Yeah, I’m running on fumes right now, but it doesn’t mean you won’t get the shoddy excuse for entertainment you’ve come to expect from this blog.
If you haven’t been reading along so far. You can catch up here:
Winslow and Frankel sat across from Lieutenant Metzger’s cluttered desk. Frankel shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Winslow rattled off his report. The Caribbean Scramble from El Cubano was mounting a coup in his digestive system. If he wasn’t careful, the Scramble would gain control of the lower intestine and release poisonous gas into the Lieutenant’s office. Unacceptable, he thought. We must not allow these treacherous foodstuffs to embarrass our regime. Winslow was reading from a small sheaf of papers in a manilla folder.
“Initial examination of the body suggests massive blood loss. Bruising around the wrists and ankles suggests he was bound leading up to the moment of death,” he said. “Abrasions near the spine and shoulders indicate the victim was against a rough, hard surface. Unfinished stone, brick or maybe concrete. All the evidence so far is consistent with the theory that the victim was killed in another location and moved.”
Metzger absorbed the information without expression.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Next to no blood on the clothes. Probably naked when they opened his jugular.” added Frankel. The intestinal conflagration had robbed him of the ability to speak in complete sentences.
“We’re asking around the local homeless shelters and soup kitchens to see if anyone recognizes the victim.” said Winslow. “Without an I.D., we’re just taking shots in the dark.”
“Good, good,” Metzger mused. “Listen, how would the two of you feel if I brought someone else in on this?”
Frankel made a wordless eruption that fell somewhere between incredulous and gaseous.
“Lieutenant, we’ve barely gotten started on this case and you’re already giving it away?!?” he exclaimed.
“No, no of course not,” Metzger replied with placating smile. “The man I’m thinking of doesn’t even work for the department. He would work with you in a strictly consultative capacity. He has experience in these types of cases.”
“Who is he?” asked Winslow.
“That’s a long story.” said the Lieutenant with a grin. “His name is Gyorgy Zoltan. He’s Hungarian. He’s an odd fellow, but he gets results.”
Frankel was turning pink under his greying stubble.
“Look Bill, if you think I’m gonna take advice from some Euro-trash P.I. you’ve got another thing coming.” he seethed. “Twenty years I’ve been on Homicide and I’ve never been cut off at the knees by a superior like this.”
The Lieutenant was undeterred.
“Oh Jim, don’t be so dramatic” said Metzger. “You’re gonna love him! Besides, I’ve already made the call.”