Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne Page B

Special Victims investigator. Or a squad room full of them, for that matter.
    The return of Vincent Van Gogh required the reassembly of the task force, and once that happened—which was bound to be any moment now—Blackburn would be lucky if he was asked to go for coffee.
    He had half-heartedly tried to convince Mats to keep the revelation under wraps for a while. But Mats wasn’t about to commit career suicide for Blackburn. Why should he? Mats was a company man, and Blackburn was fairly certain he’d already made the call, igniting a chain reaction that had quickly reached the residents of the fourth floor. It was only a matter of time before Blackburn got the official word.
    Down here on Earth, the Special Victims squad room was nearly as quiet as the morgue.
    Half the squad was either out on calls or late coming in, and Jenny, the support clerk, had been on maternity leave for at least a month. Blackburn figured they’d get around to replacing her about the time they found him a new partner.
    A bulging black plastic bag was waiting for him on his desk top. He eyed it dubiously, then turned to Fred De Mello, who sat slumped at a nearby desk, staring at a computer screen, looking in dire need of either a cup of coffee or colonic hydrotherapy. Blackburn wasn’t sure which.
    De Mello was a twenty-year veteran who had long ago decided he’d chosen the wrong career path. His skills in the field, even on a good day, were just a hair above lack-luster. But he could work the computer databases and phone like nobody Blackburn had ever seen. He was the go-to guy when it came to working up a victim profile. Which was why Blackburn had dragged him out of bed and tossed him the baton on Janovic.
    Blackburn gestured to the bag. “Any idea where this came from?”
    De Mello glanced forlornly toward a corner of the squad room, where a fresh pot of coffee was brewing. “Paramedic brought it in. Said he found it on the floor of his rig.”
    “And I should care why?”
    “He thought some old derelict might’ve dropped it while you were all wrestling around with your Jane Doe.” De Mello paused, assessing Blackburn with what passed for a wry smile. “Didn’t know you were into group gropes.”
    If anyone else had made this comment, Blackburn would have replied with a pithy little zinger of his own, but trading quips with De Mello was about as much fun as shoveling cement. The man’s sense of humor was as flat as hammered cow shit.
    Besides, Blackburn wasn’t in the best of moods right now. He needed a cigarette in the worst way. Ignoring the comment, he said, “You making any progress on my victim?”
    “Getting there.”
    “Crime techs tell me they found a Palm Pilot.” Normally, Blackburn himself would have given the apartment a thorough search, but he’d been distracted by Psycho Bitch.
    Not that it mattered. He wasn’t one of those bullshit touchy-feely television detectives who had to walk through a crime scene trying to channel the killer. All that counted was the evidence, and the techs were more than capable of collecting it.
    The initial interviews of Janovic’s neighbors, conducted by the first responders, had been a bust. None of them really knew or paid much attention to the guy, some just referring to him as the “fag in 5C”—a rumor about his lifestyle that had been circulated courtesy of the apartment complex manager. None of them had been awake at the time of the murder, none of them heard or saw anything unusual and, possibly worst of all, none of them had a clue who any of Janovic’s friends were.
    He kept to himself, they said. And so did they.
    This attitude had always slayed Blackburn. As a kid, he’d known his neighbors three houses up on either side. They’d all get together on weekends, hanging out like one big happy family. Nowadays, you take one look at your neighbor and you’re likely to get a shotgun waved in your face. It just wasn’t right.
    The Palm Pilot in question had been