“No, sir,” said Anna.
“You're engaged?” I repeated.
I didn't get an answer. The general was gesturing at us to come back into his office. He ushered us onto the sofa, closed the door, and sat on the edge of his desk. “Major,” he said, addressing Anna. “I was looking at your record. You worked a case with Cooper.”
“Yes, sir,” said Anna.
“Something's come up and I need a team on it.” He leaned way back, counterbalancing with his feet stretched out in front of him, opened a drawer, and pulled out a sheaf of color photos. He separated the pile and handed a couple each to Anna and me. It took me a moment to make out the subject matter of one of the photos on account of the blood, which was everywhere, and because I had trouble concentrating. She was engaged?
I glanced at Anna and saw the color drain out of her face as she stared at the prints. Her skin took on the color of boiled chicken. “I-is that what I think it is?” She breathed hard, steeling herself, holding one of the photos up close and then away from her face to get a better, or different, perspective.
“Depends what you think it is,” said Wynngate. “Cooper?”
I was still brooding about Anna's intended nuptials. How long had she known this guy? I glanced at Wynngate. He was wearing a frown, expecting an answer. I scanned the second photo beneath the first. This one clearly showed a man who had been jointed. Was I seeing this right? Jesus, even the digits of his fingers and toes had been separated. The pieces had then been carefully laid out on the carpet like he was spare parts. I was reminded of one of those plastic kits kids glue together. I kept it simple. “Looks like murder, sir.”
“Yeah,” said the general. “Meet our Air Attaché to Turkey. I want you both on a plane to Istanbul by oh-eight-hundred tomorrow.”
About the Author
It was a slow day at the office sometime late in August 1999, and Australia was on the eve of its invasion of East Timor. That's how this writing game started for me. I wrote the synopsis for my first book in the afternoon and started tapping away at the manuscript that night. I had a completed manuscript six months later. This author game sort of snowballed from there. Perhaps after twenty years as an advertising copywriter, I had a few pent-up words.
I live in Sydney with my wife, three kids, and a spoodle. And most of the time, I'm working on the next book, Hard Rain.
— David Rollins