“Yup,” McAfee said, using a fingernail to pick some of his breakfast free from his teeth. He pointed to a hook hanging from a hydraulic lift used to get engine blocks into and out of cars. “Looks like they had him strapped to that for at least part of the time. They found a couple of torn pieces from his shirt on the hook.”

“Why?” Stone said to no one in particular.

“I guess that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” McAfee said. “My guess is that he pissed off one of the goombahs in the North End, or maybe one of the Salvadoran gangbangers over in Eastie. Who knows, could have even been one of his own boys looking to move up in the world.”

“Doc give any thoughts on the extent of the injuries?” Sanchez asked.

“Just that the gunshots to the head were pretty clearly the cause of death. And the external injuries are mainly superficial. There may be some broken bones, and he won’t know about any internal injuries until he splits him open to look inside. The only other thing that sticks out is the hands.”

“The hands?” Stone said.

“See for yourself,” McAfee said.

Sanchez looked at the body. It was turned to the side, and both hands were underneath the torso. “Help me turn him,” she said to Stone.

The two of them reached down. She placed her palms flat underneath the shoulder, and he lifted from underneath the hip. Rigor had set in, so the body rolled easily, like a mannequin, and the arms shot upward once released from under the body.

Sanchez frowned. The skin on the hands had a ghostly white, fleshless tone to it below the wrists. Dark holes marred the palms, and looking closely, Sanchez could see that the injuries went all the way through the hands.