Chapter 8: A Bad Way to Die

Finally, Albright grins. Chuckles. He steps past me-not backward, which is important-and takes out a pack of cigarettes. He lights up another one. Puffs casually.

"Jean-Luc Albright," he says, sighing out smoke and rubbing his temples. "Whatever you're going to do, get it over with so we can all get the hell out of here."

"Jack Tarelli," I say. "May I?"

He waves a dismissive hand toward the floor. I take the cue and kneel down to take a look.

This part of the floor is higher ground; unlike most of the factory, it's relatively dry. Congealed blood coats the concrete nearly half an inch thick in some places. Thinner streaks run out along the perimeter. There's no sign of footprints in the blood, which strikes me as strange.

"Any leads on who called in the tip?" I ask.

"Who told you about that?" asks Albright.

"You, just now," I say.

Albright actually chuckles again. "Ass," he says. "Yes, it was an anonymous tip. Caller said Nathan Harland would be found dead at this address."

"Ten to one odds the caller was the killer," I say.

"No way to know yet," Albright says. "Body probably wouldn't have been found for a long time, otherwise. Nobody around here but bums and junkies. The whole district is a ghost town. They should just blast it."

"Clear-cut murder?" I ask.

"Better believe it," he says. "Whoever did it wanted him to suffer. Shot six times. Both knees, both elbows, both eyes. I'm guessing in that order."

"That explains all the blood," I say. "Major arteries, plus shock value with the limbs. Then overkill with the eyes. A bad way to die."

"Overkill is right. Nearly blew the top of his head off."

"The top?" I take my hat off, scratch my bare head, a bit envious of Albright's gray-speckled dark hair. Nice and thick. Mine hasn't looked like that since I was twenty-five. "Any weapons recovered?"

"None. Harland wasn't armed, either. He must not have come expecting a fight."

"What makes you say that?" I ask.

"For one, he wasn't carrying so much as a pocketknife-"

"No. I mean what makes you think he came here? You're assuming he was here of his own will. Don't assume anything."

Albright bristles a little at that remark, probably he remembers who he's talking to. A PI. A gumshoe. A shamus. The lowest of the low, in the opinion of a commissioned detective. I know. I've been on both sides.

"Was he robbed?" I ask.

Albright grabs something from a nearby cop and hands it to me. It's an evidence bag. I take it carefully, holding it up to the lights to look through its transparent skin. Inside is a gold watch with a crystal face-probably worth more than Albright's salary-and a bloodstained, leather wallet.

"Anything in the wallet?" I ask, knowing better than to try looking for myself. That would ruin my welcome real fast.

"ID, about a thousand credits in bills, some bank cards, and a couple datachips worth who knows how much."

I hand the bag back to Albright. A lot of money in there. Even if the motive wasn't financial, who wouldn't take this stuff? Was the killer too worked up at the time to be thinking clearly? Or somebody who doesn't need money?

"You got pictures of the body?" I ask.

"No can do," says Albright.

"I don't want to take them anywhere, just to have a look."

Albright growls in annoyance. It looks like his cigarette's about to split between his teeth. "Then you're gone," he says.

"Then I'm gone."

He gestures to one of the nearby officers, who is quick to comply. He brings over a datapad, which he keeps firmly in his grasp, but he allows me to look at each picture for a moment as he scrolls through.

I see various angles of the somewhat portly body of Nathan Harland lying face-up on the factory floor with dark, ragged wounds. Due to the gunshot wounds to his knees and elbows, his lower legs and forearms lie at strange angles. His mouth hangs open a little like he's watching a bad movie, but where his eyes should be are only two coin-sized holes. I can see no other noticeable injuries except for some discoloration around his neck.

The officer scrolls past another picture, but I reach up and quickly scroll back-Nathan Harland from the neck up.

"Albright," I say. "The exits on the head. Near the top of the cranium?"

"Yeah."

"Looks like almost a forty-five-degree angle, upward."

"The coroner will tell us," Albright says. He takes the datapad away and nods to the other officers. "Let's pack up, boys."

I give the crime scene a final glance and turn to leave, but Albright grabs the shoulder of my coat. I turn back around.

"I do not want to see you again tonight," he says.

"Feeling's mutual," I say.

"I mean it. Stay out of our way, or there'll be trouble."

"Let me give you some friendly advice."

"What?"

I lean in close, so that only he can hear me. "Get your hand off me, or I will break your damn fingers. All of them."

He tightens his grip. "Then I'll arrest you for assaulting an officer."

"With broken fingers, you will."

Albright lets go. I leave.