I grabbed another coffee for the ride, and a lid to put on it in the rain, asked if Jim wanted something as well, but he already had a bottle of water with protein in it. Some cops took to drinking massive amounts of coffee, others took to alcohol. I remember my wife, rest her soul, had tried to get me to eat healthier. Protein was good for building muscle mass or something like that, but the only thing I’d really need muscles for, was for the occasional fist fight or tackle with a suspect, and those were few and far between these days. The Washington rumbled into action, and it made me think of my old car. I used to have an Albany Emperor, a classic box-shaped car with a soft suspension, old girl had to call the quits after I stopped a fleeing bank-robber’s muscle car with it. A damn shame, I liked that car. I had gotten the Washington on offer, from the county no less. Some booser in a suit had fucked up an order for the FIB, added an extra zero, so they suddenly stood with way too many cars for their agents. Looks like your average sleek sedan, but it’s got a good acceleration and turns like a dream too. I could have coughed up another 80.000 dollars, and gotten the federal agent version, tinted glass, reinforced tires, enhanced engine performance, but why would I ever want that? Back in my younger days it might have interested me, but I saw no point in sprucing cars up like that. If it could drive, had a roof and functional air-condition, that was pretty much all I needed in a car.
I had met Jim a couple of days prior this case, he and some other young officers had all passed the academy. Turns out his instructor was none other than my old partner, Johnathan Chesterfield, so Jim knew a lot about me, well he knew whatever nonsense John had stuffed his ears full off. As I told him, when he began to ask about the numbers of case that I had worked on, “Son, I don’t give a crap about how many, I’m here to do my job and that’s it.” Jim understood, it seems, and began to ask about more technical stuff, I told him what I could remember. As I turned the car off of Mission Row, looking for service entries to the river along the Little Bighorn Avenue, I calmly asked him, “So, have you heard of Carlos? Or did John skip that part?” Jim looked puzzled, no wonder, John had never been keen on seeing dead bodies, but in a gang-town like Los Santos, you’d get used to it pretty quick. “Well, Carlos is Mission Row’s forensic expert, perhaps the best in Los Santos, he’s a fucking lunatic with bodies, but he knows his stuff. He likes to creep out greenhorns, just a heads up. You don’t have to get close to the body though, if you don’t want to. If you do want to see, don’t touch anything unless Carlos says you can. I finally found the chain-link fence with a gate. “Ah shucks, figures Carlos would have an assistant close this again,” I tucked my coat up around my neck, “hey, check the glove compartment, there should be a set of service keys in there.” Jim reached in, past my service 9 millimeter, and found the set of mostly green keys. I nodded as he showed them, “Alright, they should be labeled, one that says “river access” will be the one you need, I’ll drive the car through when you’ve open the gate, and will wait for you to close it up again.”
Jim tucked his raincoat over him, no complaints about going out in the rain. The gate was narrow, and as civilians weren’t really meant to be running around along the river, it wasn’t an obvious entrance. The light from the front-lights helped Jim find the padlock and open it, he pushed one side of the doors open, then the other, for me to slowly pull the car through. Behind me, Jim closed and locked the gate once more, and rushed to get into the car. The narrow concrete entrance was steep, but soon we reached the river, dark and close to the secondary plateau, if this weather carried on much longer, the entire river would be full. The dim purple lights under the bridge to Mission Row mixed together with a brighter white light coming from some standing spotlights. We could see two small yellow canvas-tents. I parked under the bridge, no need to get it wetter than it already was. An unmarked white van, a Vapid Speedo, was parked near the furthest of the two tents. Yellow and black tape on the entrance to the closest one, told me that the body was in there. Carlos could be in either tent, preparing the body or waiting with his assistants in the other.
The dry warmth of the car was switched out for a drenched, eerie cold, I had the cigarette in my mouth and lit it. The fabric of the tents was thick, waterproof and it wasn’t possible to see if anyone was inside of them or not. Jim was on my heels, a big kid, 6′2″ or so, back in my days as a greenhorn, big guys like that usually didn’t end up in homicide. I had noticed a small notes-block and a pen in one of his pockets, so he wasn’t for taking notes on his phone then. While walking towards the non-taped tent, I spoke, loudly enough to penetrate the rain, and presumably for Carlos and his team to hear me, “So, you want to look at the body first or after we’ve talked to Carlos?” Jim shrugged, “I don’t know, sir, but shouldn’t we hear the forensics first, before starting the investigation?” Just as we approached, a person stuck their head out. “This is a murder… Oh, hey Graham, do come in. New assistant?” As always, Carlos was not one to care much for grade, rank or anything, as he once said; “if you end up on my table, you’re going to be a corpse either way.” Carlos opened the tent’s zipper-door for us to enter.
Inside the tent was cramped. Carlos, and his two assistants, had two tables and a miniature version of a whiteboard set up inside, from what I could tell, they had scribbled down what they had gathered so far, and the personal belongings was placed on one of the tables. The two assistants, both young-looking, a man and a woman, both stood up from the table. It seems all they had been waiting for, was for a detective to call the shots, and tell them to haul the body back to the station. Carlos looked Jim over shortly, then turned to me, “So, Bulldog’s got you to take it? I can tell you this much straight away; there’s not a whole lot to go on. But, you’re used to that by now. Alright, Ted and Ellen, move the van closer, prepare the boxes for belongings, and get the stretcher out. Ted, make sure the camera is protected from this weather, don’t want to lose the photos or have them damaged.” The assistants both moved out of the tent, and Carlos signalled for me and Jim to follow. Carlos had some blue latex gloves on his hands, as per usual really. I sighed, just having gotten used to the dryness of the tent, oh well it was part of the job.
We looked at the body, Carlos and his team had cleared up nicely, but it was still not a pretty sight. The man was Caucasian, relatively average in build with brownish hair. He had a blue designer polo-shirt tucked in his fitted cream coloured pants and a pair of white running shoes with reddish accents. His body was lying face down in a washed out puddle of blood. The rain had made the blood slowly trickle towards the river, but the main source of the blood wouldn’t be emptied that easy. Carlos grinned in his own creepy way, “That’s just his back, his face isn’t exactly pretty now.” Without further warning, Carlos latched a hand onto the corpse’s polo, and lifted him up by the shoulder. As his face left the concrete, we could see the smashed remains of his face, an open fracture had his cheekbone visible. “Jesus Christ!” Jim instinctively took a step back. Carlos chuckled his raspy laugh, “I should think not, he certainly didn’t fly coming off of the bridge. That, or someone hit his face really hard, with something really heavy.” Despite Carlos’ laugh, he wasn’t joking, never did. Jim regained his composure, fishing his note-block out of the pocket, “So, do you think he was pushed or fell off of the bridge? The fall would have been lethal with a fall like that, I presume.” Carlos dusted himself off slightly, but kept sitting by the corpse, “The fall probably would have killed with that landing yes, but I have my doubts to it being the cause of death,” with that, Carlos turned the man over on his side, “it’s more likely this, of course it’s too early to say for sure.” Carlos pointed towards a a darkened crimson slit in the light-blue polo; the head-wound was not what had caused the blood. This man had been stabbed. “There is only a single entry wound, but it’s very close to his heart, once I’ve gotten him on the slab in the lab, I’ll know if it was lethal.” Our small-talk about the body was interrupted as the beeping of the Speedo backing up, cleared through the rain. With that, Carlos let the man slump back down to the concrete, “Well, I’ll call you once I have the autopsy done. The personal items should be available within a few hours.”
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