“Grim, isn’t it?”
Sergeant Adkins’ voice droned at me from behind; a nagging, dull tone pointing out every obvious element of the crime scene.
“Yes, sir. Quite grim.”
New York’s finest blanketed the street, just another Brooklyn neighborhood — music blaring from one building, reefer smoke and soft halogen lamps from the next. And in the middle of it, a squared off piece of pavement where a man lay dead.
“Same M.O., ain’t it?”
Yes, same M.O., I thought to myself as I knelt down next to the body. Male, 24, dressed as casually as a 20-something could be. No trauma, no blood, and no sign of a struggle, but like the dozen we’ve found spread out against this city’s skin dead as a doornail.
“I tell ya, Stephens, these deaths are starting to get to me. I mean, gunshots and stabbings I can handle, but how do you deal with a death where…well, where the victim is…”
“Full of baloney.”
Adkins swallowed hard as the rest of the squad went silent, everyone’s eyes coming to meet mine. No one wanted to say it aloud, no one could explain it.
“The victims,” I said, “…are full of baloney.”
I stood silently.
“Where are you going? We ain’t done here…”
Adkins started after me, but I cut him short.
“I have a call to make.”
“A call? To who?”
I turned and faced him.
“To someone who owes me a favor.”
IN THEATERS THIS SUMMER: THE CHARCUTERIE
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