Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4), Brian Shea [free reads .txt] 📗

loaded into the ME's van. Dark stains covered the ground—marks left by those killed or injured by the blast. It was like the city he knew and loved was distorted into some dystopian, futuristic novel. The sight angered him.

Gnawing at Kelly was the fact that in the hour since he'd arrived on scene, there'd been no lead generated on the potential suspect or suspects responsible for the bombing. Data from building surveillance cameras, traffic cameras, and cell phones was being analyzed. So far, they were batting zeros.

Even with the last victim's extraction, the blood remained. A crime scene tech marked the body before removal, using a triangular placard to note the position where it had dropped. The victim's blood left a crudely drawn outline that looked like a child's attempt at tracing a snow angel. The twisted position of the dead man's ultimate resting place was immortalized by the technician’s camera. Kelly stared at the marker of the man’s last foothold in life, letting the image burn into his mind. He vowed never to forget.

One of the nine dead was the small child Barnes rushed to the ambulance. She had a faraway look in her eyes as she gazed upon it from a distance.

In the chaos following their arrival, Kelly tried to keep tabs on the amputee he applied the makeshift tourniquet to, last hearing that he was in critical but stable condition. Kelly stood not too far from the lamppost the severely injured man had used as a crutch. The pool of blood was now thick and dark. He said a silent prayer that his efforts had saved the man's life. He never even got his name.

Halstead was on scene and had asserted himself as scene commander until relieved. The street bosses had done their part by locking down the external scene. It would only be a matter of time before the upper echelon arrived and reallocated control, but Halstead handled the current situation with poise. His nickname “Iceman” seemed apropos. His stoic face held no trace of emotion. Even though Kelly’s direct supervisor was doing a bang-up job, there were aspects to a scene of this magnitude that superseded his ability.

Kelly had worked big scenes before, but this was different. Nearly incomprehensible. He had assisted in the marathon bombing's search and hunt back in 2013. Assigned to Narcotics then, he had reached out to his extensive network of confidential informants. Snitches, as they were more commonly referred to on the street. Back then, Kelly had rarely worked murder investigations but provided what help he could on a regular basis. When the Tsarnaev brothers bombed the marathon’s finish line, it became an all-hands-on-deck situation. This case would be the same, but he was now in a unique role. As a homicide investigator, he'd have a front-row seat to this show. He was literally standing at ground zero, at the place where nine people were killed and twenty-three wounded.

The arson investigator was present, as were members of Boston's Explosive Ordinance Division, EOD. Kelly wanted no part in dismantling bombs of any sort and had nothing but respect for the men and women who did. Their expertise was being used to determine the crime scene's boundaries, which had just been extended into the Common’s green space.

The yellow tape extended out and around the ten-foot-wide Crispus Attucks Monument memorializing the five men killed in the Boston Massacre on March 5, 1770. A piece of rubble lay at the foot of the statue, which depicted a towering bronze Lady Liberty in a tattered dress holding the broken chains of her oppressors. Five people died that day in what would become the battle cry launching the Revolutionary War. Attucks, a man of both African and Native American ancestry, was believed by many historians to be the first of many thousands to die in the war to follow.

The crime scene was bookended by West Street and Avery Street. Patrolmen maintained the boundary, protecting the area from bystanders and concerned citizens while keeping an eye out for any potential suspects. Kelly knew some killers liked to return to the scene of the crime. Arsonists, especially, were notorious for it, though he wasn't sure about bombers. Killing events held a sense of arousal for some offenders. The experience was heightened by watching the devastation and calamity caused by their actions. It was also a validation of sorts.

When Kelly was a rookie, he'd assisted Homicide in transporting an arsonist. During the ride, the firebug was very talkative. Almost euphoric. Kelly asked him why he stuck around. The man’s answer haunted him. “What's the point in lighting the match if you don’t stick around to watch it burn?” He killed a family of seven that day and stayed to watch them burn alive.

In the time since Kelly had been on scene, he hadn't picked up anyone suspicious on his radar. Early on, he had tunnel vision when the initial triage of the wounded took place. Afterward, he focused on what he did best, looking for pieces of the puzzle. Nothing so far.

He and Barnes had talked little since they’d arrived on scene. After enough paramedics rushed in, Halstead had tasked them with marking potential pieces of evidence in the debris field. The problem with bombs was that the very nature of their design often obliterated much of the evidence. This scene was far different from the norm, and Kelly's expertise wasn't in explosives. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. His marching orders had been clear: "put an evidence placard on anything that looks out of place." So that was what he did. Every odd bit of debris was marked.

He finished laying a placard beside a smashed Blackberry phone. The heat had seared the Blackberry’s raised keyboard, melting the rubber against the face. The glass had shattered. Kelly didn't touch it, instead marking it and noting the information in his notepad. Kelly heard the quick chirp of a cruiser's siren and looked up to see Boston Police