to collect our pensions.” Baird poured himself a cup of coffee from a beaker steaming over a Bunsen burner. “Do you know that stress-related diseases are the number-one cop killer? Your life expectancy, Mr. Cop, is fifty-seven years.”
“The Motor Vehicle Division has no prints for her?”
“If they did, we’d have an I.D. by now, wouldn’t we?”
He was halfway back to his office with the duplicate set of pictures when the radio pack called his number.
“This is X-eighty-five.” The detective division’s prefix was “X”; the 800 series meant homicide. Wager was detective number 5.
“You got somebody to see you in your office. What’s your ten-twenty?”
“I’m in the building. I’m on my way.”
“Ten-four.”
It was Gargan, in the same black turtleneck that he always wore. Wager occasionally wondered if that was its original color or if it had soiled that way. Now the reporter was trying to grow a moustache that framed his mouth in a horseshoe of bristling orange hair which had snagged a crumb or two of his supper. “Gabe! Lay it on me, man—what’s new on the horseless headsman?”
“Here. Get a laugh out of this.” He tossed the pictures on the desk.
“Oh, Jesus.” The reporter’s face twisted, and he pushed them back at Wager. “The wire services can’t use these. How about names or numbers? Got an I.D. yet?”
“No. All I can say is that it looks like the head and the torso go together, but you better wait for a complete report from the pathologist before quoting that.”
“Was the—ah—severing the cause of death?”
“The lab doesn’t think so. The doc said it was a sloppy job, and there’s no indication on the torso that the hands were tied. Nobody would just stand there and let some guy saw at their neck.”
“What’s this he’s pointing to, a stab wound?”
“Yes. But it might not be the cause of death. We’ll know more when the doc files his report.”
“Jesus. Whoever did it must be totally bug-fuck.”
“Or maybe wants us to think so.”
“Yeah. Believe me, I think so.” Gargan slapped his feet from the rung of a neighboring chair. “And of course you don’t have any suspects?”
“We don’t even have any witnesses, Gargan. But we are working on the case.”
“Denver’s citizenry can sleep better for knowing that.” He stood by a bulletin board and tapped the pen-and-ink composite of a face on a circular from New Mexico describing the suspect in an Indian turquoise robbery and murder. “This looks like my brother-in-law. And I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to do something like that. Except he’d get caught sooner.” The reporter paused in the doorway. “Well, I’ll just have to say that you think the head and body are the same person, but you’re waiting verification from the lab.”
“That’s about it.”
“I’d appreciate hearing if you get something—don’t forget, we’re old buddies, Gabe.”
“Right.” He stayed at his desk until Gargan had time to clear the police building; then he went on the street to put in another eight hours.
CHAPTER 6
M ONDAY BROUGHT ONE of those afternoons that made Wager’s small apartment feel empty no matter how much he prowled it. He straightened the NCO’s sword he’d hung on a wall and the two sling chairs he seldom used and the small photograph of a single dead tree that was a souvenir from an earlier case. Strange how the restless emptiness came most often when a lot of work was going for nothing—and how it seemed even stronger now that he was in homicide. Maybe because in narcotics there had been no clear victims, only scum everywhere—users who turned pushers when they had enough to sell, buyers who bought because they had to, pushers who worked for you or against you depending on the money. But homicide had a victim who lay there waiting for an answer and whose silence was an accusation against Wager.
He flipped the television set from one channel of squealing
“The Motor Vehicle Division has no prints for her?”
“If they did, we’d have an I.D. by now, wouldn’t we?”
He was halfway back to his office with the duplicate set of pictures when the radio pack called his number.
“This is X-eighty-five.” The detective division’s prefix was “X”; the 800 series meant homicide. Wager was detective number 5.
“You got somebody to see you in your office. What’s your ten-twenty?”
“I’m in the building. I’m on my way.”
“Ten-four.”
It was Gargan, in the same black turtleneck that he always wore. Wager occasionally wondered if that was its original color or if it had soiled that way. Now the reporter was trying to grow a moustache that framed his mouth in a horseshoe of bristling orange hair which had snagged a crumb or two of his supper. “Gabe! Lay it on me, man—what’s new on the horseless headsman?”
“Here. Get a laugh out of this.” He tossed the pictures on the desk.
“Oh, Jesus.” The reporter’s face twisted, and he pushed them back at Wager. “The wire services can’t use these. How about names or numbers? Got an I.D. yet?”
“No. All I can say is that it looks like the head and the torso go together, but you better wait for a complete report from the pathologist before quoting that.”
“Was the—ah—severing the cause of death?”
“The lab doesn’t think so. The doc said it was a sloppy job, and there’s no indication on the torso that the hands were tied. Nobody would just stand there and let some guy saw at their neck.”
“What’s this he’s pointing to, a stab wound?”
“Yes. But it might not be the cause of death. We’ll know more when the doc files his report.”
“Jesus. Whoever did it must be totally bug-fuck.”
“Or maybe wants us to think so.”
“Yeah. Believe me, I think so.” Gargan slapped his feet from the rung of a neighboring chair. “And of course you don’t have any suspects?”
“We don’t even have any witnesses, Gargan. But we are working on the case.”
“Denver’s citizenry can sleep better for knowing that.” He stood by a bulletin board and tapped the pen-and-ink composite of a face on a circular from New Mexico describing the suspect in an Indian turquoise robbery and murder. “This looks like my brother-in-law. And I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to do something like that. Except he’d get caught sooner.” The reporter paused in the doorway. “Well, I’ll just have to say that you think the head and body are the same person, but you’re waiting verification from the lab.”
“That’s about it.”
“I’d appreciate hearing if you get something—don’t forget, we’re old buddies, Gabe.”
“Right.” He stayed at his desk until Gargan had time to clear the police building; then he went on the street to put in another eight hours.
CHAPTER 6
M ONDAY BROUGHT ONE of those afternoons that made Wager’s small apartment feel empty no matter how much he prowled it. He straightened the NCO’s sword he’d hung on a wall and the two sling chairs he seldom used and the small photograph of a single dead tree that was a souvenir from an earlier case. Strange how the restless emptiness came most often when a lot of work was going for nothing—and how it seemed even stronger now that he was in homicide. Maybe because in narcotics there had been no clear victims, only scum everywhere—users who turned pushers when they had enough to sell, buyers who bought because they had to, pushers who worked for you or against you depending on the money. But homicide had a victim who lay there waiting for an answer and whose silence was an accusation against Wager.
He flipped the television set from one channel of squealing
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