The Jury Master Read Online Free PDF Page A

enforcement agencies. J. Rayburn Franklin, Charles Town’s chief of police, had told him more than once to play nice with the other boys, that they were all on the same team and all that other law enforcement bullshit. But Molia just wasn’t the tongue-biting type, and at the moment he had that acidic fire burning in his gut that had nothing to do with the Italian sausage and everything to do with twenty years of experience. Something wasn’t right.
    “No doubt, John, except we also have a possible homicide.”
    “Homicide?” Thorpe smirked. “This doesn’t look like a homicide to me, Detective. This looks like an old-fashioned suicide.”
    The smirk was not a good idea. Along with his love of food, Molia had inherited an Italian temper, which was like mercury in a thermometer—hard to keep down once it started rising. Molia took the smirk as the “big boys” taking a shot at the country bumpkin detective.
    “Maybe, John, but Cooperman wouldn’t have known that until he got here, now, would he?”
    “Well . . .”
    “And if it is a homicide, it’s the jurisdiction of both park police and local, and local beat you boys hands down.”
    “Hands down?”
    “Makes Cooperman the responding officer.”
    Thorpe whacked at the tall grass with continued disinterest, but Molia could see the look already forming in his eye. Thorpe hadn’t climbed back down the bluff and stood in the sun because he wanted to strike up a friendship. He was worried he was about to lose the big buck he’d bagged, and was standing over it like a proud hunter not about to give it up.
    “I don’t know what he responded to, but he ain’t here, Detective.
We
are,” he said, referring to the park police. “At least you can take the rest of the morning off.” Thorpe rubbed the palm of his hand over the top of his head. “Lucky you. You won’t be standing around here baking your brains.”
    “Afraid not,” Molia said, rejecting the olive branch. He was about to drop his bomb, and when he did, no one was going to like him much, particularly not the bumblebees at the top of the hill. It wouldn’t be the first time, not that Tom Molia cared. What he cared about was his gut, which the roll of Tums in the Chevy glove compartment wasn’t going to soothe.
    “I’m going to have to take jurisdiction of the body.”
    Thorpe stopped whacking the grass. “You’re going to what?”
    “Take jurisdiction of the body. Responding officer takes jurisdiction, John.”
    “You’re looking at the responding officer.”
    “Nope. Bert Cooperman was the responding officer. Charles Town Police. Body goes to the county coroner.”
    Thorpe’s face rounded to a dulled expression. “Cooperman isn’t here. You’re looking at the responding officer, Detective.”
    “Who called you, John?”
    “Who?”
    “Park dispatch called you, didn’t it?”
    “Yeah—”
    “And how did they get the call?” He let the question sink in.
    “Well . . .” Thorpe stuttered, seeing his buck being dragged deeper into the underbrush.
    “Well, the body goes to the county coroner. It’s procedure.”
    “Procedure?” Thorpe pointed up the hill, smirking again. “You going to tell
them
that?”
    “No,” Molia said, shaking his head.
    “I didn’t think so.” Thorpe turned.
    “You are.”
    Thorpe wheeled. “What!”
    “You’re going to tell them.”
    “The hell I am!”
    “The hell you aren’t. You got the call from dispatch. Dispatch got the call from a Charles Town police officer. The body goes to the county coroner. If the feds want to go through the proper channels to have it released, so be it. Until then, we follow procedure. You’re obligated to enforce it. This is your site. You secured it.” Molia smiled.
    “Are you serious?”
    “As a heart attack.”
    Thorpe had a habit of shutting his eyes, like a child who thought it would make everything bad go away. When he did his eyelids fluttered. At the moment they looked like two big monarch