Otto came up to the edge of the dumpster, shooed the old man to the other end, then looked over the edge. He shone the flashlight in, and on the bottom caught a glimpse of metal. He homed in on it with the light, and when he finally figured out what he was looking at, his heart sank.
The thermal imager — beaten almost beyond recognition.
“Okay, old man — time to get out.”
The dumpster dweller did as he was told, but not without bitching about it: “What’d I do?”
“Did you put that, uh... flashlight in the dumpster yourself?”
“No! It was there already, when I went fishin’ inside. Honest. Swear to God.”
Otto believed the old guy. The man didn’t seem to be strong enough to have taken out a sector cop; and if he had, why was he down rooting in the dumpster?
“Go on, gramps. Take a hike.”
The old man frowned. “Can I take the flashlight?”
“No.”
“I found it. It’s mine. You guys didn’t repeal finders keepers, did ya?”
Fishing into his pocket, Otto pulled out a five and held it out to the guy.
“Bet it’s worth more than that.”
Otto brought the gun up and gave the guy a good look at it. The bum took the hint, and the five spot, climbed out and started to walk off in the direction of the briefcase.
“The other way, gramps.”
The old man held up his hands. “You got it, boss! Other way it is.”
When the old boy had disappeared around the corner, Otto finally took another breath. He shook his head — feelings of fear and anger gave way to relief. But uneasiness remained; what did the imager turning up mean? Where the hell was that greedy sector cop? Five dollars had bought what five grand was supposed to...
Profanity running a race through his mind, Otto went over and stuffed the soaked bills back into the briefcase and carried it over to the dumpster, as if he were about to throw the damp money away.
Now it was Otto’s turn to climb into the soggy filth to pull out the thermal imager. He took a quick look around, set the case on the ground, edging it behind the dumpster, and holstered his pistol. Using the edges of the container, he pulled himself up and over and inside.
The dumpster smelled — not surprisingly — of rot, decay, and, if he didn’t miss his guess, human feces. Otto tried to bring to mind the time when he’d loved his government job, and as he shined the flashlight down and picked up the battered thermal imager, he realized he couldn’t recall the last time he’d liked — let alone loved — his job.
He cast the beam over the imager and saw spatters of blood.
As sure as he was standing in garbage, he now knew Brian Dunphy was dead. That one answer led to countless questions. Where was the body? Who killed him? Why was he killed?
And was Otto’s own life in danger... right now?
Again the urge came to call White. This time Otto didn’t fight it. He pulled himself out of the dumpster, retrieved the briefcase, and headed back up the alley. He’d go to his car, dry off, call the boss.
At the corner of the street and the alley, Otto again looked up the alley across the street. The rain had lightened up just a touch, and he could see the old man he’d chased off, as well as several more street people, standing in a loose circle looking at a good-sized lump of something on the ground.
Without taking another step, Otto knew that he’d just found Brian Dunphy.
Pulling out his gun again, the NSA agent crossed the street and trotted up. The trio around the body split when they saw him coming, and the entire party disappeared into the shadows by the time he arrived.
Pointing the flashlight down, he saw something he’d seen before but had hoped to never see again.
The other time he’d seen a body in this condition, it belonged to that old-timer, Cal Hankins. Sprawled there, in a spreading pool of dark fluids, the bright red corpse that almost certainly belonged to Brian Dunphy gazed up at Otto with huge bulging eyes and a grotesque clown’s grin in a caved-in skull with brains showing.
This made three murder victims who’d been skinned. All Otto knew of the second victim was that he was a cop. His info came strictly from the news, since he hadn’t discussed that second kill with White.
But now he was looking at victim number three — the guy’s uniform scattered around the alley, his gun and boots already stolen — and Otto had a chill. Was there a connection, beyond two victims being cops?
The car and getting dry would have to wait. Moving clear of the crime scene, Otto pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number for Ames White. The senior agent picked up on the first ring.
“Is it done?” he asked.
“Not really,” Otto said. “And we’ve gotta talk.”
For the next several minutes Otto outlined what he’d found, Ames White staying uncharacteristically mute.
When Otto had finished, White simply said, “Fuck.”
“That about sums it up.”
“You sure it’s the sector cop? What was his name?”
“Dunphy. Pretty sure. He’s been skinned, probably beaten to death with the imager, first. And there’s pieces of uniform scattered around the alley — I haven’t looked for ID or anything, but it’s pretty evident that—”
“All right, all right — here’s what you do. Get the hell out of there. You talk to any civilians at the scene?”
“Just the bum in the dumpster.”
“Identify yourself to him?”
“No.”
“Good. Bring me the money and the thermal imager.”
“But, sir, the imager — it’s almost certainly the murder weapon.”
“I don’t seem to give a shit, do I? If the cops get their hands on that device, you know damn well it’s going to end up on the news, and then the transgenics will see it, and then it will be useless. Would that be a good thing, Otto?”
“That would be a bad thing.”
“Right. Bring it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, once you’re safely out of the sector, make an anonymous 911 call and report the body.”
“All right.”
“And then I want you to get hold of Clemente.”
That puzzled Otto. “The police detective?”
“Yeah. Let him know that it was you who phoned in the anonymous call, but that for national security reasons you had to leave the scene.”
“Okay...”
White’s voice had delight in it. “Transgenics did this and now they’re going to hang themselves. Tell Clemente what you saw and tell him that we have evidence the killer’s transgenic.”
“Do we have that?”
“We will, Otto. We will.”
Otto didn’t like the sound of that — the implication, however vague, was that evidence would be manufactured, if necessary.
“Now, Otto, after you talk to Clemente, bring me the money and pick me up at home. We’ve got work to do.”
“We do?”
“This is going to turn into a PR war, Otto. We have a demented serial-killer transgenic to tell the public about; if you think the rank and file are frightened of transies now, just you wait till the media gets their teeth in this. And which side of the PR war do you suppose has the most media on their side?”
“That would be ours, sir.”
“Damn right,” White said. “Now’s our chance to use them too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Got the drill, Otto? 911, Clemente, then get your ass over here.”
Not liking this a bit — neither what was going down nor White’s condescension — but realizing he had fallen in way over his head, Otto said the only thing he could think of, which was, “Yes, sir.”
Hustling back to his car, his feet splashing in puddles, the briefcase pounding against one hip, the bloody thermal imager clutched in his other hand, Otto Gottlieb wanted nothing more than to be done with this awful night. At the car, he locked the imager and money in the trunk, got behind the wheel, started the engine and gunned it.