Page 56 of Killer Clone

Ander followed, zipping up his coat. “Getting chilly now.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to be out on the streets tonight. Not in weather like this.”

“Freeze to death.”

There was little wind in the alley, and Hagen’s breath hung in front of his face as he took in his surroundings. It was a good place for a body dump, with lots of ways in and out. Whoever chose this spot picked well.

The arcade itself, a popular shopping street open only to pedestrian traffic, was about ten yards away.

Whoever dropped Patrick Marrion’s body here could’ve escaped in either direction. Or they could continue downKerrick’s Alley, cut across the arcade to the north side, and flee out where the alley stopped at Commerce Street.

Kerrick’s Alley was a narrow lane filled with dirty brickwork, graffiti, peeling plaster, broken tarmac, and a line of overflowing dumpsters. It was the back end of Commerce, the part that no one was supposed to see.

They certainly weren’t supposed to smell it. The acrid scent of rot and urine and garbage burned the back of Hagen’s throat.

Ander hunched his shoulders and walked up to the wall, just past the first set of dumpsters, four of them placed close together against the brickwork of the alley.

Hagen followed suit and took in the freshly painted cuneiform on the wall.

The ancient script looked much the same as it had on the walls of Otto Walker’s apartment, except that it was larger. Brownish paint, which Hagen suspected was actually blood, covered the space. To a casual observer, it looked like creative graffiti. The marks themselves were neater than those at Otto Walker’s apartment.

Here, the marks appeared colder, more calculated. Like their perpetrator had time.

“A message.”

“To us? Or to someone else?”

“I think to us.”

Ander crouched in front of the wall. “If this is the killer, what do you think he’s trying to say?”

“If it is him, then I don’t think he’s trying to say anything. He’s calling. Shouting for the FBI. He wants attention.”

Ander rose in one smooth movement. His hands remained in his coat pockets. “Then I guess his message did get through. We’re here, aren’t we?”

“We are.” Hagen took a deep breath and looked around him. “But why? I don’t see anything here. No footprints, no trail ofpaint or blood leading us to whoever did this. I think we’d better just tape this off until forensics arrives.”

“Works for me.”

“Let’s see if that Delafayette dude is around. Maybe we can still get something out of this trip.”

“The soup kitchen has alibied him. Slept there Friday night after dinner, never left until morning. But you never know.”

They kept moving down the alley past the first set of dumpsters. Hagen let Ander prod the piles of garbage placed directly on the concrete with his own shoes. For his part, he was in no mood to get his Oxfords filthy as well.

A mound of cardboard next to another line of dumpsters about halfway down the alley near where the arcade cut through Kerrick’s Alley looked promising. Something rustled as Hagen drew near, and he moved his hand toward the gun under his armpit.

He grabbed the top sheet of damp, unfolded box and pulled.

A rat screeched.

The creature leaped out, scampered across Hagen’s designer shoes, and raced across the arcade and down the alley toward Commerce Street.

“Dammit. That’s disgusting.” He checked his shoe. There was no sign of rat droppings or other filth on the upper. He searched his pockets for something to wipe his shoe and found nothing. There were tissues in the SUV, at least.

Ander rocked on his heels. “That’s good. It’s pretty. And it’s nice that you’re making friends. I should bring you here more often.”

“Let’s call the locals to secure the site until forensics arrives. I don’t think anyone’s here.” He headed back the way they’d come, past the first line of dumpsters, and toward the SUV.

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