Gregson changed out of his hospital gown and into his red checked shirt and tan cargo pants. He adjusted his Stetson in the mirror. His face was pale, but there was sparkle in his eyes.
“Hold on, I’m getting a text,” Fred said. “It’s from a Detective Murphy. He says there’s another body on 17th street.”
“Detective Murphy, huh?” Gregson said.
“You know ‘im?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, let’s go.” Fred pulled a massive pink Cadillac to the curb, straight out of the 1980s.
“I haven’t ridden in one of these in years,” Gregson said.
“She’s all love, brother.”
Gregson got in and they rumbled up the avenue. “There’s the cornered off crime scene.”
Detective Murphy was drinking a coffee and having a smoke when they arrived.
“I thought you were a health nut,” Gregson said.
“No, just a nut. By the way, how are you feeling?”
Like I was shot in the heart and almost killed.”
“Yeah, I feel for you partner. This poor bastard had his insides stolen. It’s bad when a woman steals your heart and half your stuff, but this guy doesn’t have anything left inside, not even his manhood.”
“Do you think it’s a woman?” Fred asked.
“Hell, hath no fury like a woman scorned, but this is a series of murders. Predatory in nature. And I’m sure there is method in the madness. For instance, see the hack job done on the stomach and gonads. They were removed with a hunting knife. But notice the surgical job done on the heart. It was cut out with a scalpel, no doubt. Organs go for big dollars on the black market these days and there doesn’t seem to be any relation among the victims; so, I suspect they were murdered for their insides. You’re on a list for a heart, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, AB-. It’s a rare blood type and I’ll likely die before I get my transplant.”