Chapter Three
Callan stuck the image of the perp in a file. A dead end. IT couldn’t patch a group of discoloured boxes and produce a coherent image.
Curling his wrists, Callan swallowed the temptation to punch the wall. He grabbed the phone instead and dialled the lab.
A monotonous voice came down the line. ‘Please, Detective. You need to be patient.’
‘Someone’s dead and I need to know who and if there were others, damn it!’
The technician paused. ‘I’m sure you know the evidence needs to be processed—’
‘Haven’t ye found anything?’
‘We have, but not enough to write a report.’
Hell! This would get him nowhere.
Callan kicked his chair away. It was time.
Bloody hell!
He struggled into his coat then dragged his feet to his car. All other sources had run dry. And if they fought, he’d
