Titan Song by Dan Stout (top 10 ebook reader .txt) 📕

“I’ve got coverage,” Klare said.

“Take another one anyway,” he said, “you never know which one’ll be the money shot.”

I brushed against him, knocking my knee into the side of his leg and making him stumble forward, dropping the tarp. The contact was invisible in the press of onlookers.

“You touch that tarp, and Officer Stevens here is going to arrest you for tampering with evidence.” I had no idea what the kid’s name was, but it sounded more official with a title.

A few onlookers faded away, not wanting to get caught up in a legal issue, but most stuck around, whispering to each other and hoping to see a sudden escalation.

“Evidence?” Glouchester snarled. “It’s on the other side of plate glass.”

“The killer may have touched the window. If any prints are obscured, we’ll know who was all over this thing.”

“You’re a bigger asshole every time I see you, you know that, Carter?”

When Glouchester dropped my name, the whispering intensified. I glanced at the patrol cop. He and the freckle-cheeked employee were making quick work of the tarp. I turned my back on the representatives of the media and walked to the patrol car. I slid into the front seat and faced the old man in handcuffs.

“I’m a Homicide detective,” I said, and waved my badge in his direction. “You want to tell me what happened in there?”

The old man was in tears, and mucus dripped from his biting mouth’s yellowed tusks. His head plate color had started to fade, and it looked like he’d applied a lacquer to them, in an attempt to restore the vibrancy he’d enjoyed in his youth. His story was familiar—he’d been working alongside the younger employee when he’d been consumed by an irrational anger. “I don’t know why I did it,” he said. “I don’t know. It was like Brandon had stabbed me in the back, like he’d done something so bad that I wanted to erase him, bring him back to life, and do it again. And I took the nail gun and I—” He broke off, catching his breath. “I did what you saw in there. But the worst part . . .”

“Go ahead,” I urged, as gently as I could.

“It felt good. Like I was scratching an itch that’d been bothering me forever.” His eyes were wide, as though shocked at his own confession. “Oh, Hells. What did I do?”

He sniffled futilely as mucus drained from his nostrils and biting mouth, and lowered his head, terrified, confused, and ashamed. I sighed.

“I didn’t get your name,” I said.

“Alto.”

“Okay, listen, Alto. If I undo those handcuffs so you can wipe your face, are you going to do anything stupid?”

He shook his head.

“Alright, I’m going to get the key. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

I left the car, ignoring Glouchester’s shouted questions and the click-click of Klare’s camera as she circled me. I reentered the store and found Jax talking to the manager, who was walking him through what he’d done after he’d seen the attack.

“I was over here,” he said, “and I turned off the motorized display and soundtrack, and went running.”

I waved at the other patrol cop, who’d returned to the store and was standing next to the freckled human woman.

“You get it all done?” I indicated the tarp. It looked secure, but I wanted to verify.

“Oh, yeah. Um, the name’s not Stevens, though, it’s—”

“Trust me, if that vulture gets your name wrong, it’s only going to help you out. And as it stands, you’ve got someone to blame if your name isn’t reported correctly in the paper.” I watched understanding creep into his eyes. He’d learn one way or another. The job teaches us all how to survive.

“Giving you a heads-up,” I said. “I’m getting good info from the suspect, and I want to give him a reward. I’m going to unlock his cuffs.” He nodded his acknowledgment and turned back to Freckles, who hadn’t left his side. Maybe she liked a guy in uniform, maybe she was in shock.

I returned to the car, happy to see that the crowd was dispersing now that the grotesque imagery was hidden. Even Glouchester and Klare had retreated across the street, reclining against the side of a dinged-up sedan.

I opened the back door, peering down at the old man. “You make me regret doing this and the cuffs go back on, you got that?”

He nodded, and I squatted down to uncuff him. “You have a hanky, Alto?” I asked.

He shook his head. “They took it.” On the dash of the patrol car was an unlabeled bag with his personal items. I closed the back door and climbed into the front passenger seat. I dropped the cuffs in the center console, then opened the evidence bag and glanced into it. It held a wallet, key ring, and handkerchief. A Mollenkampi’s hanky takes a great deal of abuse. Used to mop the excess mucus that drains from their nose through their biting mouth, they’re unpleasant to touch at the best of times. So I shook the bag, making sure nothing was attached to or hidden in the hanky, then let the end of the fabric hang out of the opening. I held it up to the narrow slit in the backseat cage used to pass paperwork to and from anyone seated in the back.

“Thank you.” The old man drew the hanky through the access slot, and wiped down his tusks.

“So what were you and he talking about, before . . .” I shrugged, “whatever happened, happened.”

“Brandon was telling me that he had a cure-all ointment,” he said. “Supposed to fix anything. He said it was going to clear up his skin. He had a real crush on Kacie, the lady with the freckles.”

“Brandon? Was that the name of . . .” I gestured toward the now-obscured display window.

“Yes,” he nodded.

“And this ointment. Was it snake oil?” I said. I hadn’t noticed any manna threads in the store, but I hadn’t examined the body yet.

“No! Nothing like that. It was manna infused in an ointment,