“„A shuriken“ I repeated, and spelled it out this time. The technician was opening up a baggie in which to store his find. Okay, it was probably some kind of official evidence collection container, but it looked like a baggie to me. „Shuriken,“ the chief said, nodding. „That's those things martial arts people are always throwing around.“ „Not throwing around very much, unless they're either quite advanced or morbidly fascinated with self-mutilation,“ I said. „You could slice your fingers off on ...that thing and hardly even notice till they're on the floor.“ „If it's sharpened,“ the chief said. As if on cue, the technician slid the shuriken into the baggie. It sliced right through the bottom and thunked to a halt in the carpet, about three inches from the chief's left boot. „It's sharpened,“ I said. The chief looked at the technician, eyes narrowed. The technician avoided his boss's stare as he fished another baggie out of the pocket of his lab jacket, pried the shuriken out of the carpet, and placed it, more carefully, in the baggie.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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