Chapter One

An unarmed security guard has two weapons: common sense and a maglight. An armed security guard has, of course, the added protection of a firearm, but without these tools, a gun is likely to be a liability. The former cannot be issued, though one might hope it is developed before the guard arrives at his first post. The latter is important if the guard wishes fend off an attacker with something stronger than his own arm or if he wishes to see into the dark creases of space he is paid to observe.

It is also handy, though perhaps not recommended, if one wants to break the window of a locked car, inside of which one has found a woman who has been shot.

Wilson Bell was doing precisely this on only the third day of his job. He smashed the butt of his light against the front passenger window of the canary yellow Camero, then unlocked the back door against which the girl's body was leaning. He checked the neck for a pulse and finding none, was about to try CPR, but closer proximity to the wound told him that he need not bother.

Only on his way into the building to call the police did he throw up. He later figured that he had happened reacted so fast that only when he stumbled over an unseen object did his brain and stomach conspire with his chili against him.

He called the police, then his supervisor. The groggy but stern voice on the other end gave Bell the impression that even this was not reason enough to call at this hour.

"What is it?" the voice of Leroy Burr growled.

"A murder, sir," Wilson Bell said. "Someone has been killed here."

"Who is this?"

"Bell. At--"

"Don't you know you are supposed to call the service, and they get the privilege of waking me up at. . .good grief, Bell, it is three in the morning!"

Wilson thought about mentioning that the contact sheet, which was in front of him, had said to call the supervisor on duty at home in cases of dire emergency or where a felony has occurred. But he abbreviated the thought by repeating, "There has been a murder."

Nothing. Wilson was afraid that his supervisor had fallen asleep and was just saying "Hello?" when Leroy Burr seemed to catch the gravity of the situation.

"Police notified?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, don't sweat it Wilson. I'm on my way." Then Wilson heard a click and knew he was alone for a little longer.

The officers called to the scene, knowing that a rookie security guard was working the Chevy dealership, did not hurry. Thus, Wilson Bell stood beside the phone he used to call the police and then his boss for an what seemed an interminable length of time. Then, as if the silence in the building had snuck up behind him and said, "Boo!" he ran out and walked slowly to the car and body.

He no longer needed the maglight to see she was dead and he wondered why he couldn't tell before. But he trained the beam on what was left of her face anyway. It was a face he suspected had always been pretty. It was a face, he would find out, that had expressed much sorrow and had produced many smiles, if not actual joy.

After several seconds, his paralyzed stare abated. He noticed not only the half shot up face, but the blood, loads of it, on top of a dress that would later be described as both tawdry and flattering. The side of the head that had been most damaged was exposed, bits of bone and brain displaying a pink color that was all the more obscene when compared to the other side of the face with most of the makeup intact. The mascara had, however, obviously run.

Wilson was wondering why he was there, what made him want to look over the lifeless body on the ground in front of him, why the cops were taking so long, why he wasn't now throwing up.

The girl's dress was torn down the middle from the neck about her belly, and her pale white skin shone through. He saw what appeared to be dark smudges of blood on the girl's neck, but when he directed his light toward her, he noted that the smudges were purple.

He heard an expletive behind him. Wilson turned suddenly, as if to use his maglight to ward off a rear attacking demon. He saw Leroy walking towards him, shaking his head and repeating the expletive. Wilson Bell then let out a sigh of relief.

"What a mess!" Leroy exclaimed.

"Yeah," answered Wilson.

"Didn't you call the cops?"

"Long time ago." Wilson looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes. Must be a lot of killings in this town."

"Not really. But they might be getting doughnuts." Leroy laughed at his joke and Wilson tried vaguely to accommodate. Then Leroy added seriously, "Maybe they don't believe you."

"Come again?"

"Well, cops don't always respect us or like us around, especially when a crime has been committed. Lots of reasons."

Inwardly, Wilson was astonished that only three days after getting a job whose sole requirements seemed to be a clean criminal record and a willingness to stay up all night, he was "talking shop" only a few yards away from a murdered young woman. But his expression said, "Tell me more."

Leroy continued. "They think guys that are new are too scared to think right and report stuff that doesn't happen. They think experienced guards are all trying to play Billy Bad Ass, and thus get in the way."

"That's nuts."

"Sure, but there are plenty of guards, maybe most, that help that along."

They were silent awhile, as if remembering the dead girl they were watching over. Wilson remembered his interview. There was more to him getting the job, he thought. Leroy had expressed first doubt, then happiness that Wilson had some experience in judo. He was worried that Wilson might turn a little knowledge into a license to bully and thus cause more trouble than he would be stopping. But the supervisor was reassured when Wilson told him that he only knew enough to spar with his son, a black belt, and to keep from getting hurt in a bar fight.

"What would you do if you were in a bar fight?" Leroy Burr had asked.

"Run. I'd be pretty worried if I found myself in a bar at all, let alone fighting in one."

That sealed the job. Now he stood wondering if he shouldn't have lied.