Louis Shalako

Wednesday, January 11, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 28. Louis Shalako.

Roger, Langeron that is. And the wife or mistress, whichever the case may be.

Louis Shalako.

The food was good and then there was Steve from Vancouver.

The food was good—very good.

It wasn’t just that the cooking was good. It was more than good—the presentation showed the hand of a real master, hovering in some aggressive perfectionism over a kitchen of real devotees, all of whom were engaged in a labor of love.

Introductions had been made, and they had all gotten acquainted to some extent. To Gilles’ relief, no one had made any real reaction to his name, but they were all foreigners, which was a stroke of luck.

Americans, British, one Italian and one of the single ladies was from Brazil. Some Canadian guy leaning over from the next table, obviously interested in one or all of the more single and unaccompanied ladies…this was Steve from Vancouver.

Staff were clearing dishes, coffee and brandy was being offered. Sooner or later, the folks at the head table would decide it was time for the speeches. People were lighting up, males mostly, but some of the ladies as well…he was sort of awed by one grand dame, with some sort of ebony cigarette holder as long as her arm. The lorgnette, glasses on a stick as Ann had said once, was almost unnecessary, as she peered through the eye-piece, unexpectedly fixating on him, and giving a languid finger-wave, moving on with her examination of those around her.

He’d always sort of liked the smell of lighter fluid, as he hit on the end of his own cigar.

Gilles would stub it out in a minute or so, and yet, inevitably he would come back to it. It really was a vile habit.

Off in one corner was a platform, and a small orchestra it seemed, was setting up. Twenty-five pieces, according to the program, jazz, pop and classical. Some sort of lady singer, in a long and silvery dress, as he congratulated himself upon his observations. Big deal. A distinguished looking guy seemed to be presiding over them, and it would start up soon enough—

And then there was the dancing. Margot.

She had eyes too, right.

Their eyes met. He inclined his head, shrugging slightly.

They would cross that bridge when they came to it, with as much grace and dignity as they could muster.

Margot was laughing at him.

Again—

That, was one very dangerous woman.

Her mouth opened and she stared.

He turned to look.

“Oh, my. Is—is that Joseph?” She clamped down and shook her head.

Oh, my, is that Joseph...???

They were supposed to ignore each other, if possible.

The little man, in a plaid cape, for crying out loud…a fucking Sherlock hat, and the pipe, and yes, a big magnifying glass. Which would have taken three hands, but he was doing all right with only two. Carrying a rather full brandy snifter, passing by on his way to somewhere else, he turned and gave Gilles a big wink. Puffing away on the most monstrous cigar…

Oh, for crying out loud—you couldn’t actually see LeBref anymore, but one could follow his progress by the laughs and shouted remarks as the noise in the room picked up.

Would it never end.

There was that wine glass again.

The future is always rosier when viewed through the bottom of a glass. That was D’Artagnan or somebody in some old French novel. The Three Musketeers, Alexander Dumas, which he had read as a boy.

At least he thought he had.

***

END

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Poor old Louis has books and stories in, on, or at, Kobo.

Author's Note: there is something weird about that first caption, but I can't seem to fix it.

See his alleged works on Fine Art America.

Thank you for reading.

Tuesday, January 10, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 27. Louis Shalako.

Rubbing elbows, as it were.

Louis Shalako

They said woman, the unfair sex, (wasn’t that Ambrose Bierce, the noted literary cynic?), was a mystery, wrapped in a riddle, encompassed by an enigma, and a few more things besides. Bierce, as he recalled, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances…

Somewhere in the southern hemisphere. The Mexican Revolution or something like that.

Margot, on the other hand, was right there, they were literally rubbing elbows.

It was an uncomfortable discovery that she smelled like a garden of flowers, and in a mysterious fashion decipherable to women, or woman, the world over, for surely there was only one woman—yes, they were all sisters under the skin, where men were mostly rivals, all of it written on the outside and sitting there like a big chip on the shoulder.

But it seemed that she had nipped out to the lavatory and slipped into a dress, a dress that could only have cost some money, real money. Had she run out and bought that yesterday? He didn’t care to dwell upon it.

An electric blue kimono, not a straight line upon it, but all the hems and the lines had been cut in curves. It was loose where it mattered, plunged, also where it mattered, and it clung in all the right places. Just loose enough, one could still dance in it. The shoes were revealing enough in their own way—she had one of the little bun hats, a short fringe all around the rim, and a fur stole around her shoulders. She had her working outfit, a professional working woman sort of outfit, in a shopping bag and that would be going home with her. Practical enough.

Gilles was uncomfortable in his thoughts.

Home, what the hell is that.

Home is where the heartache is.

Home is where they send the bills.

She seemed to be ignoring him, the pair of them perched, facing backwards, on the fold-down jump-seats of the big black Citroen. Cigarette smoke enfolded them in its intimate embrace as Alphonse’s skilled hands guided them though the usual evening traffic, only to pull up sooner than expected in front of the hotel. Flunkies in top hats and tailed coats stepped forward smartly to open the door and hold it against the wind. Yes. Let’s all clamber out now.

She looked over unexpectedly, and the liquid-clear eyes were something else.

“Don’t worry, this will all be over soon enough.” A good quote, from four out of five dentists.

He nodded, reassuringly, dry in the throat all of a sudden.

Margot laughed and looked away, Alphonse’s quick glance in the mirror was appreciative. Roger’s companion looked over, right in the eyes, and then looked away. Something lurched in his guts, and then a quizzical-looking Roger made a universal gesture—Gilles reached into a pocket and pulled out one of his interminable dark little cigars. That was what people called them.

“Thanks, Gilles. I honestly have, ah, given them up. But this seems like a special occasion…” He puffed. “My, God, but that snow is really coming down.”

The lady was wearing evening gloves, in some kind of revelation as he thought about wedding rings and things like that.

He still wore his, habit as much as anything else, a kind of shield perhaps…

Gilles...???

Merde. Poor old Maintenon hadn’t had a moment to think all the damned day long, what with three new cases, a conference with Langeron, and a few other things besides. More wind, more gusts, more darkening skies…same old fucking shit, right, only there was this one complication. He hadn’t gotten a nap, either, small surprise that was.

Think of it as a party, Maintenon—

Argh.

As for poor old Gilles, he’d taken a late-day shave in the men’s room, changed his shirt, brushed the old teeth with a wet toothbrush but nothing else. The shoes looked well enough for a cop’s shoes, and hopefully, they could remain in the background and just observe. Show the flag and go home early, God willing…he could have shaved again, and it wouldn’t have made all that much difference—whiskers seem to speed up or something, getting faster with age or something. He could have shaved in the car, just outside the front door and it still wouldn’t have made any difference at all.

Who in the fucking hell cared what he looked like anymore…it was damned cold out there.

Sure.

He just wasn’t built for parties anymore.

***

There was a reception, with clumps of folks standing around with glasses in their hands, waiters with trays of canapés, and serving folks bearing bottles of bubbly wine, white or pink or whatever.

Having gotten rid of the coats and hats, there was only one thing for it, but to head on in and mingle.

Roger and the wife, (he was pretty sure by now), moved off in one direction and Gilles and Margot split, his first instinct being the fireplace and a grouping of chairs and settees, and her for the bar. Long, narrow, the room was a couple of hundred feet long, more a large hallway than anything else, with big doors on both ends, and the sort of formal entrance from the outdoors. That was on the west side, as he reckoned, trying to orient himself.

She turned and looked, and he gave her a nod and a thumbs-up.

There was a chair if he wanted it, but he stood, back to the fire and idly looking around the room. There were at least thirty or forty people, not two or three hundred…not yet, anyways. There was still a half an hour to go. A few more people came in…

Nervous laughter, titillating; up and around from one small group, and shortly after, a real belly-laugh from a group of mostly males…some of those guys had what looked like whiskey in their glasses, and that was a good thing to know too.

So far, no one seemed to have taken any notice of him, or them, or all of them really.

Margot returned, bearing wine glasses.

“Ah, thank you.” This one was very red, very grapey, if that was indeed a word, and just the perfect balance of dryness had been struck.

When he got a minute, he’d take a quick peek at a label and maybe write that one down.

Margot sipped, nodded as if reading his thoughts.

“Hmn. This might not be so bad after all.”

“Huh.”

Merde—she’d removed her wedding ring, but there was a discolouring, an indentation of the skin due to long occupation by aforesaid ring. Sometimes, there was nothing but bad compromises, all around.

As for her—

She grinned, looking around, where animated conversations were taking place, all well-dressed people and no sign of Sherlock impersonators.

“…so this is a bunch of mystery writers.”

He nodded, spluttering in the midst of a swallow.

She thought, studying them perhaps just a bit more carefully…

They seemed rational enough at first glance. Judging by the clothes, the shoes and the hair, there seemed to be money in it. Someone here was going to win an award, after all. These were the successful ones, she realized. The one percent or less, in other words. The ones-in-a-million. They could afford the price of admission.

There were a couple of big doors wide open on the interior side, and on the other side of that, a banquet hall with dozens of round tables, chairs, with a crisp white linen, floral arrangements, place settings for what looked like a few hundred at least. Was it silver, or more likely, silver plate. Who cared. One had to admit, it looked all right.

People were still arriving at both ends, some from inside the hotel, obviously, and some from the street as another blast of cold wind made its presence felt halfway into the room.

“Well, I don’t know about you.” He indicated a chair.

“I think you might be right about that.” Margot was a sensible woman, it had been a long day and that chair looked very nice right about how.

***

Nom de Dieu...

The head table was all reserved, as one might expect and they didn’t want to be there anyways. Everything else was first come, first served. A certain type of person, a certain kind of group, naturally gravitated to the front of the room. Some groups filled a table or two, and they sort of clumped together, all very chummy, noises predictable. Then there were the ones, the twos and the threes, looking at a bit of social awkwardness as they tried to decide whether to sit here, or there, or perhaps somewhere else might be better. Gilles and Margot had grabbed a couple of slots, about halfway up the room. There was already another couple there, and another couple, not caring too much either way, decided this was about as good as anything…there was always room for one bore, as the gentleman said.

Gilles chuckled dutifully as bright blue eyes regarded them all.

The male looked up, waved, and two women, perhaps single but at least acquainted, accepted the idea and the gentleman held their chairs. These people at least all seemed to know each other, authors or their fans. They’d seen each other already, at events, panels or just around the hotel. A full table, and there were still an empty few in the corners and the back of the room, which might fill out as time went on and the fashionably-late straggled in.

Gilles was gratified to see waiters burst forth from the kitchen doors on the end. Carts and trolleys and platters and in the meantime there were hot buns, butter and getting to know one another.

***

END

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Louis has books and stories on Kobo.

See his art on ArtPal, which helps to feed stray cats in the wilds of Plympton-Wyoming.

Other than that, you are on your own…

Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.

Tuesday, January 3, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 26. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

In the pre-dawn gloom, Gilles had felt the first few pin-pricks of cold wetness, blinking a bit in denial perhaps, and the car headlights, the streetlamps just up the way now revealed the awful truth…

“Nom de Dieu. Are those snowflakes?” He settled into the back seat, grateful for the heater and the fact that Alphonse had probably been driving for fifteen or twenty minutes just to get here.

She was all warmed up, the windows were clear and the wipers in good condition, knowing Alphonse...this one time Gilles had gone looking for him and found him down in the garage, hood up, rag in hand, and the engine just gleaming, and Alphonse sort of drinking in the smell of grease, petrol, coolant, brake fluid, wet rubber and glass cleaner.

“Yes, it’s the season for it. I can’t wait until it’s all over you know—” He eyed Gilles in the mirror; presumably, he was talking about Christmas.

Maintenon knew the feeling, actually. He allowed himself a bit of a sigh.

“Boss.” Tires hissed on pavement, and one particular gust rocked the vehicle discernably.

“Yes, Alphonse.”

“I was up in the room the other day. Somebody said something and I’ve been thinking about it.”

Tires hissed on wet pavement.

The stoplights up ahead were just about to change, he somehow knew it, and Alphonse concentrated on the driving for the moment. Sure enough…he pulled to a stop, left turn signal going…there was nothing there at this time of day, but one just had to wait patiently. They were cops, after all. He’d composed his thoughts.

“No. It’s just that a few people saw the black car, right. When Hector was killed. And that’s about all they remember. They do all agree, right. Ah, but there was this one witness. A real aficionado, sir. If you know what I mean.”

An aficionado.

“And?”

“The witness didn’t just see the car, Gilles. He watched it. Fuck, he ogled it. He looked at it with envy and longing, and some sort of a future dream in his head. Yeah, if I know guys like that. If he ever won the lottery, I mean a real big one. He would try and replicate that car. He loved it, Gilles. Also. He gave a very precise and observant description, far more than any of the others.” Black on black, inside and out, the only other thing was the chrome, lots of it, and according to the gentlemen, probably the best looking car in town. Big, swooping exhaust pipes coming out on either side up front.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to go up to the unit and read that report, ah, again, Inspector.”

“Sure. No problem—”

But there was more.

“The thing is, Gilles. The guy said it turned right at the third intersection. That’s the part that I’ve been thinking about.” They were rolling again, pedestrians on the sidewalks somehow familiar and yet anonymous at the same time.

The snowflakes were getting thicker, and bigger, and yet the street was still just black and wet.

“Ah.”

“Basically, I want to read the report for myself. Rather than just some random remark in passing, and then. Then I want to look at the map, not just this pissy little thing in the glove-box.”

Which he had surely already done, thought Maintenon.

“Absolutely.”

He thought. Alphonse must know every street, alley and cul-de-sac in town by now.

“Do you want to go out there today?” Perhaps around lunchtime—

No irony there, it was just a thought.

I’ll buy you lunch—

But he didn’t say it.

“No, I want to think about this. It depends on the map and the report. Besides—you guys got the big shindig on tonight.”

Maintenon nodded.

Yes, he was going to need his energy. Quite frankly, he was planning a nap, whether at his desk and in his chair, or maybe even on one of the long maple pews lining the walls of the hallway outside their office. An emergency blanket and a couple of cushions under his head, the thought of sleeping in his shoes somehow better than taking them off…

The benches were just too big, or he’d have had one dragged into the Unit. There was a reason people like him kept a spare shirt and a razor in their desk drawer. Clean socks and a new toothbrush. More than one reason, when one thought about it. What he really should have done, was to sleep in—something which he seemed incapable of, these days.

He had a ton of time off coming to him, something he actually dreaded.

Fuck.

“Very well.”

***

Four of them piled into the limousine, courtesy of Roger, Langeron that is to say, as well as what Maintenon assumed was either his current mistress, or possibly the new wife.

Either way.

Of course, the department had to have at least one limo—maybe even more than one.

For the sake of cover, or rather the lack of it, something for the tabloids perhaps—anyways, just in case, Margot and Gilles were going together, in something vaguely resembling logic. Alphonse, up in the front seat, did not need a ticket although he’d be around, as he put it—he’d be keeping the engine warm and no apologies for that. Racking up the overtime hours in his own inimitable fashion.

A couple of other tickets, plus increased police foot patrols in the immediate vicinity, a pair of radio vans aimlessly cruising nearby, meant that their backsides were about as covered as they could possibly be under such circumstances, which were murky at best. Someone had phoned around, trying to locate spare tickets, from friendly newspapers, the radio news organizations. A few literary and arts magazines. That part of the plan would leak like a sieve, although it might be a few hours. The plan was to flood the place with off-duty cops…all under orders to stay as sober as possible, keep an eye on the crowd and be ready for just about anything. He hadn’t heard back on that one. It struck him that at least a few proper journalists would check it out—free food and drink being a powerful inducement, considering their long hours, poor pay and pounding out the next great novel in a candle-lit garret somewhere in their off hours. One or two of them might even get a story out of it.

“All right. We had best be going.” Cold as it was, Gilles was sweating.

“Have you seen this, Gilles?” Langeron proffered a file folder with a few typewritten sheets.

He reached up and snapped on the interior light.

“Oh, God.” Gilles groaned after about three lines.

More bullshit—a delivery van, a company name that no one had ever heard of, and it probably didn’t exist except in someone’s fertile imagination, and a bunch of severed fingers…fuck. Sitting there for an entire week.

Phone line disconnected at about the same time as the last killing. The phone company would soon give them an address, and it too would be empty and deserted, perhaps an empty desk, a chair and a lamp, all pulled out of dustbins or picked up for a few francs from a second-hand shop. The city had a few hundred such shops, a thousand, or so one must assume. There’s another thousand man-hours. It was easy enough to get a phone line installed, all it took was a name, an address and a deposit.

Fuck.

There it was, right at the very bottom. The suspect vehicle, likely stolen, had been worked over pretty thoroughly. Stolen plates, (they might get something there if they had the time), vehicle identification number missing…serial numbers ground off the vehicle frame, engine and transmission. It sounded like someone had been very thorough. It looked like a fairly professional job. Police technicians would take it down, piece by piece and bolt by bolt. Virtually all of the really expensive parts had a serial number, and the original manufacturer would be contacted. If there was anything there to find, they would find it.

His instincts told him otherwise.

“Just more confirmation. Or more nonsense.” Roger had a point. “Okay, so all of this is a presentation. We had no big idea that the killings were unrelated. That’s about the farthest thing from our minds. The odds of getting fingerprints would appear to be rather small, but then of our known or imaginary victims, none of that information is available anyways. What, then is the point? Other than the fact that they can run circles around the police, and not much more. Otherwise—”

Otherwise, why not muffle the voice and call in from a phone booth, or leave some bullshit manifesto at the front desk of a newspaper. It had been done before, as often as not some kid, a wino, dropping it off for a few francs and thinking they were doing someone a favour. Such places were busy enough, with enough background distractions, such a person could drop an envelope on the reception counter, give a quick nod and a wave, and fade back out into the street, never to be seen again…sooner or later, someone would pick it up and open it up, just to see what the hell it was.

So. Why not? Why not just throw one more fuck into the system.

Why not.

***

END

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Louis has books and stories on Google Play. Many of them are free.

See his works on ArtPal.

Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.

Sunday, January 1, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 25. Louis Shalako.

A handsome guy, he's been letting himself go...

Louis Shalako

“Imagination, my dear Watson. Imagination, is where crimes are solved—and they are also conceived.” Conan Doyle, Maintenon was almost sure.

Maybe not the exact words, but close enough for the girls he went with these days...i.e., nothing. Another nonsense observation. There was more, of course—there always was.

He hadn’t read any Sherlock Holmes stuff since he was a boy, and there were so many of them—but Hound of the Baskervilles came to mind, perhaps one or two others. The Speckled Band, the League of Red-Headed Men, for example. There were none on his bookshelves, all of that, dog-eared pages and covers missing, had been put away so long ago in the past. But the books, the films, the short stories by crass imitators, radio shows, theatricals, hell, even musicals, it was all over the place. Translated into a hundred languages and exported all over the world.

His old books, mouldered away in the ancestral home, hopefully burned or tossed and not still stinking up an attic somewhere. A fictional character had become an icon, which was one shitty word for it in his opinion…admittedly, he didn’t have much to suggest as an alternative. At least one senior officer affected the very same hat, and people were careful not to mention it, or to stare at it, or laugh at it or to take any notice of it at all. It was just an affectation, and harmless enough for all of that. It was perhaps something else as well—like the rattle on the tail end of a copperhead. It was a warning in some ways. But these were stories of imagination, where the real, daily police work was dull, plodding, and methodical, it was all about procedures, and imagination was unlikely to rear its ugly head, if not actively discouraged in some circles. It was all about taking accurate notes, and spelling people’s names correctly, and getting the times and dates and addresses and occupations down properly. It had all been boiled down to standard operating procedure, and to deviate was to take a risk.

Imagination was risky.

And it was all too lacking, in some circles…

In the end, Gilles had picked up a copy at a bookstore on the way home, a patient Alphonse sitting in the car, smoking away and keeping the engine warm, as he put it. He could always read it and then donate it…somewhere. Trying to explain that one on the expense account would be a foregone conclusion and so, why bother.

Truth was, he probably couldn’t be bothered, and didn’t really need the money anyways.

Think of it as a treat.

He had found it. The relevant chapter, in Hound of the Baskervilles, when Holmes and Watson were walking across the moors; this after a disguised Holmes had been living in a pre-historic stone hut, a barrow, and somehow having his mail forwarded from London. Bullshit of the finest vintage, in other words—sure, there must have been general delivery, poste restante, in a nearby village, and yet a stranger going back and forth would have been observed, and a real object of interest to the locals. Sooner or later, you had to walk down a road, a street.

“This is why so many crimes go unsolved, Watson…because people insist on the facts when they prove nothing…”

Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Police and the courts, the press and the general public, insisted on the facts and their assumed significance. He owed a lot to Conan Doyle, although much of it was pure bullshit. Sometimes they made up their own facts—that was especially true when the facts didn’t suit their opinions.

Wasn’t that what he had been saying all along. Fucking bullshit—

The whole thing was just pure bullshit, from beginning to end. And whoever had cooked this one up, for a committee seemed unlikely, or was it? Maybe it was more than one mind.

Whatever the case, that was one sick little imagination.

There was the sound of the key in the lock, and Sylvestre turned and left the bathroom, ready for breakfast and more amiable company...he looked at himself in the mirror. It might be time to close the door, although she wasn’t likely to come in here first thing.

Either he was late, or Sophie was unusually early…he’d left his wristwatch on the bedside table. He would have given his left testicle for another four or five years in bed, right about then. Ten years, that would just about do it.

He needed a shirt, and socks, and cufflinks, and a tie, and all of that other bullshit.

Merde.

Stop thinking like a Frenchman all of the time.

And when do I get around to shaving off this horrible little beard.

***

It was a black night, very black.

Raindrops still speckled the puddles and dripped from lampposts, tree branches and the corners of the eaves. It was a black night.

The constable’s feet were sore, wet, and damp. He’d been suffering from a bit of toe-rot lately, and that was just the truth. It was the wet, the weather and the black wool socks never really drying out. It was foot-fungus.

He stood there, studying it.

The vehicle was a small delivery lorry, red. Blood-red in this light. Originally based upon a sedan, but with some imagination, it had been adapted into a four-cylinder panel van with two back doors, an elevated roof and with nothing but sheet metal behind the passenger doors—that, and the name of the provender, in the present case, Delacroix et Cie, and then there were the flowers painted on there, and an address, and a phone number. There were any number of them in the city.

The vehicle had been there for a week. His own soggy tickets attested to that, his own notebook, and yes, a couple of days off there in the middle of the week due to shift changes and rotational scheduling and all of that.

And still, the vehicle was there. It was like they just couldn’t take a hint sometimes, or maybe they had simply gone bankrupt. If they’d run out of gas or had a breakdown, they would have moved the vehicle sooner rather than later…you could call the fucking cops and tell them all about it, and that might have saved you the ticket in the first place.

The actual address of the company, also painted on the side panels, was nowhere near this present location, and if nothing else, the constable was a logical thinker. He did have a phone number…right?

What in the hell was it doing there, admittedly not doing a whole hell of a lot of harm, but also, in violation of certain traffic and parking codes. As a bit of cold rain trickled down the back of his neck, standing there in the uncertain light of a yellowing streetlight, he noted that the back doors were ajar—not more than a few millimetres, six or seven at most.

That being said, it sure as hell hadn’t been like that yesterday.

Kids, thieves, drunks, cars were stolen all the time…the handle turned and he pulled the back door on the right side open…

***

The back of the vehicle didn’t even really smell, not after all this time. Towed to the police forensics garage, under the lights and what minimal heating there was in what was nothing more than a really big shed, it seemed as if at least one frozen fly had felt the warmth and come to life again.

It reminded the constable of the time he’d had the refrigerator door open and a fly went in and landed. With a sort of cruelty, he’d shut the door for a few minutes just to see what happened. Ten minutes later, feeling slightly guilty, he’d scooped the thing up and put it out the window, still alive, perhaps shivering in some insectoid manner. Maybe just grateful to get out of a hell that had frozen over; and all of that lovely food inaccessible.

Little bones, and a lot of them…shriveled meat, with the time, the temperature, with the loss of the blood and consequent drying of the tissues. The human body was ninety-nine percent water, after all. Ninety-eight-point-six, as he recalled from a failed attempt at medical school. Even so, one had to be objective.

The blood had pooled, not much of it really.

A flash bulb popped, the constable consulted his notes and then continued them along with the process of documenting his discovery. But the back of the little van was littered with fingers—just fingers. Chopped off, discarded, macabre as all hell. They were hard to count, stuck together in little clumps, singles, thumbs…he nodded sagely. Let the techs count them. They had their pictures.

He read the papers, of course. He knew something about it. Even if he hadn’t, this was going to be one hell of a report. He’d make sure of it.

Full of dead fingers...

Other than that, there was no way in hell one could get a decent set of fingerprints off of any one of them. That much was obvious, not all dried up and shriveled like that. Half frozen, freezer-burned. He was reminded of something, the shrunken heads of savages somewhere off in the south Pacific. The constable, soaked to the skin, ignored by all the auto mechanics and technical people, as another flashbulb popped, closed the notebook.

Overhead heaters blasted out their noisy hot air, and the floor steamed with moisture.

They were ready with their little bags and tweezers. Little labels and little envelopes.

It looked like another one of those nights—one of those nights where you come home, take off the heavy shoes, put up your stinky socks on the radiator, eat your dinner and don’t talk about the job with the wife and kids.

And that was just the truth.

***

END