Charlie's Web

Charlie’s Web: Part 1

Eight years of working homicide cases and this is the first time I found a body in a barn. There aren’t exactly a bunch of them in Police District 2 of the city of Denver. Sure, maybe twenty years ago, okay more like fifty, this area was nothing but farmland. Now, it’s filled with homes worth more than a half million dollars and more gourmet coffee shops than I care to imagine. This is where I grew up, my ‘hood. Except for this one, tiny little sliver of land that never joined the 21st century, I can tell you anything you want to know. So of course, someone had to find a body here.

Dominick Farms. A small slice of the Ole West just outside of downtown. With their family’s reputation, I’m surprised the body didn’t just disappear.

“The victim’s name is Charlie Hornhill, 17 years old.” My partner Aliyah and I have a competition going around crime scene arrival times. She got here before me today and that only puts her one behind me. Damn. Getting lazy Marine. It was supposed to be a much needed day off for us both but homicides don’t care, and it’s our turn up. Tall and almost painfully thin, Aliyah may not look like much, but I’ve watched her take down heavyweight wanna be gangsters with the same efficiency that she might scoop up a puppy. She’s a former military police officer and while she may not be a Marine like me, as far as badass partners go, she does nicely. After her family emigrated from Sudan, she grew up in Five Points. Not the safest neighborhood, but compared to living through a civil war, I suppose it was a step up.

“How’d we ID the victim?” Unless we’re lucky enough to find a wallet, we usually don’t identify bodies this quickly.

“The guy who discovered the body,” she points to a small man in an honest-to-God cowboy hat. “That’s Gio Dominick. He said that the kid worked summers at the farm.” Some detectives write everything down in a notebook, some use their cell phone or a tablet to take notes. Aliyah dictates everything. Says it helps her think. I think it’s because her handwriting is illegible and the only way she can type is with her thumbs.

“What else?” I wonder as I check out the surroundings. The barn is maybe a football field away from Interstate 70. Traffic stretches up and over a distant hill as looky-loos are distracted by the flashing police and emergency lights.

“Apparently he was a nice kid. Good worker. Lived in Park Hill, a few blocks from the office.” She nods in the direction of our station.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“So far.” she replies.

“We need to check the traffic cameras.” Maybe we’ll get lucky.

She doesn’t bother to look at the highway, but makes an audio note. Her dark eyes and skin absorb the light of the cell phone.

We walk into the relative dark and quiet of the barn.

It’s 6:04 AM and the sun peaks over the horizon.

--------

Charlie looks like he’s sleeping. If the back of his skull wasn’t missing, he could be a kid taking a nap on a bed of hay. There’s no blood, though. He wasn’t killed here.

“Any tire tracks around the barn?” I ask a nearby uniformed officer.

“About a million.” He replies.

“Start matching the tracks against the farm equipment and any other known vehicles on the property. See if anything doesn’t belong.”

He nods. Sighs. Leaves. Being a uniformed cop can be a shit job. It’s a lot of grunt work. We all go through it and I think it's important to treat them with respect, but it doesn’t mean that the job doesn’t suck sometimes.

“Mr. Dominick,” I call over to the frumpy cowboy, pulling his attention from his conversation with a taller man wearing work boots, jeans and a tight fitting t-shirt.

“Yes, sir.”

“My name is Detective Eric Vidal.” I motion towards Aliyah as she finishes her dictation and stuffs her cell phone in a pants pocket. “My partner is Detective Aliyah Rayan. We have some questions for you.”

He nods. He motions his head towards the rear of the barn and the other man leaves, picking up a shovel in the process.

Over the next half hour, we establish several critical details including the time the body was discovered: 4:37 AM; if the body was disturbed: it was; who found the body: Mr. Gio Dominick and Mr. Pietro “Tight Shirt” Lucero, the time the police were called: 4:41 AM and who identified the victim: Natalia Dominick, sister of Gio and daughter of Jerry Dominick.

“What else should we know, Mr. Dominick?”

“This was tied in a bow around the barn door.” Gio holds out a thick yellow ribbon. “I didn’t think anything of it until I found the body. Thought someone was playing a joke.” I call over a member of the crime scene unit who deposits the ribbon in a bag.

“We’ll need to speak with the others who saw the body.”

“I’ll have Pietro come talk to you. As for my Dad and sister, good luck with that. You’re welcome to try,” Gio shrugs and walks away. “But, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

-------------

The worst part is always telling the family of the victim.

Most cops find a way to numb themselves to the experience. Others can’t let go and carry each death like a weight on their soul. Some of us do both.

Me? I’m grateful. I’m grateful for my wife and my two beautiful kids. I’m grateful I get to go home to them. I’m grateful that it’s not my family dealing with this pain. Does that make me selfish? Maybe. In my job, it’s the only way I know how to get by. That, and every once in a while, an evil bastard gets exactly what he deserves.

“Ready?” I ask Aliyah.

“Fuck, no,” she replies “You?”

I shake my head and get out of the car. A boy who can’t be older than eight stares at us as we walk up the driveway, his eyes large and soulful.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m Aliyah and this is Eric.” she gives him a small smile that I hope doesn’t look too creepy. She’s not a parent and kids really aren’t her thing. “Are your parents home?”

“Sure,” he opens the door and shouts “Mom, Dad!”

Footsteps pound down the stairs.

And Charlie Hornhill stares down at us from the landing of the first flight of stairs.

I look at my partner who stares back.

“That’s not weird at all.”

Part 2 is coming next week!