Apartment Building, 436 West Side Street, Upper East Side.
Jerry got out of his car after working overtime until midnight, dragging his exhausted body along as he yawned.
If he kept working overtime piecing corpses together like this, he could go get a forensic examiner's license. No, he could practically teach those forensic examiners himself.
Two hundred and seventy chunks of flesh. What kind of fucking deep-seated grudge was that?
Once they caught that psycho killer, they might as well shoot him during the arrest and be done with it. The resentment of people who worked overtime was no joke.
He walked all the way up. The elevator was broken again, so he had to take the stairs. He lived on the fourth floor, and when he finally made it up and pulled out his keys to open the door—
Jerry suddenly felt that sleeping in his car would not have been so bad. Why did he have to come upstairs to sleep?
On further thought, he could sleep in the office too.
He could even stay at the female manager's home above the supermarket diagonally across from the precinct. The bed just took too much effort, not worth it.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The moment Jerry turned on the light, a pistol pressed against the back of his head.
"...Don't fool around. If you're after money, next month's rent is under the mattress. If that isn't enough, there's five thousand dollars in the box beneath the closet. That's everything I have."
After Jerry finished speaking, the person behind him did not move.
Instead, he frisked Jerry, yanking off his belt along with his handgun. The motion was clean and practiced.
"Well, if you're robbing me, I already told you. If you're after something else, could