"Johannsen, Carter. Aka Boomer. Last known address the flop on Beacon. Petty thief, professional weasel, occasional dealer in illegals, and pitiful excuse for a humanoid." She sighed as she studied what was left of him. "Well, hell, Boomer, what did they do to you?"

"Blunt instrument," the tech said, taking her question seriously. "Possibly a pipe or a thin bat. We'll have to finish testing. A lot of strength behind the blows. Only spent a couple hours at most in the river; the contusions and lacerations are evident."

Eve tuned him out, let him ramble on importantly. She could see well enough for herself.

He'd never been a looker, but they'd left behind very little of his face. He'd been severely beaten, the nose crushed, the mouth all but obscured with blows and bloating. Bruising at the throat indicated strangulation, as did the vivid broken blood vessels that polka-dotted what remained of his face.

His torso was purpled, and from the way his body lay, she guessed his arm had been shattered. The missing finger of his left hand was an old war wound, one she recalled he'd been rather proud of.

Somebody strong, angry, and determined had gotten to poor, pathetic Boomer.

And so, in that short floating time, had the fish.

"The uniform ran the partial prints he had left for ID, you confirm with visual."

"Yeah. Send me a copy of the post mortem." She turned and started out. "Who was the uniform who connected me?"

The tech pulled out his notebook, tapped keys. "Peabody, Delia."

" Peabody." For the first time, Eve smiled a little. "She gets around. Anybody asks for or about him, I want to know about it."