Every Kind of Wicked. Lisa Black

always that unspoken twinge of empathy, that unavoidable pathos in seeing a fellow human so helplessly vulnerable. They could only get it over with as briskly as possible. A bit of distraction never hurt, either; today the two men discussed the current incarnation of a popular video game, and whether it would be an appropriate Christmas gift for their respective children.

      “I don’t think so,” one said as he unzipped Evan Harding’s jeans. “Those aliens, man. My girl would be okay, but my boy’s too little. He’ll have nightmares. When he has nightmares, then he’s in bed with my wife and me.”

      “It’s a trade-off,” the other agreed, helping him pull the pants off with a sharp downward yank. “Bug you in the middle of the night, maybe, but you got peace all evening while they’re glued to the TV.”

      “I’m not going to say anything about your parenting—what the hell is this?”

      Maggie moved forward and craned her neck to see around the two large men. Evan Harding had something on his ankle. For a second she thought it might be a tattoo, but then the shape defined itself.

      A key. The victim had a small, flat key taped to his ankle with a piece of clear packaging tape.

      “Don’t see that too often,” the first diener said.

      “You’ve seen it ever?” Maggie asked.

      “You’d be amazed at the things people wear under their clothes,” he intoned, and waited for the photographer to get a picture of it before peeling the tape, with the key adhered to it, away from the skin. Maggie thought of fingerprints and best preservation techniques, but didn’t worry overmuch. The dead man appeared healthy, other than the damage to his chest. No injuries, no major scars, no bruises, nothing to suggest that he’d been abused, coerced, or trafficked, so she had no reason to think he hadn’t taped the key to his ankle himself. She held out a sheet of the clear acetate, to which she placed tapes from clothing, and the diener spread it on the sheet, adhesive side down.

      Mosler had been engraved on the body of the key. Maggie assumed it to be the name of the manufacturer. She doubted anyone else would put a decorative engraving on such a utilitarian object.

      “What kind of key is that?” she asked.

      “Hell if I know. Padlock? Safe deposit box? Locker?”

      “Maybe it opens his diary. His little black book of secrets.” the other joked.

      Maggie held the transparent sheet with the key up to the light. “Maybe it does.”