Come dawn, the scene at the mouth of the alley was bustling. Lights from cop cars parked helter-skelter bounced off surrounding buildings. Radios squawked, uniforms stood around waiting for orders, blowing on steaming containers of coffee. Back in the alley, forensics people in Crime Scene windbreakers were picking through the piles of trash. Detectives Lagnese and Finnerty were watching a lab technician bent over Boxboy's body stretched out on the grimy pavement.

The tech was peering into a gaping gash torn across the throat, carotid arteries and windpipe hanging out like lengths of rubber tubing. For a wound this horrendous – even these connoisseurs of gore had to admit it was – there was surprisingly little blood.

"See for yourself," the technician said. "Where'd it go?"

"That's what you're overpaid to find out," Lagnese said.

Finnerty shifted around to get a better look. "Maybe he swallowed it. I mean, you know, inadvertent."

Another voice spoke up behind them. "Or someone else did."

The three men turned to an undercover detective in jeans, shield pinned to his warmup jacket. He took a box of Tic-Tacs out of his pocket.

"I mean, anything's possible," Strasser said, shaking out a candy and tossing it into his mouth. "Anybody know him?"

"Street name is Boxboy," Lagnese said, in a tone that told the reporters and TV people trying to hear from behind the yellow crime scene tape that his was the voice of authority. "Started with pimping, moved into drugs and a whole menu of crap."

A clear plastic evidence bag was on the pavement next to Boxboy, an open switchblade inside it catching Strasser's eye. "That his?"

Finnerty flicked his hand dismissively. "It was jack-shit against whoever did him."

Strasser nodded and offered the Tic-Tacs around. The detectives declined. The tech held out his hand. "Don't mind if I do."

Strasser shook a couple of candies out for him. "Any suspects?" he asked Lagnese.

"The line'd go around the block." Lagnese indicated the gaping wound. "Except for how it was done."

Strasser glanced at the wound and turned back to the technition. "What's your take?"

"If this wasn't middle of the city, I'd say it was some animal he pissed off."

"Took a bite and lapped up the blood."

"Something like that."

Strasser seemed to consider this. He glanced again at the body, sucked on his Tic-Tac while the tech went back to work. He took another minute to check out the scene – fingerprint crew dusting around them, woman taking pictures of the alcove over there – then turned with a nod and started toward the street. "I'll check in later."

He was halfway to the flashing patrol cars when Lagnese called to his back:

"Hey, Strasser."

Detective Third Grade Strasser, who had just spent an hour in the shower with the biter and lapper in question, stopped and turned around. "Yes?"

"You said something when you first transferred here that I been thinking about."

"What was that?"

"Any cop who wants to make his bones on the street has a secret weapon."

"I remember. What about it?"

"I'm curious where's yours."

Lagnese and Finnerty kept their hard stares on him. Two crusty veterans testing the new guy, who they didn't have much fondness for. Them not knowing the half of it.

Strasser took a last look at Boxboy's ripped-open throat.

"That's between me and the weapon."

A/N: This is where the original short story ended. But there's more to come now, with vengeance taken to another level, new chapters to be posted on the twice-a-week schedule.