A World the Color of Salt Read Free

manpower, extending an investigation too long. We all knew this, but it was seldom mentioned.
    While I stood there not really wanting to go forward to the cooler entryway, off Joe’s left an anemic-looking young man with zits, government-issue black horned-rims, and milky hair placed his elbow up on a case of cans, the better to study his notes. This had to be a rookie.
    Joe said, “Hey!”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œYour shirt on the box.”
    The rook stared, his neck turning rosy.
    â€œDust,” Joe said. “Did your shirt disturb the dust?”
    The rookie turned to look. “I . . . I don’t think so, sir. I don’t see anything.”
    Joe’s voice was slow, fair, not overbearing. “Take your flashlight,” he said. “Hold the beam across the top of the box. Make sure there are no prior disturbances, no finger or palm prints.” Joe glanced back at me. Actually, we all have sympathy for rooks; we were all there once.
    â€œYes, sir,” the rookie said, and struggled with the flashlight attached to his belt.
    Joe took me by the elbow and turned me toward the door.He said, “Do you think it’s too late to go into real estate?”
    â€œTake me with you when you go.”
    Joe was talking as we walked back to the cooler. He told me how his son, David, was doing his first year in college. Midway, he stopped, turned back to the door. “You don’t have to do this, Smokey.”
    â€œI know I don’t.”
    â€œWe have enough people here.”
    â€œIf I didn’t want to be here I wouldn’t have called to ask to be in on it, Joe.”
    He swept a finger under his eye. I knew the gesture: He did it when he needed a moment to think. And then we walked the rest of the way, his left hand lightly holding my elbow. He handed me a mentholated stick, the kind you rub around your nose when you have a cold, and the kind some idiots boil down and inject for a cheap but complicated meth hit. Bodies don’t smell that bad this early, but the distraction of a strong smell helps bring you back to yourself. The touch on the elbow, the quiet voice, and now this gesture of concern: These are some of the reasons he does what he does to me and my grown-up self.
    I was looking down on an awful red mess. I couldn’t see Jerry’s face yet, the hips rolled to the side, the head away from the door opening, and I didn’t want to; I stepped back. “He should have been safe here.”
    Billy Katchaturian appeared behind me. Even with the menthol, the sharp smell of mothballs leaked through. Billy was from the East. People from the East smell like mothballs. I looked over. He was examining the Polaroids, about three feet from me. Joe saw this and said, “You need more, Billy?”
    â€œNo, sir, go ahead. These are good.” He held the pack of them out like a sharpie showing cards to an audience.
    I moved closer in toward the cooler. A square of butcher paper was laid down where Billy K. had lodged a step stool to get overhead shots; I saw the stool’s rusty black impressions on it. For some reason, I didn’t want to step on the paper.
    Right away I saw bone in the bubbly stew above the knee that was once Jerry’s leg.
    â€œJesus,” I said. “They used heavy stuff.”
    Joe said, “You can see bits of the slug at the top of the wound there.” He pointed with a pen.
    â€œAlmost looks like a Glaser,” I said.
    â€œCrooks don’t have them,” Joe said.
    â€œYou and I can’t get them, is all.” Leaning farther in, what I could see of Jerry’s head told me the downside would be worse. I’d seen Glaser safety slugs demo-ed at the range, but I’d never shot one myself. They’re mean pieces of devastation with thin copper sides, designed to burst on impact.
    The air in the cooler wasn’t cold, the door open for so long, and I could hear the motor cycling. Moisture