What the hell? At first he experienced no pain, only spreading warmth. Then came the burning hurt and the realization he was “in the shit.” As Price’s mind bridged the gap between green and red, he realized he should be drawing his pistol. His right hand on weapon, Price heard something on the deck behind him. He unsnapped his retention holster, lifted the Glock and turned—only to get knocked off his feet and through the back door. The warmth in his back became excruciating when he landed on the kitchen floor. His tormented mind registered a piercing noise, a brightening of the room, then pressure on his arms and torso. His eyes focused. Looming above him was Sergeant Jonathan Thorpe.

Fuck.

THORPE’S PLANS OF INTERROGATINGPRICE were dashed. The arrow from Thorpe’s compound bow didn’t have the incapacitating effect he’d hoped for, and the speed with which Price reacted was surprising. The man had been close to clearing his holster by the time Thorpe reached him. His safest option had been to knock him off his feet. Unfortunately, the blow had knocked Price straight through the back door, reactivating the house alarm.

The recognition of imminent death in Price’s eyes gave Thorpe a measure of satisfaction. He buried a large hunting knife in Price’s neck, severing both the internal and external carotid arteries as well as the internal jugular vein. He must have also penetrated Price’s spinal cord because death was instant. Purposely leaving the knife in his victim, he removed the dead man’s radio and cell phone and backed out the door.

Thorpe recovered his bow and case and exited the opening in the fence. As he made his way through the woods and down the steep hill he tossed the bow to the side and continued toward his car. Just before reaching the greenbelt, he knelt and retrieved a plastic bag from a pocket. Thorpe pulled off his gloves and put them in the bag, then pulled on a different pair and continued walking to the car.

Safely in the Ford, Thorpe drove south until he found a secluded area to reattach the license plate. He also activated the emergency button on Price’s radio; he saw no sense in having a family traumatized by returning to find a slain police officer in their home. The activation of the emergency button would have officers respond immediately to Price’s last known location. His lifeless body would be discovered within minutes.

Friday

February 9

Early Morning

AS SUPERVISOR OF THE DEPARTMENT’S Homicide Unit, Sergeant Robert Hull didn’t respond to every murder scene. He did respond to most—and absolutely responded to any killing involving a police officer, especially when the officer was the victim. When Hull answered his page at 1:30 this morning, he’d been told a TPD officer had been killed on an alarm call and that no suspects were in custody. He hadn’t asked for the officer’s name; he wasn’t eager to know.

As Hull approached the entrance to the neighborhood, he encountered a patrol unit restricting access to the area. The officer manning the post waved him through, and Hull wove his way into the neighborhood. As he grew closer, he noticed the towers of several news vans. The carrion-enticed media were circling the fresh kill. There would be no shortage of discussion for the talking heads this Friday morning.

Hull passed the hungry-eyed reporters and continued to another checkpoint manned by three officers and police tape. He parked behind a string of modest, American-made sedans lining the street. As he stepped from his car, a blast of arctic air prompted him to return for his gloves before walking toward a large home that appeared to be the center of activity. He ducked under more tape as an officer in uniform marked his arrival on a clipboard.

“They’re all around back, Sarge. There’s a gate on your left.”

Hull nodded, walked across the yard’s dormant grass, through the gate, and around the corner of the home, where he was met by his gaunt detective. Chuck Lagrone stood shin deep in an ocean of leaves.

“Skull, whatta we got?”

“I’ve never seen a killing like this before, boss, let alone a cop. You know who it is right?”

Hull had been afraid to ask. “No.”

“Stephen Price.”

Hull released his held breath, relieved it hadn’t been an officer he was close to—or even liked for that matter. Then he experienced guilt over his initial reaction. His dueling emotions must have been apparent.

“Don’t worry about it, Bob. I didn’t care much for him either.”

“His uncle been notified yet?”

“Got two uniforms and a chaplain en route to his house. Should be arriving any minute now.”

“Better get some more officers on the perimeter. We don’t need him showing up and knocking down our crime scene.”

“I’ll put some guys on it. Come on, Bob, you better see this one for yourself, even if you don’t want to.”

The two men rounded the deck and ascended the wooden stairs, taking care not to step on potential evidence. The rear door stood open. Price lay on his back just inside the kitchen, his dark form in sharp contrast to the stark white tile. The first thing Hull saw was the large knife protruding from the side of Price’s neck. When he got closer he noticed the shaft of a metal arrow beneath the body. A significant amount of blood had pooled on the floor around the head. Hull was taken aback.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Fucked up, ain’t it?”

“That’s an understatement,” Hull breathed, then, “How pure is this scene?”

“Three officers stepped over the body and cleared the rest of the house for suspects. Two firemen entered and pronounced Price dead. After that, everyone exited the house and locked it down. The list of people who have been crawling around the backyard is more extensive. SIU is already finished with their video.” SIU was the department’s Special Investigation Unit. Its detectives were responsible for collecting evidence at major crime scenes.

“Damn. This isn’t your typical cop killing; he’s been assassinated.”

“Fucking looks that way.”

“He wearing a vest?”

“Yeah. The arrow penetrated. Don’t know how deep yet. Need to do some more processing before we start poking around the body.”

“Fuck. Tell me everything you know so far.”

Lagrone raised his notes and lowered his reading glasses. “According to dispatch, Price went 10-46 in his car at 2345 hours and 10-8 at 0015 hours. At 0035 dispatch received a rear-entry alarm at this residence—we’ll check with Smart Dog to get an exact time the alarm was tripped. At 0036 hours, dispatch assigned the call to Price who stated he would advise. At 0050, Price went 10-97. At 0101 hours, Price’s emergency button was activated on his handheld radio. At 0108, the first officer responding to the emergency activation arrived. At 0110, the responding officer reports an officer down; he requests EMSA, a supervisor and additional units. Fire arrives before EMSA and pronounces Price DOA, while three officers clear the rest of the house. When they’re done they tell the firemen to get out, then they walk out the front door so they don’t have to step over the body again. Additional officers clear the backyard and notice the lock to the shed has been cut off. They also discover several boards have been removed along the back fence.”

Lagrone motioned back toward the area where the boards were missing. “The fence is in pretty good shape, and it looks like the boards were recently pried loose. That’s all I got right now, boss.”

“Shit. This is fucked up, Skull. A damned bow and hunting knife! Son of a bitch.” Both men were unconsciously looking down with unfocused eyes at Price’s body while shaking their heads. “What about the homeowners?”