite being only one block away, the conditions were worlds apart.
The buildings on Rose Street were aged but well-maintained, and its commercial prosperity ranked among Felton's finest—many downtown commercial districts paled in comparison to Rose Street's vitality.
However, just one street over lay a scene from the slums.
The apartment where the deceased was found had been converted from early workers' dormitories. The corridor was so narrow that only two people could pass at a time, and the room itself was even more cramped—only slightly larger than a Rose Street hotel room, with the addition of a small bathroom.
Theodore and Bernie arrived at the victim's room. The door was shut, and two patrol officers were smoking outside.
After showing their badges, they were granted entry. One of the officers muttered something, pulled out a key, and tossed it to Bernie before turning toward the stairs with his partner.
Theodore frowned, watching the patrol officers' retreating figures. Bernie chuckled coldly and unlocked the door.
The forensic team members were suited up at the entrance and stepped into the room, with Theodore and Bernie following. With six people entering the already cramped space, it became uncomfortably crowded.
The room was truly tiny, with most of the floor space occupied by a double bed. Opposite sat a small dressing table with two chairs positioned in front of it. These comprised the entirety of the furnishings.
The deceased was a woman who appeared to be in her forties, heavily made-up, lying on the floor in a pool of congealed blood. A bloodstain decorated the wall above her head, resembling exploded pomegranate seeds.
Adult toys were scattered across the bed and floor, and the wastebasket overflowed with refuse.
The four forensic scientists had all been trained by Samuel and possessed basic competency. They worked in pairs—one conducting a preliminary external examination of the body while the other recorded the findings.
After documentation, they spread out a body bag nearby. One pair lifted the corpse into the bag while the other began selectively bagging evidence and photographing the room.
Their performance was far from professional. In Theodore's assessment, they collected many worthless items while overlooking valuable pieces of evidence.
Moreover, their photography skills were amateurish—many shots were taken at awkward angles, and they completely lacked proper rulers for scale or evidence numbering.
However, despite their crude technique, they took numerous photographs and didn't miss any corners or surfaces.
Theodore chose not to interfere and instead walked around the room twice, conducting his own observation.
The four forensic scientists worked with practiced efficiency, already having the deceased secured in the body bag. They grunted as they carried it out, along with the evidence they had collected piled high in bags.
Only Theodore and Bernie remained in the room. Theodore then crouched in front of the blood pool and leaned in for a closer examination.
Bernie had approached at some point and was bent over, studying the bloodstain on the wall. When he noticed Theodore looking up, he whispered urgently, "Did she come? What did she tell you? Did she mention the killer? What's his name?"