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Three eight-foot folding tables sliced a corner out of the demo room, walling off a five-foot silver cannister massive enough to hold a couple more murder victims, if you could squeeze them through the narrow neck. The sharp, metallic smell from the con suite was more pervasive here, strong enough to stab Dale’s sinuses. What was that aroma, frozen aluminum? Did they fill that whole metal cannister with liquid nitrogen just for Recompile?
More shrink-wrap plastic covered the carpeting. He’d only thought his tortuous shoes stuck to the con suite plastic. Here, lifting a shoe from the tacky plastic caused a faint ripping noise. The fluorescent lights overhead reflected on the plastic, illuminating swirls where someone had mopped.
Dale hadn’t known that liquid nitrogen could leave a mes
