"He would have to be pretty damn strong to pick up a dead guy. You know how it is. They flop all over the place."
"Plus they're dead weight," Shannon said, his face straight. Marc hid a chuckle, turning it into a cough so the television cameras wouldn't pick up the image of a callous cop laughing over the body. Cops had to laugh, otherwise they wouldn't be able to bear the carnage they saw.
"Maybe the blood donor walked away under his own steam," Shannon suggested. "There's not much blood."
"Neither is there a blood trail that I can see, though drops would be hard to spot on a wet sidewalk in the dark. What did he do, administer first aid to himself quickly enough, cleanly enough, that not even one drop hit the ground?"
Shannon shook his head in answer to Marc's question. Even a cut finger tended to drip before the blood could be staunched. "So… you think there were two or more perps, and the missing guy was loaded up and carried away."
"You catch on fast."
"What do you think it was, a drug deal gone bad or some bums arguing over a cardboard house?"
"I don't know. There would be at least three parties involved, and that doesn't feel right. Our victim, who was armed, didn't get a chance to protect himself, so that means he was taken by surprise. There aren't any witnesses, any weapons, any known motive."
Shannon glanced at the crowd. "So what do we do?"
"Go through the motions." It was a hard fact of life, but no police department in the country would expend a lot of effort on catching the murderer of a street bum. Marc was ruthlessly pragmatic; the city's resources were limited, so the money and effort should be spent where it would do the most good, protecting the normal, law-abiding citizens who worked and paid taxes and went to their kids' ball games. "If he's ex-military, the way we think, at least we should be able to ID him."
"Yeah." Shannon stood. "Too bad it had to be tourists who found him." Without the tourists, this would all have been handled without fuss. With the pressure on to keep the murder rate down, there were occasional rumors that a body had been quietly taken across the river to Jefferson Parish and dumped there, so the murder wouldn't show up on New Orleans's statistics. Marc had personally never done that, never asked, so he couldn't say if it really happened or not. In New Orleans, anything was possible. It was just as possible that the rumor was the result of someone overhearing a couple of cops saying they wished they could dump a body somewhere. But the rumor added to New Orleans's reputation and, true or not, had become part of the local lore.
"The fuss will die down," he said briefly. "The press will make a big deal of it on the morning news, we'll identify him as homeless, there'll be a mention of it on the evening news, and then it's history." Shannon shrugged, accepting reality as readily as Marc did. He looked around at the shabby old buildings. "You live in the Quarter, don't you?"
They walked back to the body. "Yeah, I've got a house on St. Louis."
"How'd you manage that, man?"
"Inherited it from my grandmother."
"No shit? So you're from one of those old Creole families?"
"My grandmother was. My father was shanty Irish." Marc didn't add that he had grown up in the house on St. Louis; he didn't flaunt his background. Making a big deal of his heritage would be stupid. Besides,
there was nothing to flaunt. His father hadn't been able to keep a job, so, rather than see her daughter and grandson live in progressively worse dumps until they were finally homeless, his grandmother had taken them in and tolerated, reluctantly, her son-in-law's presence as the price she must pay for peace of mind. His grandmother had always acted like a dethroned queen, but the family money had long since dwindled away, and all that was left was the big house in the Quarter. Marc didn't think of himself as Creole; he was simply an American. More than that, he was a damn good cop, hard-nosed enough to recognize there were times when he could make a difference and times when he couldn't. This was one of the times when he couldn't, and he didn't waste time beating himself up over it.
Still, as he looked down at the victim, he couldn't help wondering if the guy had any family, where they were, if they would even care that he was dead. Most of the street bums were trash, too lazy to work, into drugs and petty crimes. But some of them were mentally incapacitated, incapable of looking out for themselves, and Marc didn't have any patience with the families who simply turned these people out to shift for themselves. Yes, they were a lot of trouble, a hell of a lot of trouble, but they couldn't help it, and families were supposed to take care of their own. Maybe he was old-fashioned, but his grandmother had put family above everything, and her example had stuck.
Marc squatted by the body again, studying the dead eyes, wondering at the scenario that had been played out here in the middle of the Quarter without anyone hearing or seeing anything suspicious. No gunshots had been reported, though at least four had been fired. Silencer? That made him think pro, and pro made him think organized crime, not street drug dealer. This guy didn't have the look of a user, anyway; under the dirt, he looked to be fairly muscular and well fed. Street bums could eat as well as anyone these days, with all the shelters and soup kitchens, but users weren't much interested in food. And dealers usually weren't homeless; they needed a base of operations.
He rubbed his nose. This didn't feel like drugs. Maybe the guy just pissed off the wrong party; maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and some wiseguy took him down. Likely he'd never know, but damn, he hated mysteries.