On my first day as a Detroit Homicide detective, I punched in at seven
o'clock. By eight thirty I was already wondering how I'd get all the
blood off of my shoes.
In my ten years of walking a beat in DelRay, I'd attended my share of
accident scenes, and broken up a few knife fights. I'd stood guard
over a couple of bullet riddled bodies. But I had never seen so much
blood before. The deceased was wedged into a dead end between the bar
and the reach in beer coolers, and he more than filled the space.
"Whadda think that ol' boy weighs?" my new partner, Roger, asked in
his Kentucky mountain accent. He was leaning across from the front of
the bar. He was keeping his shoes clean.
"I don't know. 300 pounds" I guessed. "Hard to tell without seeing him
standing up."
"Well, not much chance of that." Roger laughed.