The Echelon Vendetta Read Online Free PDF Page A

how he came by a knife scar. About the tattoo, many men come to regret the tattoos they get when they’re young and stupid.”
    “Like you? A banker only. Never a soldier?” Dalton shook his head. Brancati got to his feet, groaning with the effort. “I don’t think you will say yes if I ask you to take off your shirt?” “No. I won’t.” Brancati raised his hands, smiled again. “A joke. Otherwise it is
    all too dark, too sfumato. ” “A joke. Great. But somebody killed him? Right?” Brancati’s face altered again, hardened. “Possibly. Possibly not.” “But you said he was running from someone.” “I said he was running. I did not say that he was being chased.” “For Christ’s sake, Brancati. Look at him.” “I have.” “What killed him? If not the dogs, then what?” “Look at his hands, Mr. Dalton.” Dalton leaned down. Brancati shone the narrow beam of the
    Streamlight onto Naumann’s lap, where his hands lay palms-up in the bubble-and-squeak of his opened belly. The tips of his fingers were shredded and pulpy.
    “Someone has pulled out his fingernails.” “No. They are just full of blood and flesh. Only two are gone. We
    found them. In the muscles of his face and in his throat.” It took Dalton a while to get the picture. “You’re saying he committed suicide by...” “Tearing at himself ?”
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    “Do you believe it?”
    “I do not wish to believe it. I am too fond of my sleep.”
    “But do you?”
    “I believe that he has been hurt by his own hands. Whether or not this means he committed suicide is another question. He may have been under the influence of some delusion. Temporary insanity. Perhaps a drug.”
    “Porter didn’t do drugs.”
    Brancati performed an ironic bow, his face impassive. “Maybe. Maybe not. We will do the blood work. Perhaps he was in the grip of a psychotic event. What they sometimes call a ‘fugue.’ Or there is some lesion of the brain. Such facial disfigurement is not unknown. Several years ago a young girl of Cortona who was suffering from paranoid schizophrenia used poultry scissors to slice off her nose, her cheeks, her ears...”
    “A man would have to be insane to do something like that.”
    “And was Mr. Naumann insane? Did he have psychological problems? Was he seeing a therapist, or on any kind of medication?”
    “No. At least ...No. If he had a problem, someone at the bank would have known about it.”
    “What kind of man was he, Mr. Dalton?”
    “Competent. Skilled. A professional. He had a hell of a sense of humor. He liked to eat and drink. Liked the women. He was a gentleman. He danced. Badly, but with joy. Played the trumpet. Played it well. As good as Harry James, when he had enough scotch in him. He used to do ‘Cherry Pink and’—”
    Looking at Brancati’s slightly alarmed expression, Dalton realized he was getting a little emotional. He had liked Porter Naumann very much in a professional sort of way, and the manner of his dying was going to sink in deep and stay there for a long time. Brancati sensed the strong emotion in Dalton and said nothing. There was tight silence in the tent. In a moment, Dalton spoke again.
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    “So your theory is that he killed himself with his own hands?”
    Brancati shook his head slowly, looking doubtful. “He tore at himself, yes. But his heart killed him.”
    “Loss of blood? Shock? Catastrophic pressure drop?”
    Brancati shrugged.
    “Shock perhaps. He still has much of his blood inside him. The work of his hands may have only taken a few seconds. No damage was done to the carotids, the heart, the lungs. The belly, I cannot say. But even if the dogs came before he was dead ...Men die from being disemboweled, but it takes a very long time. That is why it was so popular with the Inquisition. Many men have survived even such wounds. It can take hours for a man with wounds such as these to die. But Mr. Naumann died almost at once. I am no specialist,