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(1) Bolt Cutters, 24" $49.99
(1) Heavy-duty Shears $34.99
(2) Zip Ties, Industrial (100pk) $23.98
(1) Tarp, Plastic, 10x12 $18.99
(1) Bleach, Industrial Strength $12.99
(3) Contractor Bags, 42gal $29.99
Subtotal: $170.93
Tax: $12.82
Total: $183.75
I’ve always believed that a man shows his true character when you start removing pieces of him.
The man in front of me hasn’t shown me his true character yet. But then again, he’s only a few fingers down. There’s so much more of him left to go.
He whimpers behind his gag when he sees my eyes fall on him. His hands—what’s left of them—are zip-tied to a pipe in the basement of a warehouse in Brighton Beach. The concrete floor is stained with things I’d rather not catalogue.
I look over at Afon as he sharpens his shears and prepares to resume the work. “Do you think our friend would like to talk now?” I ask him.
Afon shrugs and smirks. His scarred cheek puckers with the motion. “S’pose you could always ask him, boss. I haven’t taken his tongue.” He pauses, then adds, “… Yet.”
I nod and turn to our captive. “What do you think, Mr. Ochoa? Are you ready to have an honest conversation?”
The bound man nods frantically. Tears and snot run down his face. He’s trying to say something through the gag, but it comes out as muffled nonsense.
I signal Afon. He yanks the gag down.
“Please!” the man wails. “Please, I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
“That’s what you said an hour ago.” I crouch in front of him. “And then you lied to me.”
“I didn’t?—”
“You told me you hadn’t spoken to anyone. That was a lie.” I reach out to grab his face. He shies away, but there’s nowhere for him to go. I squeeze his cheeks in my hand as I turn his head this way and that.
He’s pale and shivering beneath my touch, probably from the blood loss. But his eyes still have the brightness that says he’s retained his presence of mind. He’s here. He’s awake.
It’s time to talk.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” I suggest. “I want you to pretend I know nothing and tell me exactly what happened.”
The man starts to open his mouth, but I shush him. “Remember,” I warn, “lying to me would be a very poor choice.”
I watch his throat bob. Sweat and blood trickle over his Adam’s apple and disappear beneath the crusted collar of his shirt.
Then I nod. “Very well. Begin.”
The man takes a shaky breath. His remaining fingers rattle against the pipe. “A couple weeks ago,” he starts, “a construction crew in Astoria found bones on a dig site. They called it in.”
“And?”
“And the remains came to my morgue.” He swallows. “I was on intake that night.”
