Breathe of the Flesh

Breathe of the Flesh

by Jack Allen

Smashwords Edition

Published by Burping Frog Publishing, Inc.

Detroit, Michigan

Copyright © 2002 Jack Allen

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All persons and locations in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover designed by Michael Bryan.

Cover photography copyright © 2002 Michael Bryan.

ISBN: 978-0-9703053-3-6

Breathe of the Flesh

Chapter 1

It looked like hell. Tom Leopard drove slowly through the yard of the steel mill, past the heavy machinery, over the criss-crossing railroad tracks, past piles of scrap steel. A steady, icy rain coated every surface with a slick, shiny sheen. It was the first night of December, 1942, and the shores of New Jersey never looked more foreboding.

Leopard looked at his partner, Gil Chen, seated beside him. He was watching out the passenger side window. Around them, tall smokestacks poured thick smoke into the night and fires blazed and spit from openings in the huge, ugly buildings. Molten steel, as bright and yellow as the sun, poured like soup from a massive pot and the entire night sky blazed orange.

The car rocked over the rough gravel road. They rounded a corner behind the mill. A huge bulldozer waited for the car to pass, like one of hell’s giant beasts coiled on its haunches to attack. The engine rumbled like a deep, hungry growl. Seated atop the beast, the driver’s face was black with soot under a metal hard hat. He stared with blank eyes that did not blink.

There it is, Chen said, pointing straight ahead.

The site was not difficult to find. Leopard drove toward a clump of flashing red lights, swerving to avoid holes in the road and the chewed, jagged scraps of steel that looked like the remains of that bulldozer’s last meal.

They got closer and saw a gaggle of cars. The back doors of an ambulance were open. A uniformed cop appeared in the headlights, waving a flashlight over the ground. Leopard stopped the car. He and Chen got out. The gravel, the weeds, the rusting train cars, the piles of steel, everything was coated with black coal dust. The air stunk of rust and sulfur and oil and God only knew what other sorts of rotting things. Leopard’s nose crinkled, but the stench did not fade. He threw his cigarette on the ground and hoped that wasn’t a puddle of oil where it landed.

The cop shined the flashlight in their faces.

Sorry, no reporters, gentlemen, he said.

You wanna get that light out of my face before I shove it up your ass, Leopard said, shielding his eyes with his hand.

Hey, take it easy, pal ...

Chen took out his wallet and flipped it open.

We’re not reporters.

The cop shined his flashlight on Chen’s wallet and squinted.

Oh. FBI. You guys are all right, the cop said.

Leopard shivered and hugged his trench coat tighter to his body. The cold, wet air bit through his clothes to his skin. He hated the God damned winter and everything about it.

He looked back at the steel mill. Fires burned here and there, some small, some like the blast from a volcano. The bulldozer prowled back and forth like a beast in its domain, searching for food to eat, growling then roaring and spitting smoke from its snout.

How was it Dante described the lower levels of hell? It was like looking down on it from higher up, and the steelworkers in their stained work suits crawled over the structure like the devils who tended the condemned souls, lacking only their lances and pitchforks.

Leopard? Tom? The body’s over this way, Chen said.

He motioned toward the rail cars with his thumb.

Leopard walked with him, his hands in his pockets and his head down. He watched for holes and puddles, but he was not anxious to see another body.

It lay on the cold, wet gravel between rail cars loaded with coal. It was covered with a white sheet. Already, the clean sheet was speckled with drops of icy rain and smeared with dirt. A bunch of cops, some in uniform and some in overcoats, stood around the body and among the rail cars, smoking cigarettes and poking into crevices. One man, with a camera, snapped photos of this thing or that thing, the flash bulbs going off like a miniature lightning storm.

One man crouched beside the body and lifted one side of the sheet. He was bald, wore a plain white shirt and straight black tie, and his pocket was full of pens. From under the sheet stuck a small, delicate hand.

Two of the cops watched them approach. The one in the darker overcoat pointed and said something to the man beside him. The second one stepped forward.

Whoa, fellas. Who the hell are you? he said.

Leopard and Chen removed their wallets from their jackets and flipped them open at the same time.

Federal agents. We want to see the body, Leopard said.

He looked past the detective. The medical examiner, the bald man crouched beside the body, looked up briefly, then back down at the body.

The detective examined their federal identification cards.

Why do a couple of G-men wanna to see a dead body? he said.

Leopard and Chen flipped their wallets closed at the same time. Chen walked on to the body and crouched across from the medical examiner.

We got a tip, Leopard said.

The detective shrugged. Anything you got can help us. We got nothing.

Leopard nodded twice and walked with the detective back to the body.

I’m Sergeant Remington. This is Sergeant Leyritz, the first detective said.

Leyritz touched the brim of his hat. Leopard just nodded.

This is Samuels, county medical examiner.

Samuels looked up at Leopard again, turning his head in a slow, deliberate manner.

I figure we I.D. all the guys she put out with we’ll find that knife and we got our killer, Leyritz said.

It won’t be one of her boyfriends, Leopard said.

Leyritz stared at him with a dumbfounded expression.

What do you mean? Lots of punks carry switchblades that cut just like that. She was probably one of them good little girls who like to tease tough guys, and this time she took it too far and he made her pay.

This was a professional. Maybe a switchblade, maybe something else, but I’ll bet you the coroner finds evidence of rape, Leopard said.

Leyritz laughed. You’re nuts. That girl was a virgin and a tease and you know it.

He says they know who did it, Remington said to Leyritz.

Leyritz’s face brightened. That’s great. You’re gonna save us a lot of work, he said.

I didn’t say that. I said we got a tip. That’s all, Leopard said.

Remington and Leyritz looked at each other.

So what are you saying? You’re saying you’re not gonna help us now? Remington said.

That’s bullshit, Leyritz shouted. He started to go at Leopard, but Remington held him back. What kind of feds are you guys? Why don’t you help us if you know something?

Leopard stared at him. He could only imagine what he was going through. This was the second girl killed on their turf, and they were getting pressure to find the killer from their Captain, from the papers, even from City Hall. Leopard knew that kind of pressure.

We don’t know anything, Leopard said. His voice was cold and flat.

Even if we did, we couldn’t share it, Chen said as he stood up.

Leyritz looked between them, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wild with incomprehension.

Are you serious? Look at what I’m dealing with here, Leyritz said.

His voice was hysterical. He pushed Remington’s arm away and yanked the sheet off the body. His voice attracted the other cops and the photographer.

Look at it, Leyritz shouted, pointing emphatically.

Leopard looked at the body. It was a girl, couldn’t have been more than eighteen. She had long, dark hair that spilled in a puddle beneath her head. Wet strands of hair covered her pale face like the strings of a spider’s web. Her eyes were open and stared at the cloudy night sky. Between her colorless lips poked the tip of her swollen tongue. She was completely naked. Her body was no longer beautiful, but horrible. Her wrists and ankles were marked with rings of bruises, and her neck was sliced open. He tried to imagine what she might have looked like when she was smiling. The picture in his mind was of a very beautiful and innocent young girl with dark hair and brown eyes.

This is what I’m dealing with, Leyritz said. His tone became pleading. I got a predator out there. He’s gonna kill again, you mark my word. And you two? You’re just gonna stand there?

Remington put his hand on Leyritz’s shoulder. Leopard looked at Chen. He nodded toward the car. Chen nodded and they turned to walk back.

That’s right, leave. I swear I will bust both your asses before this is over, Leyritz shouted.

Leopard didn’t look back. They got in the car. Leopard stared through the windshield.

He’s right, you know, Leopard said.

Who’s right? The cop? About what? Chen said.

We got a predator, Leopard said.

He started the car and they made the long drive back across the river into New York.

Chapter 2

Silent. Silent as a tomb. Silent as death on a moonlit December night. That was how Margarethe would describe the stillness of that evening. Poetry was always dearest to her heart, even more so than him, even after thirty years of marriage. He never had the artistic temperament to compete with her love for poetry.

Alfred Hiller sighed. He missed his wife, missed her dearly. Had she not been killed a year earlier by Allied bombs, he would never be where he was that night.

He looked at the man seated only a few feet away, looking out the window from the shadows. Only his chin, the tip of his nose and part of his forehead were visible. And beneath his nose, the moustache, trimmed neatly to sharp points at the corners of his mouth like a pair of narrow, black paper arrows pasted to his upper lip, pointing to each side of his face. When he raised the cigarette to his lips, he turned away from the window so the glowing tip was not visible. When he turned back, the smoke swirled from his mouth in the stark moonlight like strands of silver thread that floated on the air.

Had his wife been alive, Hiller never would have met this man, this distinguished Belgian who called himself Dominic. He never would have put himself in a position where he had to rely on this man’s help, where he would be grateful for his assistance to survive.

They heard the noise of a truck coming down the street. Dominic ducked away from the window as the truck went by. Hiller ducked, too, although he was well away from the window, sitting at the table in the center of the kitchen. The headlights of the truck flashed briefly in the room, then the truck was gone and the noise faded quickly.

Dominic puffed on the cigarette. The glow of the tip illuminated his face with an orange tint. For an instant he appeared as a devil, then he blew the magical strands of silver from his lips.

Hiller rubbed his face with both hands. This trip would never end. He would never live long enough to see the freedom of England or America or wherever the Allies had planned for him. The Gestapo would find him, of that he had little doubt, and in their hands he would not live long.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in Dominic. He was certainly a resourceful man, but he was just one, whereas the Gestapo was an army of thousands, and they were ruthless. The Gestapo also didn’t have to be careful of where they went or who they spoke to, and they didn’t have to hide in the shadows of the farmhouse of resistance sympathizers.

Are you still with me, Herr Doktor? Dominic said.

He spoke in a whisper, but in the silence it was as if he was shouting.

Yes, Hiller said.

Good. Good.

Dominic spoke German well, but not with the proper accent. His inflection gave the syllables a lilting quality, instead of the more appropriate guttural tones. It hardly mattered, though. With that type of moustache, he would never pass as a German.

How much longer?

Not long, not long, Dominic said, never looking away from the window.

But it had already been long. They had been in that farmhouse for hours. They arrived sometime late in the afternoon, after a long drive from Paris. Five miles up the road the car ran out of gas. They buried it in the bushes and walked the rest of the way. The old couple who lived in the farmhouse fed them supper and had long since gone to bed.

In the darkness, Hiller tried to remember the layout of the kitchen. It was hard to believe people still lived like this. He was used to the busy, hurried life of the city. He was born and raised in Bonn and rarely had opportunity to travel to the farmland.

Dominic flicked his cigarette out the window and stood up.

They’ve arrived, he said.

Hiller watched his dark form walk past and go to the door. He stood there for a few moments, then opened the door. A single person stood in the doorway, his short, stocky figure silhouetted in the dim moonlight. They mumbled to each other in French, speaking in very low tones. Hiller understood the language, but could pick out only a few words of the conversation.

Dominic closed the door softly.

It’s time to go, Herr Doktor. They will meet us around the back.

Hiller nodded, although Dominic could not see it in the darkness, and rose to his feet. He followed Dominic through the house to the back, walking carefully to avoid making noise with his heavy boots. He did not want to wake the old couple upstairs, although he as fairly sure they had never actually gone to sleep.

What would make people like them allow people like Dominic and him into their homes? For certain, they would want nothing to do with trouble, and he was certainly worth a great deal, especially since he was their enemy, if not in embodiment then as a representative. Such covert rebelliousness he could not understand.

They stepped outside into the chilly winter air and Dominic closed the door. The back of the house was completely in shadow. Hiller could see nothing but the tops of the bare trees that rose above the roof of the house.

To his left someone spoke, startling him. Hiller could just make out the black shape of a man a few feet away, roughly the same height as the one in the doorway. Dominic took his arm in a firm grip.

Stay close to me, Doktor. We have to walk a good distance, he said.

Hiller’s feet shuffled through the thin layer of snow. Dominic practically dragged him. They crossed the yard behind the house to the treeline, following the man from the doorway. He walked between two trees and suddenly they were on a path that wound through the forest. Hiller could make out nothing in the darkness; he did not see how this short man could find such a path without the aid of a torch or lantern.

They walked a good distance, brushing through the bare tree limbs, before Hiller glanced back over his shoulder. A few paces behind was another dark figure, this one taller, following the same path. A long, narrow object rose over his shoulder, and it wasn’t until the moonlight glinted on the metal that Hiller realized it was the barrel of a rifle.

Please keep up, Doktor, Dominic said. His voice was low, but not in the hiss of a whisper.

Hiller ran a few steps to catch up. He did not want to become separated from Dominic. His fate was now tied to this man who had brought him this far. He also did not want to get too close to the man behind with the rifle.

They continued on for several more minutes, then stopped. Dominic grabbed his arm again.

This way, Doktor, gently, he said.

They stepped off the trail into the thicker brush. Leaves and branches and snow crunched under his feet. Dominic pressed him against the trunk of a tree.

Stay here, please. Do not move. It will not be long, he said, and walked a few feet away to another tree.

The moon was directly overhead. Hiller could see his breath. His ears and nose were cold and he was shivering. He put his hands over his ears.

Through the trees he saw a clearing, a wide, flat clearing. A light flickered in the middle of the field. If he stared at the spot long enough, he could just about see it. Then he saw another, and farther to his right another. They were lights, small fires built at various intervals. What were they for?

Dominic was leaning against a tree as if he was trying to become a part of it. Would the Gestapo be looking for them there, somewhere in a forest deep in southern France? How could they expect to fight off the Gestapo when they were only four, and only one had a weapon?

Hiller looked around at the other trees. His shivering stopped. They were not just four. At almost every tree he could make out the shape of a man in the faint moonlight, standing closely to the trunk. With every shape was the glint of light off the barrel of a weapon. Hiller shivered with a different kind of coldness that went through his body. To these men, he was the enemy, just as he was to the old couple in the farmhouse. But how long would they hesitate before they gunned him down?

At first the buzzing noise was barely noticeable. Hiller was counting the shapes of men pressed against trees when he noticed it. The sound was like an insect in his ear, except there were no insects in France on the first night of December.

He looked around to see if they were near a road, then looked up. Of course, it was a plane. The lights in the field were for a landing strip. They would fly him out to freedom.

But who would be so daring to fly into occupied France in the middle of the night? Hiller’s head shook. His hand rubbed his forehead. This was insane. Such a plan did not stand a chance, not when he had to fly through a nest of Luftwaffe fighters. And they were going to put him on that plane? That was equally insane.

The noise of the plane grew louder overhead.

He could run. He could find his way back to that farmhouse and wait for the Gestapo to pick him up. They would interrogate him, most likely torture him, but there was a chance he would survive. If he got on that plane he would certainly die, shot down by one of Germany’s finest Messerschmitt pilots, plummeting to the earth in flames.

Hiller looked back along the path, but could not move. A dozen or so men were watching him, each with the shiny metal barrels of their rifles.

Do you hear it, Herr Doktor? Dominic said, his low voice right at his shoulder.

Hiller jumped with a start and turned.

Yes, he said.

That is your ride to freedom. A British plane to take you to England. I have heard you are bound for America, mon ami. Dominic moved off, his boots crunching in the snow and old branches.

So it was to be America. As a boy, Hiller once dreamed of seeing America with its vast, open lands. As an officer of the Third Reich he had hoped the Americans would join the war on their side. Now he would be going to visit that land for real, but at the cost of his nationality. He turned his eyes up to the clear night sky, where the moon shined among a sea of tiny stars. He would probably never again see his homeland.

Something moved in the sky against the background of stars. The buzzing noise of the plane’s motor seemed to come from all different directions. The object hovered in the sky. It had to be the British plane.

It circled the field, dipped beneath the trees on the far side, then reappeared like the black ghost of some enormous bird. He could see only its black shape, swooping down slowly out of the sky. The note of its engine dropped and as the plane rushed by he could see the red, white and blue target shape on the side.

Someone ran past Hiller. He stayed very close to the tree.

Come with me, Doktor. It’s time, Dominic said.

Hiller followed him out of the forest to the field. The plane had touched down and was at the other end, turning around to come back. In the center of the field, standing by one of the small fires, a man was guiding the plane with a flashlight.

Hiller and Dominic walked toward him. Around them, the soldiers that had been hidden amongst the trees emerged from the line where the forest ended. Hiller watched, astonished. These men were not the soldiers of a disciplined resistance army; they were farmers. Each carried a weapon, but a variety of different weapons, some he recognized as German. It was hard to believe that the vaunted German army was struggling against such vagabond rebels.

The plane rolled up to where they stood, turned around again to face down the length of the field, and came to a stop. The engine was running, but at a slow idle. It was an ungainly beast, not like the sleek aircraft of the Luftwaffe. It had a high wing, a round tail rudder, and a misshapen fuselage like the distended belly of a whale.

The hatch in the side opened and a small stepladder dropped out. The inside of the plane was pitch black. Hiller closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, moving only his lips.

Step it up there, mate. Let’s not keep the Gerries waiting, came a voice from inside the hatch. The English accent was unmistakable. He shined a light on the ladder. Mind your step.

Dominic helped Hiller up the steps and into the plane. The light shined on a flat, hard seat against the fuselage.

If you’d be so kind, please don the lifevest and strap yourself in, the pilot said.

Sit, please, Doktor. Everything will be just fine, Dominic said.

He helped Hiller with the straps to hold the lifevest around his neck and fastened the belts to hold him in the seat. Dominic slapped him on the shoulder.

Ready to go, he said.

Hiller grabbed his arm as he turned. In the dim light Dominic looked into his face.

Thank you, Hiller said.

Dominic simply nodded, with a bit of a smile. He climbed down the ladder, folded it up inside the plane, and closed the hatch. From the inside, the pilot secured the hatch and climbed forward to the cockpit. He turned, and in the greenish glow of the gauges, Hiller saw his face. He was just a boy.

Welcome to one-six-one squadron, sir. Name’s Darby. I’ll be your pilot this evening. We’ve clear skies all the way to England. Hope you enjoy your flight.

Hiller nodded, but Darby had already turned back to the controls. The note of the engine rose and the plane began to move. He squeezed the edges of the seat tightly with both hands.

Through a port in the hatch, Hiller could see Dominic and the others backing away. Something about them was intriguing. These simple men came out on a cold December night for his sake, a simple engineer. These men were not cowering in fear, nor were they intimidated by the German army.

Hiller smiled. His shakes and fear subsided, replaced by a warmth from within. Finally, he began to understand what these people of the resistance were all about. They were not going to defeat the massed strength of the German army. They knew they could never do that on their own. These people were doing this to preserve the honor of their nation.

The plane picked up speed, bouncing violently, the roar of the engine deafening, until it lifted off the ground and climbed steeply into the sky. Hiller had one last look at the ground and the tiny specks of light from the fires as they swept out from beneath them. Hitler had seriously underestimated these people.

Chapter 3

Gil Chen blew on his cup of coffee and took a sip. It was still too hot, but he needed the warmth in his belly. The old warehouse loft had no heat and he could not shake the cold from his bones.

He stood by the window. The cars were parked below. One of the police officers was talking with someone from the newspaper. Leopard’s car wasn’t there, though. Chen shook his head. More than an hour ago he called Tom to get him out of bed.

He turned to look at the others by the old mattress. Agent Carella was pointing at something with his pen. Meyer, beside him, nodded and pointed at something else.

Chen heard a car door slam and looked out the window again. It was Leopard. He stood by his car and flipped up the collar of his coat. Chen rolled his eyes. How was it his partner always managed to look so beat up?

Leopard said something to the cop, who pointed to the door below the window.

He’s here, Chen said.

Carella looked at his watch. About damn time.

Meyer crouched to look at something on the floor by the bed. Chen gritted his teeth. Leopard appeared in the doorway. Chen, Carella and Meyer all turned to look.

Glad you could join us there, Agent Leopard. Didn’t want you to miss all the fun, Carella said.

Leopard glared. Chen held his breath.

What happened here? Leopard said.

We think this is where the girl was killed. Chen pointed to the loose ropes at each corner of the old mattress. He had her tied up here. This looks like where he cut her throat.

He pointed to the blood soaked into the mattress. Leopard nodded. He hadn’t shaved and his eyelids were heavy. Chen hated to see him like that. It seemed more and more he couldn’t get through a night without winding up a mess.

Leopard patted the pockets of his coat, found a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one. He looked around the room, hunched slightly at the shoulders. They all watched like he was an actor and this was a stage play.

You find any prints? Leopard said.

His voice was rough and he coughed.

Carella dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his shoe.

We had the forensics boys all over the place, he said. He blew out a long stream of smoke and shook his head. They didn’t find nothing. Everything’s been wiped.

Leopard nodded, wobbling on unsteady legs.

What’s that? Leopard said, pointing to the floor at Carella’s feet with the cigarette between his two fingers.

Carella looked down at his feet.

What’s what? he said, picking up his feet liked he’d stepped in dog shit.

That, Leopard said.

He crouched by the large stain on the floor. Carella stepped out of the way.

It’s paint. How the hell do I know? Carella said.

He put his hands on his hips.

If it’s paint, it’s still wet, Chen said.

He pointed at the cigarette Carella just crushed. It had smeared the brown stain. Leopard carefully picked up the cigarette with two fingers, sniffed, then sniffed again.

Coffee, he said. He tossed the cigarette away. Our killer drinks coffee.

Great detective work. I could have told you that, Carella said.

He pointed at a white cup on a shelf by the mattress. Leopard leaned over the cup, squinting.

Was it dusted? he said.

He looked at Carella, still squinting.

Of course.

And? Leopard said.

He straightened up and scratched his cheek.

And nothing. No prints, like I said. It was wiped like everything else. Nothing but some kind of grease on it.

Leopard’s eyebrows arched. For the first time he looked awake.

Grease? You get it checked out?

It’s just grease. What the hell are you worried about? Meyer said.

Why don’t you just calm down, Leopard. We been through this place. If there was anything here, we would have found it, Carella said.

Leopard turned away while Carella was still talking and looked at Chen.

You got a pencil?

Sure.

Chen felt in his pockets for a pencil and handed it to Leopard. He stuck the pencil through the handle of the cup and picked it up.

You mind if I have it checked? he said.

Meyer turned away. Carella threw his hands up in the air.

What the hell do I care? Check it if you want. You won’t find nothing, Carella said.

Leopard gave the pencil and the cup to Chen.

We’ll drop this off at the lab, he said.

Chen took the pen, careful to avoid touching the cup. Leopard looked at Carella and Meyer one last time and walked out. Chen went after him, dangling the cup on the pencil. He followed Leopard down the stairs and out the door.

Tom, what was that all about? Chen said.

The loose gravel crunched under his shoes.

What was what all about?

That show upstairs.

Leopard stopped abruptly and turned around.

Show? he said, glaring at Chen with eyes narrowed to slits.

Tom, you look like hell.

Thanks a hell of a lot.

Leopard started toward the car again.

You didn’t go home last night, did you? Chen said.

Sure I did, Leopard said.

He turned the handle to open the car door. Chen put his hand on the door and kept it closed.

What time? he said.

Leopard shook his head. I don’t remember. Look, I don’t want to talk about this now.

Chen started to say something when another car pulled up, a green Ford. The tires skidded in the gravel. Leyritz and Remington got out.

Here we go. I should have figured you two would be here. When are you feds gonna learn? Stay out of police business, Leyritz said.

Leopard rolled his eyes. Chen had the same feeling. Leyritz walked up to Leopard and stood in his face, his hands on his hips.

This is a homicide investigation. Why don’t you and your fed buddies pack it up and leave this work to us? Leyritz said.

Leopard was staring down at his shoes. He still had a hand on the door, holding it open.

You can take your fat Jap spy with you, too, Leyritz said.

Leopard swung at Leyritz before Chen even realized what he said. His left fist connected with the front of Leyritz’s face. His head snapped back and his hat flew off.

You take that back you stinking son of a bitch! Leopard shouted.

He swung with his right, but Leyritz was falling backward and the swing missed.

Remington reached out to catch his partner. Leopard fell on top of both men, his arms swinging. Chen grabbed his fist with both hands as he brought his left arm up. He dragged Leopard off by the collar of his overcoat. They collapsed in a heap against the car.

You crazy asshole! You’re crazy! Leyritz shouted in a nasal tone.

He scrambled away on his backside, one hand over his nose. His face and the front of his shirt were drenched with blood. His voice was angry, but his eyes were wide with fear.

Leopard was screaming curses and insults, almost incoherently. Chen could only stare, amazed. All his life he grew up hearing the slurs from children and grown ups, until he came to expect it. They didn’t care that he was born in San Francisco or that his parents were born in San Francisco, only that he had slant eyes and yellow skin. No one, though, ever defended him from any of those slurs, ever.

Chen helped Leopard to his feet.

Let’s get outta here, he said.

Leopard was slumped against the door, staring out the side window. Since Chen shoved him in the car and they drove off, he hadn’t said a word. He never even said anything about leaving his own car at the warehouse.

Chen changed gears with the lever on the steering column and looked at his partner. Leopard’s moods worried him. He was never the same person from one day to the next.

Tom? You wanna tell me what’s going on? Chen said.

He braked for a red light.

Leopard didn’t respond. He didn’t move, as if he had become molded to the seat. Chen parked outside the hospital and turned the car off.

You coming in? Chen said.

What? Oh, sure, Leopard said, as if startled from a sleep.

Chen got out and stood by the car. Leopard started toward the building, walking with his shoulders hunched like he was all alone in the world. Chen shook his head, slammed the door shut and followed.

Leopard’s head throbbed. It hadn’t stopped throbbing since sometime early that morning, long before the sun came up. It woke him from a fitful sleep and kept him from going back to sleep until Chen called sometime around seven.

He walked up the steps to the door of the hospital, without noticing where he was going. Many times in the past he had climbed those stairs, and never liked to think about where they took him.

You still with me, Tom? Chen said.

He was actually smiling. He walked past Leopard to the door and held it open, waiting. Chen was a little overweight, but Leopard always attributed that to the burgers they ate practically every day for lunch, and the meat and potatoes his wife cooked for dinner. He was a pure Chinaman though, even if sometimes he denied his Asian heritage.

Leopard and Chen walked side by side through the hospital. The scuff of their heels on the polished granite floor echoed off the sterile, pale green walls. In unison, they tipped their hats as they passed a pair of nuns in black habits. The younger one caught Leopard’s eye. She had high cheeks and her chin came to a delicate point that gave her face the shape of a heart. In another world he might have stopped to ask her name, maybe even propositioned her for an evening of passion. She, however, held the hand of the other nun, who was much older and shuffled her feet in tiny steps. Leopard and Chen walked by without a second look.

The stairs down to the morgue were the same as the front stairs to the hospital. How many times in his career had he made the trip down those stairs, or stairs just like them in so many different hospitals? Even on Chen’s face he could see signs of the weariness that came from seeing one body after another, discussing how each body had come to be in the morgue. For Leopard, weariness was a distant memory. The ache and the pain of other people’s suffering was sucked out of him all at once on that one night. Since then, he felt nothing at all.

The entrance to the morgue was a pair of swinging double doors. The smell of embalming fluids was overpowering, even from the hallway. To the right, an assistant was busy with a male corpse, washing mud and grime from its stiff arms. To their left, Samuels was examining the girl.

Leopard stopped in his tracks. His heart stopped as well, for a moment only, though it felt like an eternity. Chen brushed past like a ghost. Leopard’s breath caught in his throat. It was the same ordeal, thirteen years later.

God, was it thirteen years already? Chen said something to Samuels, who said something back, but to Leopard their words were muddled, like he heard them under water.

Thirteen years ago he came to a morgue just like this one to identify the body of another young woman. She lay on the examination table staring up at the stark, pale light with the same blank, horrified expression, except that then the young woman wasn’t a nameless murder victim. She was his wife.

Leopard approached slowly. His feet were heavy, like he was ankle deep in mud.

The girl’s skin was bluish green. The edges of the neat slice in the side of her neck had peeled apart and curled open. Her mouth was slightly open, like she was speaking to him.

Karen’s mouth was slightly open, too. That night thirteen years ago she seemed to be trying to tell him something as well. He had strained to listen, strained with all his soul to hear any last words she tried to tell, but he heard nothing.

It was an accident, the police told him. She was crossing the street. She had gone downtown to shop for a new pair of shoes. The driver of the car never saw her, never even touched his brakes until it was over. And the last time he saw her she was laying on a cold, stainless steel table, her belly still swollen with their child.

Tom? Chen said.

The murky water that suspended Leopard’s brain vanished with a snap.

What?

You got any questions for the Doc?

Leopard stared at the still body. What was her name?

Name is Andricks, Beth Andricks, Samuels said. He paused to let Chen write it in his notepad. Sixteen years old, lived in the Heights.

Chen touched his pencil to his chin.

You think a boyfriend might have done this and dumped her in the alley?

Samuels shook his head. Not much chance of that. A boyfriend probably would have acted out of anger or jealousy. This death was too neat, too clean to be done by someone who was upset.

What time did she die? Leopard said.

Samuels picked up a clipboard and flipped through a few sheets.

Uh, time of death estimated between two and three a.m.

Signs of a struggle? Chen said.

She was tied by the ankles and wrists, as you can see here and here, Samuels said. He pointed with the eraser of his pencil to the deep, purple bruises that ringed each ankle and wrist. These red marks on the cheeks suggest the mouth was covered with an adhesive tape. She was bound quite tightly, which I doubt would facilitate much resistance. We found traces of potassium bromide in the muscle tissues. Potassium bromide is a powerful sedative, which might also explain why there was little struggle on her part. As for other marks, there’s an abrasion and a contusion to the left cheek, which suggests she was struck by something, maybe a hand. No other bruises. Little else to go by.

Anything under the fingernails? Chen said.

Samuels shook his head. Any residual material under the fingernails was removed. The entire body was cleaned with an antiseptic. Whoever killed her made sure he left nothing behind, no hairs, no fibers, nothing.

What about her blood? Leopard said.

He stepped around to the end of the table.

Drained from the body, Samuels said. He pointed to the wound with the eraser of his pencil. The incision was started here and proceeded in this fashion, toward the front of the neck. He traced the slice with the eraser. The blood was then simply allowed to pump directly from the carotid artery.

What type of knife?

Very sharp blade, fine cutting edge, like a scalpel.

How long would it take to die? Chen said.

He was scribbling in the notepad.

Samuels shrugged. He set his clipboard and pencil on the bench.

As much as a minute, maybe two, depending on the size of the wound to the artery.

Was she raped? Leopard said.

He stood by her feet but couldn’t tear his eyes from her face. If she had anything to tell ...

That is a funny thing, Samuels began. He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with his handkerchief. We suspect rape did occur, but we have little evidence to prove it. Again, the body was thoroughly cleaned. He put the glasses back on his face.

But you do believe she was raped? Leopard said.

Yes, certainly.

Before or after death? Leopard said.

Chen stopped writing. Samuels was a long time before he answered. He clasped his hands directly in front of him and looked directly at Leopard.

After, he said.

Leopard turned to the door.

Thank you, Doctor, he said, and walked away.

Tom, wait up, Chen said.

The door swung in as Leopard reached out to push it open. A dark haired woman wearing thick glasses came in, followed by a tall, thin man with a bushy mustache. She walked past Leopard. Chen was in front of her and she practically pushed him out of the way with both hands. She stopped dead. Her hands went to her cheeks.

Oh Beth. My Beth, she said.

She began to wail. The tall, thin man grasped her shoulders as she slumped to the floor, weeping. Chen had stopped and was staring. Leopard grabbed the sleeve of his coat.

Let’s get the hell out of here, he said.

* * * *

It wasn’t fair. They never even gave him a chance. A man should not be dismissed because he didn’t meet the physical qualities. So what if he wasn’t tall enough? So what if he didn’t have perfect eyesight? He could fly a plane just as well as any of those guys, and some were older than him.