In Death 18 - Divided in Death

sign in, and shit. Not my fault if somebody decided to claim one of the bodies after the forty-eight.”
    “Who authorized the transport for you and Powell?”
    “Sal, I guess. You know, Morris, Sally Riser. She logs ‘em out usually from Staging. It was already done when I clocked in, but it wasn’t Powell.”
    “What wasn’t Powell?”
    “Powell called in sick, so the new guy was working. Real hotdogger,” Sibresky said with a grimace. “Had all the paperwork done when I clocked on. Don’t matter a shit to me. I just drive ‘em.”
    “What was the new guy’s name?” Eve demanded.
    “Shit, I gotta remember everything at ten in the fricking morning? Angelo, I think his name was. What the hell do I care, he was just filling in for Powell. Wanted to do all the paperwork himself, and that’s fine with me. Like I said, he was a real hotdogger.”
    “I bet he was. Peabody.”
    Understanding, Peabody pulled photos of Blair and Carter Bissel out of her file bag. “Mr. Sibresky, are either of these the man you know as Angelo?”
    “Nah. Hotdogger had a big, stupid mustache, lots of eyebrows, hair all slicked back and hanging to his butt like some kinda fag-ass vid star. Scar on his face, too.” He tapped a finger on his left cheek. “Nasty one, went from the corner of his eye nearly to his mouth. Teeth bucked out, too. Guy was pretty damn ugly.”
    “Sibresky, I’m going to ruin your day,” Eve told him. “You’ll need to get dressed, and come down to Central. I need you to look at pictures and work with a police artist.”
    “Ah, come on, lady.”
    “That’s Lieutenant Lady. Go get your pants on.”

Chapter 16
    She wasn’t surprised to find herself standing over Joseph Powell’s body, but she was furious. She had to control the fury, coat it thickly before it clouded judgment.
    He’d lived alone, and that had been one of the many breaks for his killer. He’d been scrawny, with little meat on his bird bones and a crop of hair cut short around the ears and trained, somehow or other, to stand up straight from his head in a six-inch crown dyed lightning-blue.
    From the looks of his place, he’d liked music and cheese-flavored soy chips. He was still wearing his headphones, and an open bag of the chips was in bed with him.
    There were no privacy screens on the single bedroom window, but a shade, blue as his hair, had been drawn. It blocked out the sun well enough, turned the room to gloom, and let all the traffic sounds—air and street—rumble against the glass like a storm rolling in.
    He’d toked a little Zoner along with his chips. She could see the remnants of paper and ash in the dish shaped like a stupendously endowed naked woman on the table beside the bed.
    Another break for the killer. He’d been zoned out, music pounding in his head, and couldn’t have weighed more than one-thirty. It was unlikely he’d even felt the jolt from the laser pressed to his carotid artery.
    Small blessings.
    Across from the bed, tacked up for the view she was sure, was a life-sized poster of Mavis Freestone, exploding into a midair leap, arms extended, grin wide and full of fun. She wore little more than the grin and strategically placed glitter.
    MAVIS!
    TOTALLY JUICED!
    The sight of it, hanging on the dingy beige wall, laughing down at the dead made Eve incredibly sad and sick.
    Because Morris was there, and she knew he needed to take some control, she stayed back and let him handle the initial exam.
    “One jolt,” he said. “Full contact. Burn marks from the weapon are clearly evident. No other visible trauma. No signs of struggle or defensive wounds. His neurological system would have been immediately compromised. Death instantaneous.”
    “I need positive ID, Morris. If you want I can—”
    He whipped around. “I know the drill. I know what the fuck has to be done here, and don’t need you . . .” He lifted both hands. His breath shuddered in, then out. “And that was so uncalled for. I’m sorry.”
    “It’s all right. I know this is rough on you.”
    “Close to home. This hits very, very close to home. Someone came into this room and killed this . . . boy as carelessly as you might swat a fly. He did that without knowing him, without having any feelings about him. Did this only to remove a small barrier so he could walk into my house. This really meant nothing more to him than putting on his shoes so he wouldn’t stub his toe. Victim is positively identified as Powell, Joseph.