The 56th Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

No god. No tribe. Truly none."
    "I believe in God, Omar,” Ghaith said,
blowing smoke. “I just don't have a high opinion of Him."
     
    It happened in the 3rd Precinct, Sector
312:
    Jerry Riggins. Thirty-two. Artist. Found
slumped in an easy chair in the first floor living room. A single
gunshot to the side of the head. Thirty-eight caliber.
    Moria Riggins. Thirty-one. Entrepreneur.
Part-owner of Moria's Notions. Found upstairs in bed, in the master
bedroom. A single gunshot to the side of the head. Thirty-eight
caliber.
    Joshua Riggins. Seven. Found in bed, in his
bedroom down the hall from the master bedroom. Single gunshot.
    William Riggins. Five. Found in bed, in his
bedroom one door down from Joshua's. Single gunshot.
    This was the bare outline of the story that
Ari discovered in the local newspaper's internet archives. Munching
on a bag of Fritos, he tried to delve further into the crime--via
cyberspace.
    There wasn't much. The police had been
alerted by an anonymous phone tip. When they arrived they found
that the back door had been forced. "Really smashed in," as one of
the officers put it. The accompanying picture attested to this,
with broken glass piled on the sill of a door half off its hinges
and large splinters from the jam leaning across the opening. It was
assumed that (Howie's protest notwithstanding) a neighbor had heard
the racket and called from an untraceable number. ("Really?" Ari
mused.) The motive appeared to be robbery. Although a complete
inventory was unavailable, the insurance company reported the
absence of some rings and necklaces. The killers must have
possessed some rare common sense: trace evidence was nonexistent.
There were no unaccountable fingerprints or footprints on the
premises. There were no ridges of evidence on which the DNA
profilers could toss their genetic grappling hooks: no saliva, no
mucous, no skin under the victims’ nails, no semen, no wayward
strands of hair. Speculation was that there was more than one
culprit, but there was no real reason why the reporters would
suggest this. The bullets had all come from the same gun.
    The article made no mention of any signs of
resistance. Nor did it divulge any forensic details about the wound
ballistics. A 150-grain round nose bullet penetrated, a controlled
expansion 110-grain hollowpoint left a wider track and was more
prone to deform the target. Had the police encountered neat holes
or bloody messes? Ari thought the question important. The type of
ammunition used sometimes revealed the killer’s expertise and
premeditation.
    He knew something about these things.
    The murders had taken place near midnight, on
December 23. Jerry Riggins' last sight had been of the Christmas
tree in the corner of his living room.
    Nearly all of other online articles dealt
with the communal sense of loss and sorrow. The Riggins family had
been well-beloved. A host of friends and acquaintances left
testaments on their websites (one that displayed some of Jerry's
art and announced upcoming shows, another for Moria's Notions) and
on a blog provided by the newspaper. Ari scanned through them. Most
seemed heartfelt.
    "We will miss you at church, Moria. Your
dedication to the Lord and your public service will be missed. Your
children were so dear, so wonderful. And while we didn't see much
of Jerry, he too will be missed."
    So Jerry wasn't much of a churchgoer. Ari
could sympathize with that.
    “ What can I say? I will miss you. All
the old Rebels of ‘92 will miss you. Remember the pyramid? My ankle
still hurts when it rains! Oh please, Moria, come back. Come back.
KS.”
    Alongside the sadness lay fear. This
neighborhood was sequestered from the hot crime spots of the city,
the Riggins house even more so--tucked far away from the main road
in a snug cul-de-sac, with the wide and innocent James protecting
the front door. For something like this to happen in a place like
this brought home the rawbone uncertainty of life. Nobody was safe,
and with the