Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

announcing to anyone with a police scanner that the drunk sleeping in the car was really a dead guy with a bullet hole behind his left ear. When the tirade ended, Corey calmly got on the radio.
    “Bobby, this is Corey. I’d like you to take a deep breath and calm down. I want you to do two things: First, secure the perimeter around the car. Then make sure nobody contaminates the scene. Got it.”
    “Okay, Chief.”
    “And Bobby, don’t worry about contacting the complainant or looking for witnesses. We can do that later. Just secure the scene until I get there.”
    When Corey arrived, he carefully approached the cream-colored Ford Escort and looked through the driver’s side window. The deceased was slumped forward with his head resting on the steering wheel. In his left hand, which was in his lap, Corey saw some type of small-caliber revolver. There wasn’t much visible blood, but he definitely saw a small hole behind the left ear, just as his patrol officer had reported. He didn’t open the car door or touch the vehicle.
    When he returned to the patrol car, Corey turned and asked the young officer, “Bobby, did you touch the car or the body in the car?”
    “No, sir,” replied Patrolman Bobby Sanders. “When I first walked over to the vehicle, Chief, I noticed what I thought might be a little bit of dried blood on the guy’s neck, and then I saw the small hole behind his ear. I looked at him through the front windshield, and I could see those eyes, sir, dead eyes. I went right back to my cruiser and radioed for assistance.”
    “Okay, Bobby, good,” replied Corey. “At first glance, this looks to me like it’s probably a self-inflicted wound, but since we can’t be one hundred percent sure, it’s important to treat the case as a possible homicide until the investigation tells us something different.”
    “Right, Chief,” replied Sanders, trying his best to disguise his resentment over the Chief’s lecture of basic criminal investigation procedure he’d learned in the state police academy four months earlier.
    Corey asked the county dispatch center to contact the state crime lab and the Utah Medical Examiner’s Office for assistance. He then ran a registration check on the Ford Escort and learned that it belonged to Charles Watts, whose address showed a Salt Lake City post office box. The state motor vehicle office produced driver’s license information which closely matched the physical description of the body in the car.
    “Well, what do you think, Bobby?” Corey asked.
    “I think we got ourselves a match, Chief. He looks a little heavier than what’s on his driver’s license, but the age, height, and hair color seem about right.”
    “That’s what I think too.”
    Corey used his cell phone and called the department. He directed the receptionist to telephone each of the West Wendover casinos to determine whether any of them had rented a room to Charles Watts. A few minutes later, the receptionist returned his call and reported that Watts had checked into the Red Garter Hotel and Casino as a single, early the previous day.
    Corey left Sanders and a newly arrived deputy from the County Sheriff’s Office to protect the crime scene while he drove over to the Red Garter. He met the general manager and the hotel’s director of security. Together they entered Watts’ room.
    At first glance, the room looked no different than that of any other hotel guest. The bath contained a small travel kit with deodorant, razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and toothpaste scattered about on the sink’s Formica counter. One pair of pants and a single shirt hung in the closet. On the night stand next to the bed lay a copy of Hustler magazine. A small zippered duffel bag lay on the bed. It contained assorted clothing and a plastic sandwich bag, with what appeared to be a small amount of marijuana, a hash pipe, and some Zig-Zag papers. On top of the small desk lay a handwritten note on hotel stationery signed by Watts. It read:
    Sorry to do this to you Sis, but my life is out of control—really out of control this time. I’m back into the drugs again and I do awful things when I’m high. I won’t let them send me back. I can’t live like that. Life is fucked. This is the best way out for me. I love you Sis.
    Chuck
    Corey reread the note and wondered just what kind of awful things the deceased was talking about. He took the suicide note and the drugs as evidence. He asked the security director to lock