so_called
“processing center,” as everyone was now calling it.The third man in their party, Dan Frost, gave the answer. “Not that many. A lot fewer than I’d imagined, to tell you the truth.”
“I’m not surprised, Dan,” said Mike. “Not any longer. From what Rebecca and Jeff have told me, Gretchen and her people had the bad luck to fall into the hands of the worst types among the mercenaries. Most of them—”
James interrupted, pointing to a clot of people moving down the road, following a newly appointed American guide. At the center, still wearing nothing but a towel, was a man in his early thirties. “Most of them are like those.” He smiled, cocking his head at Mike. “What did Melissa say you called it? ‘Just men, that’s all. Fucking up in a fucked-up world.’ ”
Mike nodded. “I’d say there won’t be more than a hundred rejects left, in the end. Gretchen’s being one hell of lot more charitable than I probably would have been.”
“Are any of their women and children likely to complain?” asked Dan.
Mike and James sneered simultaneously. “Not hardly!” snorted Mike. He nodded toward the small crowd of miserable people squatting outside the processing center. “Those people are weeping for the dead, Dan. The ones who”—angrily—“ ‘belonged’ to the scum still inside have already left. Practically dancing, once they got the news.”
Nichols ran his fingers through his hair. “I saw one woman come up to Gretchen and ask her something. The whereabouts of her so-called ‘man,’ I’m pretty sure. The name Diego was mentioned. When she heard what Gretchen had to say, she just collapsed. Crying like a baby. She kept repeating two words, over and over.”
His face was grim. “I don’t know much German, but I know that much. Thank God, thank God.”
There was silence for a moment. Then the police chief cleared his throat.
“All right, guys. We’ve got to come to a decision here. I saw the body myself, before we buried it. Doc Adams was right. The man probably would have died anyway, but the fatal wounds weren’t caused by gunfire. He was knifed. As neat a butchering job as you could ask for, too.”
Mike glanced at him. “You know what my opinion is, Dan. Are you comfortable with it?”
Frost scowled. “Hell no! Comfortable? I’m a law-enforcement officer, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got evidence suggesting first-degree murder and several witnesses placing two known people at the scene of the crime. And you wanna know if I’m comfortable?”
Mike said nothing. James, after looking away for a moment,