We’d gathered in the lane at the rear of the condo, when Lieutenant John Rogers noticed blood—drops of blood, on the back gate. What the hell? We stopped dead in our tracks and looked at one another. Could Dennis Fung have overlooked this crucial evidence on the morning of the thirteenth? We stopped everything and called for a criminalist. The realization that we’d probably just stumbled upon another incredible fuckup cast a pall over the party.
