John Smith was known to most as “Johnny Bags.” The nickname came from his early career ferrying loads of cash to local political bosses. His body was crumpled in a corner of the garage, tucked behind a rack of utility drawers. In life he’d been a fearsome man, six-five with an angry face and a disposition devoid of humanity’s finer traits. In death he looked almost peaceful, curled into a fetal position, his head resting on his left hand. Only the angle at which his right arm was twisted-straight out from the shoulder, its palm turned upward in an impossible feat of contortion-suggested that the man was anything other than resting. A closer look revealed the two holes in his forehead, and stepping over the body, Sanchez could see flies buzzing around a dark pool of congealed blood spread out from his black hair.

“Not much left of the back of his skull,” McAfee commented. “Looks like they used shredders. Pretty much blew off the back half of his head.”

“Nasty,” Stone said with a frown.

“Effective,” Sanchez replied. “Any other points of entry?”

McAfee shook his head. “Just the head, from what we can tell. Doc’ll confirm it with the autopsy.”

“Anything else? Cuts? Contusions? Anything?”

“Just the arm,” McAfee said. “Looks like it was pulled out of the socket. Could’ve happened when he fell after he got popped.”

Sanchez lingered over Smith’s body for another minute or two, drinking in the scene. Other than the body and the stagnant, well-defined mat of blood underneath the head, the area was neat and tidy, with tools stacked in an orderly fashion on top of the utility cabinets. She pulled back the jacket and patted it down. There was nothing in the pockets. A shoulder holster was strapped to his torso, and a gun was tucked into it.

“Okay,” Sanchez said at last. “Let’s see Murphy.”

McAfee nodded. “The main attraction. If either of you have a weak stomach…”