Wounds by Alton Gansky

this. What do we know?”
    Bud opened his own small notebook. It might be the twenty-first century, but note taking at a crime scene was still done faster and better with pen and paper. Besides, having to type the notes into the official report often opened doors to new thoughts.
    Bud read from his notes. “Vic is David Cohen, a thirty-three-year-old white male with a wife and three children. Identification was made by ID in his wallet. The wallet contained four credit cards, and eighty-two dollars in cash, indicating robbery was not a motive. Victim was found supine and clothed. No indication that his clothing had been removed or altered prior to or after his death.”
    â€œMeaning a sexual attack is doubtful at this point.” When Carmen joined the police department she had thought sexual attacks only occurred to women and children. The Academy changed that notion quickly.
    â€œRight, but we leave it on the table for now.” Bud flipped a page. “Vic was found in the front yard of Rabbi Joel Singer. We interviewed the rabbi, and he admitted to knowing the vic but had not seen him for a few days. Field exam suggests the vic is a victim of a severe beating, perhaps a crime of passion. Injuries visible to the naked eye indicate he has many broken bones. ME will provide the details on that.”
    Carmen nodded. “There is reason to doubt the primary crime scene is the initial scene, meaning the body was transported from the murder scene to the rabbi’s home. Why do that? Hate crime. The rabbi has an enemy?”
    Bud shrugged. “If the perp has more than two brain cells and any experience with cops, he’s gotta know that we’d dismiss the rabbi as a direct suspect from the get-go.”
    â€œWhat makes you think it was a guy. You don’t think a woman can do that?”
    â€œSorry, no, I don’t. I suppose if she used a baseball bat, but I’ll bet my car that the vic was beat to death with fist and foot. Besides, a bruise on the side of the vic’s neck looks like a fist mark. A big fist. It’s too early to say it was a man or men, but this kind of physical violence by a woman would be rare. Women are far more crafty.”
    â€œYou got that right.”
    She studied her notes, although she had already committed them to memory. It kept her from looking at Bud. She wouldn’t admit it, but the “Ice Queen” discussion stung. “ME estimates death occurred at two or three this morning. Interviews of homes in the area gave us zilch, and there are no security cameras directed at the rabbi’s house, driveway, or yard.”
    â€œDo you think the perp knew that?”
    â€œYep, I do and that scares me.”
    Bud raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think anything scared you.”
    â€œPlenty frightens me; I just don’t admit it often. Nothing scares me more than a smart killer. You know how it is: most murders are not planned; those that are, are planned badly.”
    â€œContract killing?
    She shrugged. “Maybe, but you heard the guy’s wife. He didn’t have enemies, wasn’t involved in anything illegal.” One of the most difficult things Carmen faced in her work was extracting information from family members who had just learned their loved one was never coming home. It was one thing when a spouse keeled over from an aneurism or heart attack, or bought the farm in an auto accident. Knowing that someone went out of their way to murder their loved one conjured up all kinds of visuals and pain.
    To make matters worse she had to ask the grieving family upsetting questions like: “Was your husband involved in any illegal activity? Did your husband use drugs? Did he have a gambling problem? Has he always been faithful to you? Did he have enemies? Did he ever mention being threatened? How was your marriage? Was it happy?” On and on. They had to ask, but that didn’t mean it was easy. In most cases, anger at