“New to Homicide?”

“Transferred in from Vice three months ago.”

“Guess I’ll have to prove her wrong. Teach her a lesson.” Saperstein bent down to measure again. He was a perfectionist, and with good cause: when there were no obvious suspects, homicide detectives often relied heavily on the criminalist’s interpretation of the scene. If he could accurately ascertain what had happened, he could then surmise why it happened-which could help determine the sequence and mode of death, the victim’s position at the time of the deadly blow, or how many shots were fired in a gun-related homicide. Often, the physical evidence the criminalist gathered at the crime scene was enough to narrow the field of suspects, help locate the perpetrator, or obtain a confession from him.

Jennings looked up and saw that Moreno was talking to the man the officer had brought over: a witness. As he made his way toward his partner, he rubbed his gloved hands together to bring blood and warmth to his numb fingertips.

“What’s the deal?” he asked as she flipped her notepad closed.

Moreno nodded at the man to her left. “This is Clarence Hollowes. Says he heard a big bang around eleven-thirty, ran out into the street, and saw a car leaving the scene.”

“I don’t want to get involved with no po-leece,” Hollowes said, jawing on a piece of gum. He was dressed in clothing that was even more wrinkled than Saperstein’s. He was unshaven and his hair was peppered with gray.

“Why not?” Jennings asked. “Got something to hide?”

“Po-leece mean trouble. That’s just the way it is. You get involved, you get in trouble.”

“We’re not going to cause you any trouble, are we, detective?” Jennings glanced at Moreno, who frowned at him. More fallout from having called Saperstein. He turned back to his witness. “What can you tell me about the car?”

“Well, as I was telling this lady here, it was dark colored. A fancy one, real shiny, kind of like a Mercedes.”