rough-and-ready timecheck. Hard to tell, though, with this temperature and all the water oozing out of the brick—God damn all midwinter thaws, anyway, they screwed things up worse than snow. Maybe there was something to this global warming thing; winters had frozen harder when he was a kid.
The initial blood spatter was huge, like an inkblot in one of those old psychologist's tests. More blood in a pool around the base of the wall. Head injuries bled out fast, as bad as a major wound to the chest cavity.
"What do I see in this?" he wondered, stepping back and looking at the blot. "I see someone who had their head shot out of a cannon at a wall, is what I see."
There was nothing around the body but garbage. He crouched again and used a pencil in his left hand to move the ponytail of greasy black hair that covered the victim's neck. Aha.
Livid bruises on either side of the spinal column, right above the shoulders. "Look at this," he said.
Jesus joined him. Henry spread his hand as if he were about to take the back of the dead man's neck in it, a straightforward grab with the thumb on the left side. It fit exactly, thumb-mark and four fingers, although from the spacing the hand had been slightly smaller than Carmaggio's.
"What does that say to you?" he asked his partner.
"Perp is right-handed," Jesus said helpfully.
"Oh, funny man."
"Geraldo has nothing to me, patrón. I'd say someone put his face to that brick with an extreme quickness."
Henry grunted. "How long?"
Jesus picked up one of the hands by a thumb. There was a purplish sheen to the waxy skin, and a whitish spot appeared when the younger policeman stuck a finger in the livid patch that had lain nearest the ground. The joints of the hand moved freely.
"Hour, maybe two, no more than three."
"Right."
There was a bulletin out with the extremely incomplete description they'd gotten from the restaurant where Fischer had been seen last, but the chances of it doing any good were . . . Somewhere between nada, zip, and fucking zero, he thought resignedly. You couldn't pull in every tall redheaded woman within a mile of Times Square.
"All right, let's move him."
Two of the uniforms came forward, and Jesus got out his minicam, speaking softly into the throat mike. Henry whistled.
Teeth dropped out of the shattered mouth as the slack body was lifted free of the bricks. One of the patrol officers swallowed and wobbled a bit, until her partner hissed sharply at her. Broken jaw, mandible pushed right back. All the upper teeth snapped off. Frontal bones pushed in until there was nothing but a glistening mass of pulp, and the forehead had a dished look.
Carmaggio felt a little off himself. Nothing I could take to court, but it's the same MO, he thought. The skin along the nape of his neck roughened. Angel dust? he mused.
Something unnatural was behind this combination of speed and strength and utter savagery.
"Right, let's see if this is who I think it is," he said. He slid a hand inside the dead man's jacket and began checking pockets. "Green cards, blank. Social Security, ditto. Oho, Jojo was getting upscale—passport. Couple of computer disks. Official stationery . . ."
"Jojo?" Jesus said.
"Do-it-while-you-wait Jojo Jackson himself," Carmaggio confirmed. "Aha."
A piece. A .32 revolver in a waist holster, no sights, trigger guard cut away—Jojo had always liked to think of himself as seriously bad; in fact, he'd just been bad. Not a very good documents man, either.
Sooner or later something like this was going to happen to him—the means might have been more conventional, but the result was much the same.
There was something a little farther down the alley, too. A scrap of paper flecked with blood and plastered to the wet side of a dumpster. A C-note.
"Somebody might want to bag this," he said mildly. More of the warehouse money.
"Now, why do you come to Jojo?" Jesus said, imitating Carmaggio's voice.
ID. Lots of things you could do with cash, but you
The initial blood spatter was huge, like an inkblot in one of those old psychologist's tests. More blood in a pool around the base of the wall. Head injuries bled out fast, as bad as a major wound to the chest cavity.
"What do I see in this?" he wondered, stepping back and looking at the blot. "I see someone who had their head shot out of a cannon at a wall, is what I see."
There was nothing around the body but garbage. He crouched again and used a pencil in his left hand to move the ponytail of greasy black hair that covered the victim's neck. Aha.
Livid bruises on either side of the spinal column, right above the shoulders. "Look at this," he said.
Jesus joined him. Henry spread his hand as if he were about to take the back of the dead man's neck in it, a straightforward grab with the thumb on the left side. It fit exactly, thumb-mark and four fingers, although from the spacing the hand had been slightly smaller than Carmaggio's.
"What does that say to you?" he asked his partner.
"Perp is right-handed," Jesus said helpfully.
"Oh, funny man."
"Geraldo has nothing to me, patrón. I'd say someone put his face to that brick with an extreme quickness."
Henry grunted. "How long?"
Jesus picked up one of the hands by a thumb. There was a purplish sheen to the waxy skin, and a whitish spot appeared when the younger policeman stuck a finger in the livid patch that had lain nearest the ground. The joints of the hand moved freely.
"Hour, maybe two, no more than three."
"Right."
There was a bulletin out with the extremely incomplete description they'd gotten from the restaurant where Fischer had been seen last, but the chances of it doing any good were . . . Somewhere between nada, zip, and fucking zero, he thought resignedly. You couldn't pull in every tall redheaded woman within a mile of Times Square.
"All right, let's move him."
Two of the uniforms came forward, and Jesus got out his minicam, speaking softly into the throat mike. Henry whistled.
Teeth dropped out of the shattered mouth as the slack body was lifted free of the bricks. One of the patrol officers swallowed and wobbled a bit, until her partner hissed sharply at her. Broken jaw, mandible pushed right back. All the upper teeth snapped off. Frontal bones pushed in until there was nothing but a glistening mass of pulp, and the forehead had a dished look.
Carmaggio felt a little off himself. Nothing I could take to court, but it's the same MO, he thought. The skin along the nape of his neck roughened. Angel dust? he mused.
Something unnatural was behind this combination of speed and strength and utter savagery.
"Right, let's see if this is who I think it is," he said. He slid a hand inside the dead man's jacket and began checking pockets. "Green cards, blank. Social Security, ditto. Oho, Jojo was getting upscale—passport. Couple of computer disks. Official stationery . . ."
"Jojo?" Jesus said.
"Do-it-while-you-wait Jojo Jackson himself," Carmaggio confirmed. "Aha."
A piece. A .32 revolver in a waist holster, no sights, trigger guard cut away—Jojo had always liked to think of himself as seriously bad; in fact, he'd just been bad. Not a very good documents man, either.
Sooner or later something like this was going to happen to him—the means might have been more conventional, but the result was much the same.
There was something a little farther down the alley, too. A scrap of paper flecked with blood and plastered to the wet side of a dumpster. A C-note.
"Somebody might want to bag this," he said mildly. More of the warehouse money.
"Now, why do you come to Jojo?" Jesus said, imitating Carmaggio's voice.
ID. Lots of things you could do with cash, but you
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