Detective Vincent Bayonne stood beneath a lamppost on the edge of Woodland Park. He held a sack lunch in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His Army-green jacket hung loose on his thin frame, but his flannel shirt fit him well, tucked into his jeans. He watched Kane from beneath his Detroit Pistons cap. He stuck his cigarette between his lips, an island of flesh in a sea of graying beard that extended from his ears to his solar plexus. He held the sack lunch toward Kane.
Vincent Bayonne was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. His mother was a housewife and his father an auto mechanic. His parents taught him to believe in the United States, Capitalism, and hard work. In some ways, he still holds those beliefs, but his experiences in Vietnam forced him to question how he’d been raised. He attended Mumford High School, played basketball, and ran track. He always liked history but never considered attending college.
Bayonne served in Vietnam ’64-68, three tours as a marine medic. He met a girl in Vietnam and re-upped for the second tour because he wanted to see her again and his best friend was willing to re-up too. His best friend died. He re-upped for the third tour because he didn’t know what he would do back in the states. He married the girl and moved to Central City for work.
He attended the police academy when he left the service and spent seven years on patrol and sixteen as a detective, first in narcotics and then homicide.
Kane liked Detective Vincent Bayonne. Bayonne looked like a mountain man and a long-haul trucker had a coyote for a baby, but he had intuition. To hear him tell it, especially after a few too many drinks, murder spoke to him. All he had to do was listen. That might’ve been a crock of shit. Bayonne was a drunk circling the drain, but he was also the smartest cop Kane had ever met, and surprisingly honest, even with himself, even if he did believe he was a diviner of death.
Long brown hair and full beard, speckled with grey. Blue, almond-shaped eyes. Long face.