“Perse McKinnon’s office in the rear had been ground zero, desk flattened beyond recognition, computer equipment squashed, filing cabinets picked up and hurled in disarray around the room. Perlman smelled the chemical stench of scalded plastic. He moved carefully around the edge of the office, skirting the engrossed figures of the forensics people, hearing glass and unidentifiable items crunch under his feet. He saw Tizer Dunlop take photographs of the wreckage. The scene distressed him. All McK...innon’s labours, his years of obsession, had come down to this: records ruined, a life terminated. Blood, flecked with powdery plaster, stained the walls. When he couldn’t breathe the air any longer, Perlman walked outside and cleared his throat and spat on the pavement. The street was thick with patrol cars, assorted cops, bystanders – more than two hundred of them, two fifty – gawking from the other side of the crime-scene tape. He thought how still the day had become. No wind blew. The soft rain had stopped.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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