The Disposable Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

office, I faxed the FBI, INS, DEA, Border Patrol, ATF, all the area drug task forces, the state police of New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, and New York, as well as all in-state law enforcement agencies. When the crime lab produces his fingerprints and a decent photograph, I was thinking we could enhance and expand the bulletin nationwide and forward the prints to the FBI.”
    “Good,” I agreed. “But no feedback so far, right?”
    He shook his head.
    “Sammie,” I asked next, “what about the neighborhood canvass?”
    Sammie Martens—small, wiry, high-strung, and aggressive—had come to us from the Army. Still in her twenties, she’d replaced Ron as my number two through sheer willpower, working harder, smarter, and for longer hours than anyone else in the entire department. The cost had been the total sacrifice of a private life, something I’d vainly encouraged her to cultivate for sheer sanity’s sake. Had she not proven her intense loyalty to me time and again—and had I really cared about such things—I would’ve felt the hot breath of her ambition on my neck. As it was, I was happy to know that whatever happened to me, the squad would be in good hands.
    “Zilch,” she answered shortly. “There aren’t many people living up there to start with, and none of them admits to hearing or seeing a thing.”
    “You check with anyone regularly traveling those roads?” I asked. “Maybe a delivery truck driver saw something.”
    “Right,” Willy Kunkle said with a laugh. “UPS is up there all the time, delivering Brookstone nail clippers to their upper-class customers.”
    Ron took note of my suggestion in his pad. Sammie just gave Willy a withering look which he ignored. Kunkle was the office renegade—surly, impatient, opinionated, but with a talent for police work bordering on pure instinct. His left arm totally crippled by a bullet years earlier, Kunkle had a quality I alone seemed to value. As impossible to categorize as he was to control, he was my best weapon against those regular customers who treated us with arrogant dismissiveness. When the crunch was on, and I truly needed answers, Willy was the one I sent out, although I often worried that his tactics—whatever they were—would eventually land us in court. Unfortunately, such redeeming opportunities were all too rare. The rest of the time, he seemed content to simply be a pain in the ass.
    J.P. looked up from reading my addendum. “Are we assuming this John Doe was a Russian?”
    “Not necessarily,” I answered. “It’s a strong possibility only. I’d love to have Interpol fly it by the Russian police, but until we get more on him, it would probably be a waste of time.”
    Willy crumpled his Styrofoam coffee cup and tossed it into a nearby trash basket. “Waste of time anyhow. Those guys are too busy robbing banks.”
    “I think,” I continued, ignoring him, “we ought to release a cleaned-up photo of him to the local papers, play the ‘have-you-seen-this-man’ angle, and hope we get lucky. In the meantime, maybe we can brainstorm a few other ideas. Any suggestions?”
    “The killer lives in the area—we know that much,” Willy said.
    J.P. nodded in agreement. “At least the person who dumped him does. He knew the terrain and he knew how and when to approach it so no one would notice him. Fish and Wildlife is still working the site this morning, but as of last night their tracker was pretty impressed.”
    “So maybe an outdoorsman to boot,” I suggested.
    “That local knowledge combined with the body’s lividity pattern suggests he was killed in the area,” Sammie said. “Is there any way to identify the gastric contents? Maybe we can tie it to a nearby restaurant.”
    I shook my head. “I was told that’s a dead end.”
    “He was probably driven to near where we found him,” J.P. said. “And given what the garrote did to his neck and the lack of any blood at the scene, we’re talking about a car or some