The Stonecutter

“Give me the skinny,” I said, stepping up out of the driver’s seat.
“We got ’em boss,” Greaves said, smiling beneath weary eyes. “Two witnesses placing him here the night of her disappearance. Plus all the blood in the hotel room. It’s open and shut. We got the bastard.”
“We’ve got a strong case,” I muttered, trying to stay his blossoming enthusiasm. “Where is he?”
“Holed up in a trailer in the back. Apparently he just went back to work and kept cutting brick. Duck’s with him now.”
“Found a .22 and crowbar in a ditch behind the trailer. Didn’t pitch ’em too far. Not the sharpest tool in the shed if you ask me.”

A stonecutter, the kind with a hard disc of diamond flake, sat lonesome in the distance on pile of its unfinished work. The blade was worn down from grinding away stone, the stone the suspect and his ilk had been laying down for the pavement of the square.

“So why am I here?” I said, and lit a cigarette. There was dust everywhere.
Greaves squinted under the bright noonday sun.
“No body.”
I took a drag and exhaled. Absentmindedly, I hunched down and began to drawn in the dust, like Jesus.
“Well, we’ll have to get in touch with…” I looked up at the sign on the chainlink fence. “LaBrique and Partners. Arrange a…” I froze, then slowly began to wipe the dust away with my hand.
“Grab the tape,” I said. “We’ve got a crime scene.”
Staring back up at me, inset within the brick, was a perfectly formed human eye.

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