"Patrick Tilley - Mission" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tilley Patrick)

gave me the story so far. Two cops in a squad car had spotted the body in an alleyway over on the
East Side. It had been stripped naked. There were no clues as to the possible identity of the
victim. Nobody in the immediate vicinity had seen or heard anything. The usual story. The cops had
radioed for an ambulance, the crew of which claimed to discern lingering signs of life in the
body. As a result, they had burned red lights all the way across town to the Manhattan General and
had taken off again before the reception staff in Emergency discovered that they ha4 been landed
with a corpse.
I took a deep breath and looked at the body. Like Miriam had said, he hadn't been blown away but
he was still a mess. The man was about thirty to thirty-five years old, medium build, lean hard
body. In general, his features were of the type the police label Hispanic. He had a swarthy
complexion and his skin was deeply tanned. He had a beard and straggly, shoulder-length hair. Like
a hippie who'd done time on a kibbutz. There was a gaping, two-inch wide stab-wound in his left
side just under his rib cage but the most unsettling thing was the bruises and lacerations. The
guy had had the shit beaten out of him, then taken one hell ofa whipping. The skin on his back had
been cut through to the bone and there were deep raw stripes on the backs of his thighs as well.
It also looked as if his attackers had beaten him over the head with a nailed piece of wood.
Miriam pointed to his feet. 'See that?'
I nodded. 'Yeah, what are they - bullet wounds?'
'No,' replied Wallis. 'Somebody drove a metal spike through them. Through his wrists too.' He
picked up an arm and showed me.
I swallowed hard. 'Jeezuss! What kind of people would do something like this?'
'Animals,' said Wallis. 'New York's full of them.' He squinted at me through the smoke of his
cigarette. 'You think this is bad? You want to stay on my tail for a week.'
'Well, whoever it was really gave it to him, didn't they?' said
Lazzarotti. 'I wonder what the hell he did to deserve it?'
Wallis shrugged as he took the butt from his mouth and lit another cigarette with it. 'Probably a
pusher who stepped on one of the big boys' toes. Or maybe he was carrying a consignment and
decided to cut himself in. If you cross up the Mafia, they don't fool around.'
'That's right,' said Lazzarotti. 'Remember that guy those two hoods hung on a meat-hook and worked


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over with a blow torch and cattle-prod?'
'There are no needle-marks on his arms,' said Miriam.
'So he's an acid-head,' replied Wallis. 'Or maybe he screws Boy Scouts. Who cares? All I want to
do is fill in this report and get the hell out of here. My wife is waiting in a restaurant uptown
for an anniversary dinner. Not that I give a damn, but I'm an hour late and I've cancelled twice
already.'
'Would you like me to finish up for you?' asked Miriam. 'I've done some P-M work with your friend
Ericsson.'
Wallis hesitated, then scribbled his name at the bottom of what I presume was the autopsy report
and death certificate. 'Make sure you get a set of prints to send downtown to check against felons
and missing persons.'
'You got it,' said Miriam. 'Do you have any ideas about the cause of death?'
Wallis pulled on his cigarette and sniffed. 'From what I can see, I'd say respiratory failure. The
beating helped, but from the rope marks under his arms it looks as if this guy has been strung up
somewhere. A few hours of that is all it takes. My guess is that the stab wound was inflicted
after death occurred, but you may have to open him up to check that out. It's up to you.