It was still early in the morning, but people were already on the street, shuffling along in sleepy, muted crowds. Few running cars were to be seen. Especially with the approaching winter, people seemed less willing to get up so early. In an hour or so, however, I knew the place would be bustling with activity, chilly or not.
We moved quickly; Winder’s broad stride and untalkative nature had me jogging to catch up. It was only 10 minutes before we came across the yellow crime-scene tape that blockaded our destination. There were a few curious onlookers standing by.
Winder flashed his identification to the guard, who gave a bored glance and nodded us along. We were in Crowley Square, the popular tourist center now deserted save the several officers wandering the area. Streamers hung loosely from the surrounding buildings while paper plates and scraps of food littered the cobbled streets. There had evidently been a festival of some sort last night.
“The murder must’ve happened just a few hours ago,” I noted. Winder glanced at me.
“Yeah,” he admitted after a pause. “They had a celebration, finally finished up the renovations. Ended at just about three. An hour later, one of the shopkeepers is cleaning out the alleyways and finds the body, blood still warm. This way.” A group of officers glanced up as we approached, their faces hardening as they caught sight of Winder. They didn’t seem to notice me, however, and so I remained behind Winder, staying quiet.
“Of course they sent you,” groaned one officer, a burly fellow with developing jowls. “I thought we’d at least get Krig or someone else.”
Winder narrowed his eyes. “Krig? Is he coming?” When the man shrugged, Winder sighed irritably and began to walk past them, but another, taller officer blocked his path.
“Who’s the girl, Winder?” the officer queried. His dull voice fit his pale blond hair and grey eyes, which stared unwaveringly at the detective. “You know we can’t just let any tramp come in here.”
I tensed, staring at Winder from behind. The second they knew my identity, they’d turn on me as well.
“This, Lieutenant Weir,” Winder said with forced politeness, “is my new assistant. I don’t feel any obligation to introduce her, as that might put a strain on your intelligence.” The burly officer reddened, but Weir responded with a cool smile.
“But,” Winder continued with feigned resignation, “if you absolutely insist on a name, just call her…” He glanced sidelong at me. “Oh, I don’t know, Newt. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He brushed past Weir and stalked into the alleyway and I followed, feeling the stares of the officers behind us.
“I appreciate that you didn’t tell them who I was,” I said. Winder grunted. “But where’d you get the name Newt?”
“Would you rather that I called you Toad?” He caught my glance and sighed. “It was the name of my old assistant. We never called each other by our actual names, it was too risky. Especially for the cases we worked on together.”
Was Winder not his real name? I was curious, but it was at that moment that we saw the body. All other thoughts vanished; I felt nauseous and took a step back. Even Winder looked slightly perturbed.
Weir appeared behind us. “Horrifying, isn’t it?” he remarked, his face still impassive. “You think you’ve seen them all after 13 years, but every once in awhile something special still manages to appear.”
Winder shook his head. “Damn.” Crouching down, he began to inspect the body closely. Weir continued on. “We think the victim is Carl Sand, a street musician who frequents the square. Pretty popular, plays the guitar. Several people who were here last night remember Sand performing at the festival, but said that he was gone by midnight.”
Winder looked up from the body. “Someone had some fun with this murder. These aren’t just incisions—look at how forcefully this cut terminates, through the right hip.”
“Perhaps it’s a friend of yours,” murmured Weir.
Winder ignored him. “Newt, come take a look.” With some reluctance, I approached the corpse.
For a while we sat there, analyzing the grotesque scene, Weir standing over us with a bored air. The mutilated corpse lay across the red-stained ground, unprotesting to our examinations.
After a few minutes, I noticed something. “Hey, Winder,” I said. Winder continued to stare closely at a laceration but nodded for me to continue. “Take a look at the wound on the arm here, on the upper arm. The flesh is almost completely hacked away.”
He took a glance, then furrowed his brow. “Interesting,” he muttered. “That’s the only severe injury on the arms, too…” His voice trailed off, and for a second he was frozen in thought, his eyes wide.
Weir walked up to the detective. “Found some giveaway clue yet, Winder?” Winder turned to face the lieutenant, his face already switched to one of annoyance.
“Not if you keep bothering us with your inanity,” he said testily. “Tell you what, Lieutenant, I just remembered that I have to finish up some paperwork for my last case. Chief’ll have my head if I don’t, and besides, I think there’s some information there that’ll help me out. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Weir’s lips pressed together. “Do you expect us to just wait here for you?”
Winder glared at him. “Well, you could. Or maybe you could search the area for a discarded cleaver or some other heavy, bladed weapon; it’s probably in one of the trash cans around here. Hell, you could even try looking around for his guitar—pretty strange that a musician wouldn’t have his instrument with him, especially after a gig. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
The detective rose to leave, his head briefly passing by my ear. “4:00, Norberry Precinct,” he whispered. Without another word, he strode out of the alleyway and disappeared.