"Katherine Kurtz & Scott MacMillan - Knights of the Blood 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

Sprague was staring at the photo of Number Four. It had been taken by the
crime scene boys, and showed the head and upper torso of the body as found in the
dumpster. The face was contorted in a horrible grimace of pain, and the left arm
was bent back, with the hand behind the head. As Sprague looked at the Polaroid
for the hundredth time that morning, he saw something that he hadn't noticed
before. Inside the left arm, up high near the armpit, was a small tattoo.
 "Hey, Amos. There anything in those coroner's reports about any of the
bodies having tattoos?" Sprague asked, pulling down the photo for a closer look.

Demitter picked up another batch of files and quickly sifted through them.
"Naw. Although Number Two had scars that were similar to those inflicted by
shrapnel. Why?"

Sprague flipped him the photo of Number Four. "Inside of his left arm.
What's it look like to you?"

Demitter squinted, and then went back to the morgue photos in the coroner's
reports. "Here, look at Number Three."

Sprague took the photo from Demitter's outstretched hand. Staring up at him
from the eight-by-ten glossy morgue shot, Number Three was stretched out naked
on the dissecting table, with an ugly black hole the size of a fist in his chest. Like
the others, he was well-muscled, although he didn't look much over sixteen or
seventeen.

Sprague slipped on his glasses and brought the photo close to his dark face.
Peering intently at the inside of Number Three's exposed left arm, he could just
make out what might have been part of a crude tattoo.

"Call Yamaguchi's boys and have them check these dudes for tattoos." He set
the photo down and turned to Demitter. "I think we've found our link."

That afternoon, the county coroner's office confirmed that all four corpses
were similarly tattooed under their left arms. Photos of the tattoos were sent to the
Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department's forensic services lab, who identified the
tattoos and forwarded their report back to Sprague at LAPD's Hollenbeck Division.
When Sprague walked into his office the next morning, Demitter was already there.

"Heil Hitler!" Demitter snapped to attention, his arm upraised in a Nazi
salute, a comb held under his nose in imitation of the F├╝hrer's moustache.

"I don't get it, Demitter. What's the joke?" Sprague removed his holster and
gun and tossed them onto the back of his desk before plopping into his chair.

"Ze rrreports have just ingecomming from der coroner's office, meine
Kingfish!" Demitter clicked his heels. "Und guess vass?"

Sprague just shook his head.
 "All of our dead surfers have Nazi army tattoos." Demitter dropped his