LITMIR.BIZ

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      Nothing about a crime scene ever got easier, Marc Brannon thought as he knelt beside the body of the shooting victim. The man was young, probably no more than late-twenties, and he was dressed shabbily. One bare arm bore a tattoo of a raven. There were scars on both wrists and ankles, hinting at a stint in prison. There was a pool of blood around his fair hair and his pale eyes were open, staring blankly at the blue sky. He looked vulnerable lying there; helpless and defenseless, with his body wide-open to the stares of evidence-gatherers and curious passersby. Evidence technicians went over the scene like bloodhounds, looking carefully for trace evidence. One of them had a metal detector and had just found a slug which they hoped would be from the murder weapon. Another technician was videotaping the crime scene from every angle.

      Brannon’s big, lean hand smoothed over the neat khaki of his slacks while his keen, deep-set silver-gray eyes narrowed in thought. Maybe Marsh had nothing to do with this, but it was curious that a dead body would be found so close to his nightclub. No doubt Marsh would have an iron-clad alibi, he thought irritably. He had dozens of cronies who would give him one whenever he needed it.

      Deep in thought, Brannon watched the lone medical examiner investigator work. She was going very slowly and methodically about securing the body. Well, she should. It could turn out to be a very high-profile case, he reminded himself.

      The homicide detective for the central substation, Bud Garcia, waved at Brannon before he spoke to the patrol officers who’d apparently found the body. He sighed as he joined the medical examiner investigator beside the body, out of the way of the evidence technicians who were busily garnering trace evidence close to the body. Brannon had an evidence kit himself, but he would have felt superfluous trying to use it with so many people on the case. There were continuous flashes of light as the corpse was photographed as well as videotaped.

      “Hi, Jones,” he greeted her. “Do we know anything about this guy yet?”

      “Sure,” she replied, busily bagging the victim’s hands. “I know two things about him already.”

      “Well?” he prompted impatiently, when she hesitated.

      “He’s male, and he’s dead,” Alice Jones replied with a wicked grin as she put the last bag in place with a rubber band. Her hair, black and short, was sweaty.

      He gave her a speaking glare.

      “Sorry,” she murmured dryly. “No, we don’t have anything, not even a name. He wasn’t carrying ID.” She stood up. “Care to guess about his circumstances?”

      He studied the body. “He’s got abrasions on his wrists and ankles. My guess would be that he’s an escaped prisoner.”

      “Not bad, Ranger,” she mused. “That would be my best guess, too. But until we get him autopsied, we’re going to have to wait for our answers.”

      “Can you approximate the time of death?”

      She gave him a long, appreciative look. Her eyes twinkled. “You want me to jab a thermometer in his liver right here, huh?”

      “God, Jones!” he burst out.

      “Okay, okay, if you have to have a time of death, considering the state of rigor, I’d say twenty-four hours, give or take two either side,” she murmured, and went back to work. “But don’t hold me to it. I’m just an investigator. The medical examiner will have to go over this guy, and he’s got bodies backed up in the morgue already. Don’t expect quick results.”

      As if he didn’t know that. Evidence processing could take weeks, and frequently did, despite the instant results displayed on television police shows.

      He swore under his breath and got to his feet gracefully. It was a hot September day and the silvery metal of his Texas Ranger badge caught the sun and glittered. He took off his Stetson and swept the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. His blond-streaked, thick and wavy hair, was momentarily visible until he stuck the hat back on, slanting it across his eyes.

      “Who called you in on this?” the assistant medical examiner asked cursorily as she worked to prepare the body for transit.

      “My boss. We’re hoping this may be a link to a guy we’ve been trying to close down for several years without success, considering where the body’s located. Naturally my boss sent someone experienced and capable and superior in intelligence to investigate.” He looked at her mischievously.

      She glanced appreciatively up at her rugged companion, appraising his lean physique and commanding presence. She gave a long, low whistle. “I’m impressed, Brannon!”

      “Nothing impresses you, Jones,” he drawled.

      He turned around and went to look for Bud Garcia, the homicide detective. He found him talking to another plainclothes detective, who had a cell phone and a notepad.

      “Well, that sure fits the description,” Garcia was agreeing with a satisfied smile. “Right down to the raven tattoo. It’s him, all right. What a lucky break! Thank the warden for me.”

      The other officer nodded and spoke into the cell phone again, moving away.

      “Brannon, we’ve got something,” Garcia said when he saw the taller man approaching. “Wayne Correctional Institute down near Floresville is reporting a missing inmate who fits this man’s description exactly. He escaped from a work detail early this morning.”

      “Have you got a name?” he asked.

      “Yeah.”

      “Well?” Brannon pressed.

      “It’s Jennings. Dale Jennings.”

      It was a name that Brannon had reason to remember. And now the face that seemed so familiar clicked into place. Jennings, a local hoodlum, had been convicted of murdering a wealthy San Antonio businessman two years before. He was also alleged to have strong ties to Jake Marsh and his underworld. His photograph had been in half the newspapers in the country, not to mention the front page of several tabloids. The trial had been scandalous as well. Josette Langley, the young woman who had been Jennings’s date the night of elderly Henry Garner’s murder, insinuated publicly that the person who stood to gain the most from the death was Brannon’s best friend, who was Bib Webb, now Texas Lieutenant Governor.

      But Webb’s attorney had convinced the prosecutor that it was Jennings who committed the murder and that Josette’s testimony in Jennings’s behalf was filled with lies. She had, after all, been proven a liar in a rape trial some years earlier. Her past was what had saved Webb from any charges. Silvia Webb, Bib’s wife, had seen old man Henry Garner outside and waved to him just before she left to take Josette home. She also said she’d seen a bloody blackjack on the passenger seat of Jennings’s car. Both she and Bib Webb had an alibi for the next few minutes, during which Garner was said to have lost his life on the pier of the private lake at Webb’s estate.

      When Silvia came back from taking Josette home and saw Garner’s car still in the driveway, and empty, and nobody remembered seeing him recently, she called the police to report it. Several guests remembered hearing her make the call, and sounding disturbed. The guests were forbidden to leave the party while they searched for the old man, whom they found floating near the pier, dead. It looked like an accidental drowning, one newscaster said, and it was rumored that the old man had been drinking and walked off the pier, hitting his head on the way down. Still, no one was allowed to leave the scene until the police and the EMTs, along with the coroner, were finished. Witnesses were questioned.

      Even so, it just might have passed for an accident. Except that Josette, who heard the breaking story on television later that night, called the police and told them that Garner hadn’t been drinking at all, that she hadn’t seen him outside when she and Silvia left the party, and that there had been no blackjack in Dale Jennings’s car. She knew because she’d ridden in it to the party.

      A lump was found on Garner’s head when they pulled him out of the water. There was a blackjack lying visible on the passenger seat of Dale Jennings’s car. He’d protested wildly

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