body was sprawled on the parlor floor, on its back, beside an overturned, oval-shaped coffee table. A man in his thirties. Tall, husky. His dark slacks were torn. His white shirt was torn, too, and much of it was stained crimson. He was in the same condition as Vastagliano and Ross: savagely bitten, mutilated.
The carpet around the corpse was saturated with blood, but the battle hadn’t been confined to that small portion of the room. A trail of blood, weaving and erratic, led from one end of the parlor to the other, then back again; it was the route the panicked victim had taken in a futile attempt to escape from and slough off his attackers.
Jack felt sick.
“It’s a damned slaughterhouse,” Rebecca said.
The dead man had been packing a gun. His shoulder holster was empty. A silencer-equipped .38 pistol was at his side.
Jack interrupted one of the lab technicians who was moving slowly around the parlor, collecting blood samples from various stains. “You didn’t touch the gun?”
“Of course not,” the technician said. “We’ll take it back to the lab in a plastic bag, see if we can work up any prints.”
“I was wondering if it’d been fired,” Jack said.
“Well, that’s almost a sure thing. We’ve found four expended shell casings.”
“Same caliber as this weapon?”
“Yep.”
“Find any of the loads?” Rebecca asked.
“All four,” the technician said. He pointed: “Two in that wall, one in the door frame over there, and one right through the upholstery button on the back of that armchair.”
“So it looks as if he didn’t hit whatever he was shooting at,” Rebecca said.
“Probably not. Four shell casings, four slugs. Everything’s been neatly accounted for.”
Jack said, “How could he have missed four times in such close quarters?”
“Damned if I know,” the technician said. He shrugged and went back to work.
There were two living men, as well. A police photographer was snapping the bodies from every angle. An assistant medical examiner named Brendan Mulgrew, a tall, thin man with a prominent Adam’s apple, was studying the positions of both corpses.
One of the victims was on the king-size bed, his head at the foot of it, his bare feet pointed toward the headboard, one hand at his torn throat, the other hand at his side, the palm turned up, open. He was wearing a bathrobe and a suit of blood.
“Dominick Carramazza,” Jack said.
Looking at the ruined face, Rebecca said, “How can you tell?”
“Just barely.”
The other dead man was on the floor, flat on his stomach, head turned to one side, face torn to ribbons. He was dressed like the one in the parlor: white shirt open at the neck, dark slacks, a shoulder holster.
Jack turned away from the gouged and oozing flesh. His stomach had gone sour; an acid burning etched its way up from his gut to a point under his heart. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a roll of Turns.
Both of the victims in the bedroom had been armed. But guns had been of no more help to them than to the man in the parlor.
The cadaver on the floor was still clutching a silencer-equipped pistol, which was as illegal as a howitzer at a presidential press conference. It was like the gun on the floor in the first room.
The man on the bed hadn’t been able to hold on to his weapon. It was lying on the tangled sheets and blankets.
“Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum,” Jack said. “Powerful enough to blow a hole as big as a fist right through anyone in its way.”
Being a revolver instead of a pistol, it wasn’t fitted with a silencer, and Rebecca said, “Fired indoors, it’d sound like a cannon. They’d have heard it from one end of this floor to the other.”
To Mulgrew, Jack said, “Does it look as if both guns were fired?”
The M.E. nodded. “Yeah. Judging from the expended shell casings, the magazine of the pistol was completely emptied. Ten rounds. The guy with the .357 Magnum managed to get off five shots.”
“And didn’t hit his
The carpet around the corpse was saturated with blood, but the battle hadn’t been confined to that small portion of the room. A trail of blood, weaving and erratic, led from one end of the parlor to the other, then back again; it was the route the panicked victim had taken in a futile attempt to escape from and slough off his attackers.
Jack felt sick.
“It’s a damned slaughterhouse,” Rebecca said.
The dead man had been packing a gun. His shoulder holster was empty. A silencer-equipped .38 pistol was at his side.
Jack interrupted one of the lab technicians who was moving slowly around the parlor, collecting blood samples from various stains. “You didn’t touch the gun?”
“Of course not,” the technician said. “We’ll take it back to the lab in a plastic bag, see if we can work up any prints.”
“I was wondering if it’d been fired,” Jack said.
“Well, that’s almost a sure thing. We’ve found four expended shell casings.”
“Same caliber as this weapon?”
“Yep.”
“Find any of the loads?” Rebecca asked.
“All four,” the technician said. He pointed: “Two in that wall, one in the door frame over there, and one right through the upholstery button on the back of that armchair.”
“So it looks as if he didn’t hit whatever he was shooting at,” Rebecca said.
“Probably not. Four shell casings, four slugs. Everything’s been neatly accounted for.”
Jack said, “How could he have missed four times in such close quarters?”
“Damned if I know,” the technician said. He shrugged and went back to work.
There were two living men, as well. A police photographer was snapping the bodies from every angle. An assistant medical examiner named Brendan Mulgrew, a tall, thin man with a prominent Adam’s apple, was studying the positions of both corpses.
One of the victims was on the king-size bed, his head at the foot of it, his bare feet pointed toward the headboard, one hand at his torn throat, the other hand at his side, the palm turned up, open. He was wearing a bathrobe and a suit of blood.
“Dominick Carramazza,” Jack said.
Looking at the ruined face, Rebecca said, “How can you tell?”
“Just barely.”
The other dead man was on the floor, flat on his stomach, head turned to one side, face torn to ribbons. He was dressed like the one in the parlor: white shirt open at the neck, dark slacks, a shoulder holster.
Jack turned away from the gouged and oozing flesh. His stomach had gone sour; an acid burning etched its way up from his gut to a point under his heart. He fumbled in his coat pocket for a roll of Turns.
Both of the victims in the bedroom had been armed. But guns had been of no more help to them than to the man in the parlor.
The cadaver on the floor was still clutching a silencer-equipped pistol, which was as illegal as a howitzer at a presidential press conference. It was like the gun on the floor in the first room.
The man on the bed hadn’t been able to hold on to his weapon. It was lying on the tangled sheets and blankets.
“Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum,” Jack said. “Powerful enough to blow a hole as big as a fist right through anyone in its way.”
Being a revolver instead of a pistol, it wasn’t fitted with a silencer, and Rebecca said, “Fired indoors, it’d sound like a cannon. They’d have heard it from one end of this floor to the other.”
To Mulgrew, Jack said, “Does it look as if both guns were fired?”
The M.E. nodded. “Yeah. Judging from the expended shell casings, the magazine of the pistol was completely emptied. Ten rounds. The guy with the .357 Magnum managed to get off five shots.”
“And didn’t hit his
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