Page 6 of Innocent Intent

“What do we have?” Detective Davis stood over the body of his newly acquired victim, Jerrod Williams, arms akimbo. His face was relaxed, expression schooled, aside from the intense stare he used when looking over the body and then the ME when she began to deliver the preliminary results.

“Three shots to the chest. One was lodged in the heart, which caused him to bleed out. I bagged up the bullets so you can take them with you.” She nodded with her forehead to the table beside Davis and continued. “He died shortly after. No signs of a struggle. No lacerations or bruising that wasn’t from the gunshots. The guy was in perfect health. Body is amazing.”

Davis shot her a hard stare, and she grinned and shrugged. This was his first time working with the current ME. She was younger, early thirties at most, and not yet affected by the steady flow of dead bodies she handled daily. Or at least he could only assume based on her inappropriate comment about the current victim.

“So, based on what you have so far, someone, potentially an invited guest, shot him due to the lack of struggle?”

“Based on my initial overview, yes, but that would be determined by you, Detective. If there wasn’t any forced entry at the scene, then I’d say this wasn’t the work of an intruder. He didn’t fight back. Based on the angle and trajectory, the first shot appears to be the one that took him down. The second and third were basically overkill. His heart was already bleeding out by the time the last two shots were delivered. Crime of passion, maybe.”

He snorted at the amusing banter she delivered. “My job, not yours, but thanks for the input. I’ll need a copy of that report.”

“Of course. I’ll send it over once I’ve signed off on it. Is there anything else I can help you with, Detective?” He wasn’t thrilled with the flirty smile she offered, but he wasn’t surprised by it either. He had become immune to the attention and whispers at this point in his career.

Davis wasn’t oblivious to how others—women, especially—viewed him. At six-three, his lean, athletic frame reflected the time he spent at the gym boxing to let off steam. His medium brown skin with red undertones was passed down from his mother, and his square jaw, deep chocolate eyes, and full lips were from his father. The two, at times, passed as siblings versus father and son. Or at least, they had before his father was killed. Nathanial Davis was a very handsome and fit man who women appreciated.

“Thanks,” he muttered on his way out.

An hour later, Davis was walking back into the precinct, met with a few unwelcome stares from other detectives. Stares he smirked at and then ignored. He bypassed his desk and headed straight for the break room to get a bottle of water, only to be cornered by the reason for all the dirty looks he received from his colleagues.

“Here.”

Harper tossed the thick case file on the counter near where Davis was standing.

Davis’s eyes lowered to the folder as he untwisted the cap to his water bottle and took a drink, swallowing slowly. A smug grin crossed his face seconds before he spoke.

“What’s this, a peace offering? Olive branch, maybe?”

“Fuck you, Davis. I don’t need to extend shit to you, most certainly not a peace offering.”

“As the leader around here, I would assume you’d want to lead by example. Picking fights with the newbie isn’t a responsible move.” Like always, Davis’s demeanor was relaxed and unbothered. He cared very little about the opinions of his peers—especially not Harper’s. Harper was a decent enough guy but had a God complex that often guided him to command the respect that hadn’t been earned or given in return. Davis wasn’t the type to fall in line.

“Since you know the order of things around here, seems to me like you would make smarter decisions about how you deal with things. Might make your time here less confrontational.”

The heated glare Harper delivered brought back the smugness of Davis’s smile. “I don’t give a shit how any of you feel about me. You do your job, and I’ll do mine. When the job involves us crossing over and working side-by-side, I’ll show the respect I’m given. That’s how I see things, and that’s not changing for you or anyone else here.”

Davis didn’t give a damn about being liked. He was more concerned with being respected. People liked you based on their feelings or emotions. Being respected was founded on indisputable facts about how one operated and carried themselves. Character was far more important to Davis than personality.

“No one survives this type of job without allies, but you know that, don’t you? There are whispers about why you transferred here, Davis.”

Harper held his stare, feeling accomplished for returning the same gut punch that Davis had delivered to him hours earlier. They both had pasts. Davis only chuckled lightly, lifting the file and holding it up with one hand while gripping the half-empty bottle of water with the other.

“Thanks for this.” He walked away, pausing a few steps outside the break room. He could feel the heat from Harper’s stare but didn’t bother to face him when he spoke again.

“And just so we’re clear, you and no one else here knows shit about me. Might want to get a grip on the whispering thing. That’s not a good look for grown-ass men. More of a characteristic for gossiping teen girls.”

He walked away without a retort from Harper. Davis didn’t care if he pissed off the precinct’s golden boy. Harper’s approval or allegiance wasn’t necessary for him to survive. As long as Davis did his job efficiently, then they could all fuck off.

At his desk, Davis moved carefully through the evidence he currently had: crime scene photos, bagged evidence, and DNA analysis. The only DNA found on the scene belonged to the victim and the cleaning lady who’d found the body. There was nothing significant about the crime scene either. No forced entry, which either meant they’d caught him as he was entering or he knew the assailant and had allowed them entry into the apartment. The latter was likely the case, considering there were no signs of a struggle. Nothing was overturned or out of place—no damage to any furniture other than the blood stain that pooled around the victim’s body. The bullets had been lodged in the victim and removed by the ME.

“Too clean,” he mumbled to himself. Which then had him considering the obvious. Cassidy Evans very well could have done this. She could have had access to the apartment. He flipped through the witness statements, stopping at the one given by the cleaning lady.

Amira Sanchez.

Female, midtwenties, cleaned the place weekly.

Amira mentioned she used an access code to enter the apartment. Williams provided the code after hiring the service.

He scanned further and noticed that she mentioned he traveled a lot, but she had no clue what he did for a living. They didn’t interact much. He wasn’t there often when she serviced the unit, but he was kind, friendly, and pleasant each time they communicated. A good man. Her exact words.

---