the floor to the low half wall to his right.
The room was empty.
And he saw no wet footprints on the floor; even the dusty patina of the desktop seemed undisturbed. Still, Thompson played it carefully as he eased around the desk and pointed his gun at the floor behind it.
Nothing.
He let out another breath and felt a little better, and pressed on. His stomach was fluttering, though, and he felt covered in an apprehension as real as his rain-drenched clothes. Middle office, now.
Not only was the door gone off this office, so were the furnishings within: no desk, file cabinets, tables, chairs, nothing but piles of broken glass and fractured wallboard littering the room like the aftermath of a biker party. No transgenics in there either.
Listening intently at the sagging door of the final office, Thompson heard nothing but his own pulse pounding in his ears. Though the whole building smelled of rot and decay— a bouquet emphasized by the night's dampness—the last office seemed to be the nexus of the putrid aroma. The door groaned as he pushed it open.
The desk in this room had been tipped over, its legs sticking out at Thompson, its top facing the back wall. He shoved the door hard, smacking it off the wall, just in case someone ... something ... had snugged himself... itself... back there....
Nothing behind it, though. Swinging the other way, Thompson played his light over the floor and saw nothing but broken glass and other rubble. Slowly, he edged toward the side of the desk and shined the beam behind it, and the light caught something, something made not of wood or steel or glass, but flesh....
There, on the floor, lay the skinned carcass of some sort of animal. The body had obviously been there for some time— even the insects had lost interest in it by now—
and Thompson couldn't even make out what it was, between the darkness and decay.
From its size, it at first appeared to him to be a very large dog, or maybe a deer that had wandered into the city; but as the beam crept over the prone form, Thompson realized that what he'd just found was neither deer nor dog.
The body on the floor was that of a man.
Not an animal carcass, but a human corpse.
"Hankins," Thompson said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Got something."
No response.
The smell of the office oppressive now, threatening to send his dinner scurrying back up his throat, he again hissed, "Hankins."
Finally his partner growled in his ear: "What the fuck is it now, Thompson?"
"Got a body here."
Hankins' voice came back gruffly, unimpressed: "The transgenic?"
"I... I don't think so."
"Shit. I knew we couldn't be that fuckin' lucky. Tell me about your catch of the day."
"Office downstairs. Last one on the right. Behind a desk."
Harrumphing, Hankins said, "Jesus, how about a detail that matters? Like is it a man?
A woman? Child? What?"
Thompson bit his tongue and kept the obscenity from popping out of his mouth.
Discipline, Thompson knew, kept him from being like Hankins, and he wouldn't allow the F word to slip into his reply, no matter how hard it fought to come out. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he said, "Frankly, I can't tell whether it's male or female ... probably adult, and I... I think it's been skinned."
"What?"
"Skinned," Thompson repeated. "It's a dead body ... with no skin."
"Goddamn.... How fresh is that baby?"
How the hell should I know? Thompson wondered, but he said, "Old—there's not even any bugs. Even the smell's died down ... some."
Hankins sighed in Thompson's ear, then said, "Fuck it then. Move on."
"You don't think rinding a dead body is a 'detail' that matters?"
"Sure it is—in the long run. In the short term, we're lookin' for a transgenic tonight."
"Maybe this is the victim of a transgenic."
"Maybe—but we'll let the investigative team figure that out, Sage my boy. If you got a kill that ain't fresh, it's not going to do us any good now ... and it'll wait until we've cleared the
The room was empty.
And he saw no wet footprints on the floor; even the dusty patina of the desktop seemed undisturbed. Still, Thompson played it carefully as he eased around the desk and pointed his gun at the floor behind it.
Nothing.
He let out another breath and felt a little better, and pressed on. His stomach was fluttering, though, and he felt covered in an apprehension as real as his rain-drenched clothes. Middle office, now.
Not only was the door gone off this office, so were the furnishings within: no desk, file cabinets, tables, chairs, nothing but piles of broken glass and fractured wallboard littering the room like the aftermath of a biker party. No transgenics in there either.
Listening intently at the sagging door of the final office, Thompson heard nothing but his own pulse pounding in his ears. Though the whole building smelled of rot and decay— a bouquet emphasized by the night's dampness—the last office seemed to be the nexus of the putrid aroma. The door groaned as he pushed it open.
The desk in this room had been tipped over, its legs sticking out at Thompson, its top facing the back wall. He shoved the door hard, smacking it off the wall, just in case someone ... something ... had snugged himself... itself... back there....
Nothing behind it, though. Swinging the other way, Thompson played his light over the floor and saw nothing but broken glass and other rubble. Slowly, he edged toward the side of the desk and shined the beam behind it, and the light caught something, something made not of wood or steel or glass, but flesh....
There, on the floor, lay the skinned carcass of some sort of animal. The body had obviously been there for some time— even the insects had lost interest in it by now—
and Thompson couldn't even make out what it was, between the darkness and decay.
From its size, it at first appeared to him to be a very large dog, or maybe a deer that had wandered into the city; but as the beam crept over the prone form, Thompson realized that what he'd just found was neither deer nor dog.
The body on the floor was that of a man.
Not an animal carcass, but a human corpse.
"Hankins," Thompson said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Got something."
No response.
The smell of the office oppressive now, threatening to send his dinner scurrying back up his throat, he again hissed, "Hankins."
Finally his partner growled in his ear: "What the fuck is it now, Thompson?"
"Got a body here."
Hankins' voice came back gruffly, unimpressed: "The transgenic?"
"I... I don't think so."
"Shit. I knew we couldn't be that fuckin' lucky. Tell me about your catch of the day."
"Office downstairs. Last one on the right. Behind a desk."
Harrumphing, Hankins said, "Jesus, how about a detail that matters? Like is it a man?
A woman? Child? What?"
Thompson bit his tongue and kept the obscenity from popping out of his mouth.
Discipline, Thompson knew, kept him from being like Hankins, and he wouldn't allow the F word to slip into his reply, no matter how hard it fought to come out. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he said, "Frankly, I can't tell whether it's male or female ... probably adult, and I... I think it's been skinned."
"What?"
"Skinned," Thompson repeated. "It's a dead body ... with no skin."
"Goddamn.... How fresh is that baby?"
How the hell should I know? Thompson wondered, but he said, "Old—there's not even any bugs. Even the smell's died down ... some."
Hankins sighed in Thompson's ear, then said, "Fuck it then. Move on."
"You don't think rinding a dead body is a 'detail' that matters?"
"Sure it is—in the long run. In the short term, we're lookin' for a transgenic tonight."
"Maybe this is the victim of a transgenic."
"Maybe—but we'll let the investigative team figure that out, Sage my boy. If you got a kill that ain't fresh, it's not going to do us any good now ... and it'll wait until we've cleared the
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