[ TT ] A cab driver finds a briefcase full of diamonds left behind in his trunk . He decides to keep it for himself . Complications arise when murdered cab driver crop up all over the city .

Another one. Across the intersection sits an empty taxi cab, stripped to the bone. The seats torn out and gutted, with the dirty yellow stuffing floating along the little streams in the pavement toward the gutter. The poor sob trying to defend his livelihood lays there with them, cut open just the same. 
 
 I can only see the blurred outline of his corpse from behind my windshield and through the rain, but I know the crime-scene. It's the same as the last one, and the one before. But I need to wade in there and poke my nose around. It's my job after all. I grab my hat in the passenger seat, it leaves a soggy mess where it was sitting. It wo n't keep me dry - nothing could in this downpour, but it'll keep the rain out of my eyes. I step out of my cruiser and saunter over toward the scene. It's cold. Damn cold. Shame it could n't be just a little colder, and all this god forsaken rain would be snow, quietly falling to the ground instead of washing away all my evidence and soaking me to the bone. I take a puff from my cigar, but no smoke comes out. Another god damned thing the rain ruined. 
 
 Kneeling down in front of this poor bastards face, I see that he's been given the same treatment as the others. Every last finger cut off, and a slash across the throat. No doubt he told them his life story trying to get them to stop. If he knew where those diamonds were, he woulda squealed, and they know that. From the first finger, they knew he did n't have the diamonds, but they did n't stop. They needed to send a message. Do n't worry Carter, we got your message loud and clear. 
 
 I wait for the cleanup crew to haul the body away. They complain about the rain, but they should n't. Did most of their work for'em. I get back into my car and throw off my soggy hat before I crank it up and drive. On the way back I imagine the hot pot of coffee waiting for me back at the office -- and that bottle of scotch under my desk. Those should warm me up real nice. 
 
 My fantasies of hot drinks and dry clothes are shattered as a car spins out of control in front of me, crossing the yellow line and careening right into me. 
 
 Blood -- My own this time, a smear on the wheel from my bashed nose. I'll be fine. I reach for my hat, gone. Probably thrown through the broken window that's letting all the rain in. I shuffle over to the other car, noticing that my knee is n't just aching from the cold anymore, I'm pretty banged up. It's a brand new Cadillac. One of the fancy ones with the power steering. It's now got a nasty ding and a broken headlight. I'm sure Mister Moneybags is going to have quite the repair bill on his hands. As I approach the driver's window, I see that Mister Moneybags wo n't care, because his expensive steering wheel has smashed his face in. 
 
 Even in my dulled state, the instincts from the job kick in and I start noticing something just aint right. Mister Moneybags is unshaven and not wearing a suit. Rifling through his pockets, I see that the late Mr. Bags is in fact Eddie Jones, a cabbie I would have recognized if it were n't for that steering wheel. Unfortunately his face does not match the picture on his driver's licence anymore, he'll need to get that retaken. In the floor of the passenger side a small black briefcase catches my eye and I know what's in it before I flip the latches open. Dammit, Eddie. You got your buddies killed for this, and they died in a hell of a lot more pain than your sorry ass did. 
 
 You've put me in a tight spot Eddie. I ca n't turn the diamonds in to the station. Then Carter will have a hit put out on me for making sure he never gets his diamonds back. I sure as hell ca n't walk up to a mob boss and give back his lost property and expect to keep my job. I size up Eddie and sigh. He's my height, and his hair's not quite dark enough, but nobody will notice. I drag his body over to my badly damaged cruiser and prop him up, making sure to press his face into my steering wheel. I pull my wallet from my breast pocket and tuck it into his. More cabbies are going to die, but there's nothing I can do about that all the way from Acapulco. Man, this power steering sure is nice. Rest in peace, detective.
