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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 15 из 160A sullen young woman moved in and out, doing a brisk business in café cubano and pasteles with the cops and the technicianson the scene. The handful of assorted cops in suits who hang out at homicide scenes, either to be noticed, to apply pressure, or to make sure they know what's going on, now had one more thing to juggle. Coffee, a pastry, a suit coat.
The crime-lab gang didn't wear suits. Rayon bowling shirts with two pockets was more their speed. I was wearing one myself. It repeated a pattern of voodoo drummers and palm trees against a lime green background. Stylish, but practical.
I headed for the closest rayon shirt in the knot of people around the body. It belonged to Angel Batista-no-relation, as he usually introduced himself. Hi, I'm Angel Batista, no relation. He worked in the medical examiner's office. At the moment he was squatting beside one of the garbage bags and peering inside it.
I joined him. I was anxious to see inside the bag myself. Anything that got a reaction from Deborah was worth a peek.
“Angel,” I said, coming up on his side. “What do we have?”
“What you mean we , white boy?” he said. “We got no blood with this one. You're out of a job.”
“I heard.” I crouched down beside him. “Was it done here, or just dumped?”
He shook his head. “Hard to say. They empty the Dumpster twice a week-this has been here for maybe two days.”
I looked around the parking lot, then over at the moldy façade of the Cacique. “What about the motel?”
Angel shrugged. “They're still checking, but I don't think they'll find anything. The other times, he just used a handy Dumpster. Huh,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
He used a pencil to peel back the plastic bag. “Look at that cut.”
The end of a disjointed leg stuck out, looking pale and exceptionally dead in the glare of the sun. This piece ended in the ankle, foot neatly lopped off. A small tattoo of a butterfly remained, one wing cut away with the foot.
I whistled. It was almost surgical. This guy did very nice work-as good as I could do. “Very clean,” I said. And it was, even beyond the neatness of the cutting. I had never seen such clean, dry, neat -looking dead flesh. Wonderful.
“Me cago en diez on nice and clean,” he said. “It's not finished.”
I looked past him, staring a little deeper into the bag. Nothing moving in there. “It looks pretty final to me, Angel.”
“Lookit,” he said. He flipped open one of the other bags. “This leg, he cuts it in four pieces.
The crime-lab gang didn't wear suits. Rayon bowling shirts with two pockets was more their speed. I was wearing one myself. It repeated a pattern of voodoo drummers and palm trees against a lime green background. Stylish, but practical.
I headed for the closest rayon shirt in the knot of people around the body. It belonged to Angel Batista-no-relation, as he usually introduced himself. Hi, I'm Angel Batista, no relation. He worked in the medical examiner's office. At the moment he was squatting beside one of the garbage bags and peering inside it.
I joined him. I was anxious to see inside the bag myself. Anything that got a reaction from Deborah was worth a peek.
“Angel,” I said, coming up on his side. “What do we have?”
“What you mean we , white boy?” he said. “We got no blood with this one. You're out of a job.”
“I heard.” I crouched down beside him. “Was it done here, or just dumped?”
He shook his head. “Hard to say. They empty the Dumpster twice a week-this has been here for maybe two days.”
I looked around the parking lot, then over at the moldy façade of the Cacique. “What about the motel?”
Angel shrugged. “They're still checking, but I don't think they'll find anything. The other times, he just used a handy Dumpster. Huh,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
He used a pencil to peel back the plastic bag. “Look at that cut.”
The end of a disjointed leg stuck out, looking pale and exceptionally dead in the glare of the sun. This piece ended in the ankle, foot neatly lopped off. A small tattoo of a butterfly remained, one wing cut away with the foot.
I whistled. It was almost surgical. This guy did very nice work-as good as I could do. “Very clean,” I said. And it was, even beyond the neatness of the cutting. I had never seen such clean, dry, neat -looking dead flesh. Wonderful.
“Me cago en diez on nice and clean,” he said. “It's not finished.”
I looked past him, staring a little deeper into the bag. Nothing moving in there. “It looks pretty final to me, Angel.”
“Lookit,” he said. He flipped open one of the other bags. “This leg, he cuts it in four pieces.