I wish I had been more violent that night.
My incident report to Lieutenant Julie Brooks was brief. Forty minutes earlier, the victim’s white Cadillac SRX veered out of traffic at low speed and bumped into a building.
“The car was still running when we got here. Driver and passenger were deceased.”
Julie looked over her glasses at me and inserted her delicate looking hands into some latex gloves while she waited for the crime scene tech to finish taking pictures.
Stepping carefully around some amber chunks of plastic from a broken taillight cover, she leaned through the open driver’s side window to tilt the head of Victim Number One, allowing us a better view of his heavily stubbled face.
“Gunshot wound, left temple. Healthy shot residue.” She spread the driver’s singed hair away from the point of entry and caught the eyes of our crime scene tech, Eric Wilson, “Close range. Caliber?”
Wilson pinched air between a thumb and forefinger, “.25 or .22, Lieutenant. Two shots each.”
I walked around the car. The windows were down. “Two shooters walked up alongside the Caddy and expired these guys while they were inching through noon traffic. They never saw it coming.” I jerked a thumb toward the street, “Several of the witnesses who hung around said the shooters were dressed in black and wearing hoodies with bandana masks.”
“Do we know who the victims are yet?”