[ IP ] Call it in .


 “ Call it in. ” 
 
 “ I always call it in ” 
 
 “ That ’ s cos you got a nice telephone voice or some shit, I don ’ t know. Just get on the goddamn phone, get some uniforms here to clean it up. ” Clarke turned away from the car and began to dial the number for police dispatch on the phone sat on the workshop table. 
 
 Johnson hunkered down by the car, taking in the blood spatters on the two-tone bodywork. In his right hand he held his notebook, his constant companion over twelve years of work with the FBI. He scratched out the license plate of the car with a biro, while re-enacting the scene in his mind. 
 
 The John Doe currently gracing the floor of the garage with his presence had just been getting out of his car when he came into close proximity with some unfortunately fast moving lead. It seemed to have impacted in the ribs, tumbling as it buried its way through tissue and bone, tearing and tunneling through the soft flesh. If the fact that the body was still right by the door was any indication, death must have been pretty much instantaneous. Lucky in a way, Johnson supposed. He had seen deaths take hours, gut wounds bleeding out slowly but surely. Sometimes a shot to the heart is just what the doctor ordered, figuratively speaking of course. He cast his eye over the bloodstained shirt. There was a small patch of blood on the left sleeve. That was odd. It wasn ’ t enough for a separate bullet wound, and the blood clearly hadn ’ t run the whole way down the arm. Now that Johnson looked at it, the blood was all wrong. The trail leading to the car shouldn ’ t have been there. The body hadn ’ t been moved from where it had died. 
 
 “ Clarke, get over here a minute wouldya? ” 
 
 Clarke sighed. He had worked with Johnson for four years in the bureau. This was his last case with him, chasing down a money-laundering ring across four states and approximately nineteen miles of red tape. A dead body in the forecourt of a fuel garage in Minnesota was the last thing he had expected to find when he had got an anonymous call from a potential informant this morning, telling him to meet at the garage. He strolled over to where Johnson was musing, waiting for another snide comment. Johnson explained his thinking, and then looked at Clarke for his input. For all of his putting down of his fellow agent, Johnson respected his judgment. 
 
 Clarke nodded. It didn ’ t add up in the slightest. He looked down at the man ’ s left sleeve, noticing something. The blood formed a handprint. A left handprint. 
 
 “ Say Johnson, How many people were in the car? ” 
 
 “ Just him ” 
 
 “ Then how did our friend here grab his left forearm with his left hand? ” Johnson rocked back onto his heels and exhaled. 
 
 “ Well ain ’ t that some shit. ” Clarke stepped back and looked at the blood trail leading from the car. It led in the direction of one of the fuel tank buildings. Johnson stood up and motioned for Clarke to follow. He stepped around the tank building and pushed the door open with one hand, the other unbuttoning the holster of his service weapon. It wasn ’ t necessary. Propped up against a fuel tank there was another man in similar clothes. But that ’ s where the similarities ended. Where the man in the car had been one red splash on the shirt away from just being asleep, this guy was certainly dead. His shirt was a mess of blood and gore. Johnson looked down at his feet and counted 12 shell casings. He bent down and picked one up. It was a.357 magnum round, likely fired from a revolver of some kind. That meant that whoever did this had stopped to reload midway through. Damn. 
 
 Clarke stepped through the door a few seconds later, and took in the scene. He pulled out a flashlight and set to work around the body. The left hand was covered in blood, but that didn ’ t say much. The whole corner had been given a good repainting in arterial crimson. It was the right hand that was more interesting. All of the fingers had been horribly broken, most likely by a boot. Removing something from the hand held by a death grip? 
 
 “ Well? ” Johnson ’ s question snapped Clarke back to reality. 
 
 “ Well, I think we got ourselves a real psycho here. He waits at the gas station, then when these two guys arrive, he pops one of them as he gets out of the car, and the other one, who must have been in the passenger seat, through the open car door. He then sits pretty and waits for Mr Fingers here to drag himself out of the car, assumedly grabbing the arm of his friend out there with his bloody hand as he goes. Our killer then lets this guy drag himself all the way over here while he bleeds out, before giving him the colander treatment. Why? ” 
 
 “ Why the fingers? That ’ s my question. After you ’ ve swiss cheeesed the guy, why go over and smash his fingers? That ’ s kinda overkill don ’ t you think? ” 
 
 “ Not if he was holdin ’ on to something. Something he would be so set on protecting that he would drag his bleeding ass across damn near twenty metres of concrete before dying with it locked in his hand, locked so damn tight you had to break his fingers before his goddamn corpse would let go. ” 
 
 Johnson whistled, looking around the dingy shedlike room. None of it made sense. No effort to dispose of the bodies, something that wouldn ’ t have been too hard in a fuel station. By all rights the car should have been burned out by the time we got here, with two charred husks as their only leads. This was more than just a simple killing. This was a message. Johnson had the feeling that their money-laundering ring might be a bit more than they had expected. As Johnson walked back out into the light, blinking in the noon sunlight, he heard sirens approaching. Message received, he thought. Shame they didn ’ t leave a forwarding address. 

