Chapter 1
The suspect was led into a holding cell.
Officer George Boswell used a key to unlock the handcuffs, then pointed to a bench. “Have a seat. You’re going to be here awhile.”
Boswell was in his middle thirties. He was tall, stocky, and very sure of himself. His brown hair was cut short and his uniform was freshly laundered. A veteran of the force, he’d apprehended many suspects, and knew just how to handle them. Hiss strong right hand had been clamped around the suspect’s left bicep. The grip made for easy control. As part of standard procedure, Boswell’s partner, Officer Elaine Grant, stood behind him. She was there to make sure the suspect didn’t try to bolt. Grant was a full head shorter than her partner, but no less confident. While she was much thinner than Boswell, with much less bulk, she’d learned a number of techniques to subdue a suspect and counterbalance any size differential. Many was the time she stopped a bigger, angrier man in his tracks with a well placed foot to the gut or fist to the throat. She’d also managed to fling one or two over on their face and cuff them with practiced efficiency.
The suspect was a young man, perhaps not yet thirty, about six feet in height, with soft features and large hands. His face was set in a permanent scowl. His hair was short and brown and stuck out at odd angles. Boswell and Grant had roused him out of a sound sleep and dragged him down to the precinct. He had only regained consciousness while riding in the back of the squad car.
“I need to pee,” he whined.
Boswell pointed to the stainless steel commode. Then he turned and left the cell. The door slid home with a loud CLANG! He and Grant turned and left the room.
The suspect quickly unzipped and relieved himself, then used the adjacent wash basin to rinse his hands. He also splashed water on his face. Then he noticed there was no towel, and swore. He glanced about his surroundings, then noted there was a window set into the back wall. While the glass was laced with wire to prevent breakage and escape, the man felt a little cold and decided to let the sunlight warm him, even if just a little bit. He walked over and plopped down onto the bench.
The bench under him exploded.
Blood and flesh and splinters were thrown everywhere. The suspect was killed instantly. Boswell and Grant rushed back to find a horrific mess. Grant, unable to hold it, vomited onto the only clean space on the floor. After a moment, Boswell swallowed hard and hoped he wouldn’t do the same. Neither office bothered to call for medical assistance. It was already far too late.
