Bad Guy, Dead

“Whadda we have here, Frank?”

“Hi Lieutenant. Hit and run. Guy got in front of a vehicle, possibly a big car or small truck by the look of him. The M.E. was passing on his way to another job and swung by to pronounce. Massive trauma to head and thorax.”

“Got a name?”

“Well. That’s the thing, Lieut; he’s got several IDs on him, and on the tag of his briefcase”

“Let’s go over ‘em in the office after we get the basics done here.”

“Ok, Frank, I’ll go through the effects and you tag, bag and record, as usual.”

“Why don’t I ever get the fun jobs, huh?”

“RHIP. Be a good boy and you’ll have the fun jobs someday.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“C’mon, let’s go. First the briefcase.

Dimensions: 19” wide, 15” tall, 5-1/2” deep.

(Frank: check)

Combination lock, four digits, located at the center, with two flip latches at either end.


“Now I’m breaking the lock with a metal wedge. It gives after a few twists and now it’s open. I am looking in the main compartment. Lotsa stuff. Dirty white shirt. Striped tie with stains on it. Could be wine.


Several pens, felt tip, different colors—6 pens.


“Pint bottle of Seagram’s 7, around half full.


“God, what a lotta stuff. All kinds of correspondence, some hand-written, some on business and government stationery. I’ll sort these out after I get through the rest of it. I am putting aside all the papers on the exam counter here.


“Rubber ball, looks like to exercise the hands.


“Hypodermic syringe, no needle. Looks used. Bagging it. Here.

“Toothbrush. Pack of three disposable razors, Gillette. Dirty wash rag. Looks like the guy lived out of his briefcase.


“Just about done with the main compartment. One man’s sock, black, not clean. Huh! A female undergarment inside the sock, sort of a pink color, what there is of it. Why do women bother wearing such flimsy stuff? Smells.


“Lots of dust, and scraps of paper and cardboard and plastic. I’ll shovel it all into an evidence bag. Here.


“OK, now the fold-out side pockets. First pocket. Photographs, naked women, some very young. Some could be under 18. Bad photography (don’t record that). Let’s see … I count 23 photos, varying sizes, from wallet size to looks like regular 8 by 10s. All apparently different, but who wants to look so hard at all of these, anyway? (Don’t record that).

(Yeah, yeah, check)

“Three passports, different names. Four Motor Vehicle Drivers Licenses, different states, different names. Let’s record the info later.

“Next pocket. Hmmm. Small bags of white powder. Four. Special handling on these, Frank.

(Yeah, yeah, check)

“Last pocket. Women’s stuff. Cosmetic cases, cheap jewelry, link chains—small links, tampon (not used, thank God), three condoms, Fourex Ready-Wets.”

“Wait up, Lieut—you’re going too fast. (check)

“I’m now turning the case upside down and shaking it over the evidence exam table to get all the little loose stuff out: more trash and junk. Bagging it. Let the lab guys deal with it. (Don’t record that last)

(Yeah, check)

“The case seems heavy still, but I don’t see anything in it. Lemme see the inside dimensions. Hmm. It’s shorter inside than outside by quite a bit. Prolly a false bottom. I’m digging around the edges. Hoohah! Weapons. One small Webley pistol; one very sharp fish-scaling knife. One all-purpose tool: pliers, screwdrivers, knife and so forth. A garrot!? When’s the last time you saw a garrot, Frank?

(What’s a garrot? How do you spell that? Check, check, check, slow down already)

“God, Frank, if this guy wasn’t deliberately offed, he shoulda been. He really needed killing.”

“Look, a school picture of a little girl. Whatta bastard.”

“Lemme see. On the back, in handwriting …

Check this, Frank: “To daddy. I love you. Heather.”

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